Lethal Trajectories (45 page)

Veronica walked out to her car and, by force of habit—a bad habit—she tuned in to the Wellington Crane show.

“For those tuning in late, this is Wellington Crane on the subject of taking back America from the grasp of the McCarty Manifesto. With me today is that great American, Senator Tom Collingsworth.”

Oh no, not that stooge again. He’s an idiot and a bigot—but then, so is Wellington,
Veronica thought as she adjusted her mirror.

“Before I connect with the good senator,” Wellington continued, “let me say that I’m broadcasting from my studio. While everyone else ran and ducked for cover to escape Hurricane Matilda, I was a rock that stood firm. Now, if the ferocity of a storm like Matilda doesn’t scare me off, do you really think the likes of a runaway liberal like Clayton McCarty’s going to stop me?”

On a whim, Veronica pulled into the Gas-Go station to chat with Clarence, the station manager. She opened her window and shouted out to him. “How’re you doing, Clarence?”

“Not well, Veronica. At this rate, I’ll be out of gas by tomorrow morning, and I don’t expect another shipment until Saturday. I’ve never seen people so frightened or angry, and I’ve never been talked to the way I’ve been lately. Some folks think I’m price-gouging, but I can tell you the money is definitely not going into my pocket.”

“Hang in there, my friend: this too shall pass,” she said. She left the station feeling sorry for Clarence and anyone connected with transportation services. She could only imagine what airline personnel must be going through. She switched back to the Wellington Crane show as she left the station.

“What’s your reaction, Senator, to the apparent armored invasion by Saudi Arabia of three of its bordering countries?”

“It’s a crying shame, Wellington, and something that never would’ve happened if our president had stood up to them in the first place. The only real deterrent we have to their aggression is Israel, and I’m sure they’re not comforted by the lip service McCarty gave them the other night. How can they expect the United States to defend them when we won’t even defend ourselves?”

“I agree, Senator. Here we are, the most powerful nation in the world, caving in to those two-bit sand pounders. Worse, we team up with Red China and then agree to let an outside source tell us how much oil we get to use. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“Don’t forget,” added Collingsworth, not to be outdone, “we’re also setting aside more oil from our own domestic supply than any other nation. Let’s see: we don’t have enough oil to supply our own needs, but we’re giving it away anyway?”

“We’ve completely forgotten the well-thought-out principles of my Pax-Americana philosophy, Senator, and we’re paying dearly for it now. What’s wrong with taking care of our own people first?”

Veronica rolled her eyes. You could always count on Crane to shill for his own brand first.

“I wish it would stop there, Wellington, but it won’t. Call me a conspiratorial nut if you want, but I think this is the start of a new dictatorship in America. We can kiss our freedom and liberties good-bye. Does anyone really think it’ll stop with gas rationing? Believe me, Wellington, this is only the start. You might as well throw away the Constitution, because it’ll be worthless if McCarty has his way.”

“You know, Senator, I’ve been branded by the liberal media as being unpatriotic because I refuse to go blindly along with whatever the McCarty administration says. Never mind that we’re supposed to have free speech in this country; never mind that ours is a system of checks and balances; never mind that we’re starting to look like the German people in the thirties when Hitler stripped away their liberties, supposedly for their own good. It’s outrageous, Senator. The truth is that no one in this country is more patriotic than me.”

“I know what you mean, Wellington. I’m in the same boat in the Senate. The leadership and even many of my colleagues are telling me to keep quiet and go with the flow. I think their actions are unconscionable, and I despise them.”

Wow, those are harsh words even for Collingsworth,
Veronica thought.

“That’s why I’m pleased to announce today, good people, that Senator Tom Collingsworth and I will soon embark on a national campaign we’re calling ‘Taking Back America.’ Our aim will be to restore truth and honor in our country and offer a reality check on the runaway McCarty cartel that the liberal media just won’t give you. We’ll tell you more about it throughout the show.”

Veronica heard all she wanted to hear.
They’re in total denial. Worse, they’ll attract large numbers of people who agree with them. What a contrast to the good work that Bill Princeton and his team are doing. Crane and his ilk are despicable—no other word for it.

Despite her arrival a good forty-five minutes before the Life Challenges meeting, Pastor Veronica had to troll the lot for a place to park, as someone had already parked in her stall. Martha Earling greeted her as she walked in the door.

“The phone just hasn’t stopped ringing, Pastor Veronica, and as you can see the lot is almost full. I bet we’ll have 250 people here tonight, and I’ve asked Waldo to hook up the television to accommodate extra people in the fellowship hall. I hope that’s okay.”

“Good job, Martha, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Veronica said, giving her a little hug before heading to the general meeting room to work the crowd, as she’d come to think of it. She had never seen so many new faces at a meeting, and she tried hard to listen to their stories before adjourning to her office for a few minutes.

She had fifteen messages on her phone and decided to answer them later. She needed a few minutes of quiet prayer and reflection to prepare for the meeting. Sitting back, she prayed,
We’ve had a string of disasters over the past month and my beloved ones have so many needs. I’ve seen this crisis bring out the best and worst in people, but mostly the best. They’re probably still in the grieving process: grieving for a way of life they instinctively know they’ll never see again, but that message still needs to make the long journey from their brain to their heart. They’re getting there, and I can see a growing sense of resolve on their part. Please let the meeting tonight provide a few glimmers of hope.
It’s in your hands, Lord, like it always is. Please show me the way.

After greeting everyone and sharing a short prayer, Veronica opened the meeting to questions and concerns.

