NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (6 page)

“Looks like you have a fan club,” Leadoff said.

“Looks like trouble to me,” BB said.

“Sweetie,” BB said to the little girl. “Tell your momma I was raised in Dixie, but I love Old Glory. Go on now.”

They watched the cherub skip her way to her mother, twirling around a time or two, stopping to try to catch a butterfly that lighted on a tree leaf, stubbing her toe on a rock. When she finally made it to her mother, she just shrugged her shoulders when she asked what BB had said. The lady looked up and smiled at him. She watched as BB tipped his hat to her and walked away, never taking his eye off the president.

After another ten minutes of nervous guard duty, BB saw President Whitfield shake hands with Professor Strube and give him a pat on the back. The old scholar walked off, deep in thought, while Whitfield strolled to BB’s truck and waited for the group to join him. Just as they began to get in the truck, Leadoff saw a man and a woman, tourists on a pilgrimage, on the other side of the drive. The woman had her sights trained on Bass. She poked her husband in the side causing him to look away from the historical marker he was studying.

“What is it?” he said.

“Look. It’s him. It’s the President,” she said pointing at BB’s truck.

BB drove off without acknowledging the lady.

“That was a close one,” he said.

“I don’t think we’re out of hot water yet,” Leadoff said as they approached the main gate to the park.

Ahead of them, on the street outside the entrance to the park, pickets had appeared while the President and his party were in the cemetery. Angry marchers shook signs in the air: “Get right with God, Bass,” “Bass is the Great Satan,” “Take Back Our Country, Christian Militants,” “We’re Leaving. You Can Have it.”

When BB pulled out the front drive, demonstrators pounded on the side of his truck and struck his windows with the palms of their hands. A hail of eggs splattered on his windshield. Nate lowered the front seat passenger window and started to stick his automatic weapon out the window.

“Don’t, Nate,” President Whitfield said. “I’m not going to rule this country with guns. Stop the car, BB.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, sir,” Leadoff said.

“It’s not,” Bass said, “But I’m still working on wise.”

To the amazement of the demonstrators, the truck stopped dead in its tracks in the middle of the angry crowd. Bass Whitfield opened his door and stepped out on the pavement. The crowd stared at him but kept its distance. Bass, in no apparent hurry, moved to the back of the truck, let down the tailgate and climbed up into the bed of the truck. He scanned the crowd slowly, making eye contact with every single person. Then he took off his hat and pointed towards the national cemetery.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I have just come from one of the most sacred spots in the history of our great country, a spot where patriots from the North and South fell by the tens of thousands in a vain attempt to solve their political, moral, and religious differences with the sword. Today at this holy place, I hope that all of us may learn from their deaths, may learn that respect for each other and the way of peace will keep us strong and that violence accomplishes nothing but destruction. I urge each of you here to beat your swords into ploughshares, to help me bind up our nation’s wounds, to put her on the road to even greater glory that she may shine as a beacon of hope to all the peoples of the world.

“Finally, I have one selfish request.”

The crowd had fallen silent as each person edged closer to the President to hear him speak.

“That request is that each of you, in whatever way you feel proper, pray for me that God may grant me the wisdom to govern and the courage to follow His guidance.

“God bless the United States of America.”

He stepped down from the truck bed, raised the tailgate, walked back to the rear passenger door of the truck where Nate held the door open for him and got in. As BB inched the big truck forward through the crowd, Bass rolled down his window and waved to the crowd until he could no longer see them.

When they were out of danger, Leadoff turned to President Whitfield. “Mr. President, that was the second great presidential address at Gettysburg.”

Bass Whitfield nodded at him and looked out the window at the countryside. He didn’t speak again for a long time.

A BALD, THREE
-hundred-pound man smoking a cigar sat under a suspended microphone with a headset on. As the calls came in to his talk radio show, his crew screened them and put the good ones through to him.

“This is America’s Voice of Truth. You are on the air with its founder and president, Flash Greenwald,” he said.

“Flash,” the caller began. “Love your show. Did you hear President Bass got mauled by an angry crowd outside Gettysburg cemetery today? Don’t you think that’s pretty reckless on his part with all that has happened recently?”

“I think it’s outrageous,” Flash said. “The last thing the President needs to be doing right now is giving somebody a chance to take a potshot at him. He ought to know better. I think it reflects poorly on his judgment and his ability to lead the country.”

Next caller.

“Flash, the Christian Militants are organizing secession conventions in several states? What do you think about it?”

“More power to them,” Flash said.

“Won’t that lead to a repeat of the Civil War?” the caller asked.

“I haven’t heard anyone in the Christian Militant camp say anything about instituting hostilities against the United States. They are talking about exercising their right to break with our federal government and establish one of their own based on biblical and moral principles. Sounds to me like we should be cheering for them. They are trying to do what this country has failed to do for the last fifty years. Maybe it’s time for a change.”

Flash saw his engineer in the control room hold his hands up with his