Jake Hawkins spoke up immediately. “I’m glad we’re finally getting over this pity party we’ve been on and gettin’ something done through this co-op you and Bill Princeton are setting up.”

Another hand went up: “Everything’s changing so fast, Pastor. I just can’t wrap my head around it. Last week I was scared silly by how much it would cost for gas to drive back and forth to my job in St. Peter. This week I’m not even sure there’ll be gas available at all—or a job, for that matter.”

Veronica nodded and thought,
I’ll need to talk to Bill Princeton to see what we’re doing about carpooling outside of Mankato.

“My house is a drafty old sieve,” said someone else, “and the propane I use to heat it is costing a fortune. With my arthritis and rheumatism, I need to keep it heated at seventy-five degrees or more. I’m not sure what I’ll do.”

Veronica’s heart ached.
The co-op’s recommendation that thermostats be set at sixty degrees isn’t going to work for a lot of older people like her. Maybe weatherizing her house will help, but it’s not the total answer.

Veronica was surprised at the number of concerns directly relating to basic survival needs. She let the audience vent for a while longer, knowing the sense of community and support it was building. She knew from her Twelve Step recovery group that people felt stronger and less alone when sharing their experiences with others, and this was no different. It was time, however, to talk about something more positive.

“Thank you all for sharing your fears. For those here for the first time, we are building a Life Challenges Co-op to address many of the challenges brought up tonight. There’s strength in working together, and I’ve asked Bill Princeton, the interim director of the co-op, and other members of the executive committee to speak to you tonight about our plans. It’s a work in progress, but Bill and his team have done a remarkable job. Bill, would you c’mon up and tell us about the co-op?”

For the next hour, Bill and his team explained the co-op’s plan, answered questions, and made a plea for volunteers. He connected with them almost immediately as he matched the challenges brought up earlier with specific ways the co-op could help them. Spirits lifted, and there was a new excitement in the air. It was the first message of hope that many had heard in quite some time.

Jake Hawkins piped up again: “Great job, Bill, and that goes for your entire team. For the first time since this crap all started to happen, I’m startin’ to think we can do something about it.”

Veronica nodded and closed the meeting with a prayer. She invited everyone to stick around for coffee and fellowship, and a good number accepted her invitation. The church didn’t empty until well after ten, and she stayed to help Martha and Waldo clean up. As she mopped up the puddle around the coffee urn, she smiled and thought,
Thank you, Lord, for bringing us all together, and for not giving us more than we can handle together.

Exhilarated, Veronica pulled on her coat and opened the church door, only to be startled by a frigid gust of wind that left her breathless. She sighed as she stepped out into the first snow of the year—early even by Mankato standards—and thought,
It’s going to be a long winter.

L
yman Burkmeister rested comfortably in his hospital suite. No longer hooked to IVs, monitors, or tubes, he relaxed into a feeling of acceptance and contentment. With the exception of a nagging headache, he felt better today than at any time since entering Walter Reed over two weeks ago. He was mildly optimistic that he might even get out of the hospital for one last trip home before the end.

He had visited regularly with Clayton since entering the hospital and followed events as best he could. He even made a few calls on Clayton’s behalf, though he discontinued the practice after it became too exhausting. He was looking forward to an early afternoon visit with Elizabeth Cartright, one of his favorite cabinet members, to discuss tactics for what looked to be a contentious vice-presidential nomination process.

He was napping when he heard Elizabeth’s soft voice saying, “Mr. President, is this a good time for us to meet?”

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said tiredly, with a big smile, “so nice to see you—please sit down.”

“Thank you, Mr. President, and thank you for your time. I’ll try not to take much of it, but I do appreciate your meeting with me. How are you feeling today?”

“I’m feeling much better except for this nagging headache.” He hit the remote to elevate himself to a seated position and then rubbed his eyes vigorously, trying to clear his blurred vision. Something wasn’t right—he felt clammy, and his mild headache suddenly erupted into a massive explosion in his head. His mouth refused to shape the words his brain was instructing it to say, as though the rest of his body was disconnecting from his brain.
What’s happening to me? Why can’t I talk?

In one last futile act, he shook his head violently to regain his senses before collapsing back on his pillow. Staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, his last conscious thought was,
I’ll be with you shortly, Karen my love.
Then the deep silence of a coma relieved him of all pain and worldly cares.

Elizabeth Cartright shouted out in panic, “Mr. President! Mr. President!” A doctor appeared almost instantly and shone a light in Burkmeister’s eyes; in less than a minute more, a full medical team with a convoy of special equipment arrived on the scene.

Elizabeth stepped back and watched in horror as the medical team did everything in its power to reverse the catastrophic failures taking place throughout Burkmeister’s body, but it was soon apparent that this was a battle they could not win.

She moved to a corner of the room not occupied by frantic medical personnel and called Clayton McCarty, who dropped everything and left for the hospital. But Lyman Burkmeister had made it clear he was not to be kept alive by artificial means, and his brilliant and productive life soon slipped away as one bodily system after another shut down.

He was almost gone by the time Clayton arrived, and the doctors made it clear that he would soon die from a massive cerebral hemorrhage.

Clayton and Elizabeth gave each other a comforting hug as Clayton thought,
Amazing, the cerebral hemorrhage will do what the
pancreatic cancer had yet to do—take his life.
He was already feeling a loss that would haunt him in the weeks to come.

The first news bulletin of the president’s medical emergency went out at 1:54 p.m. and dominated the news thereafter. About midway through the evening news, the White House issued an official release. It read: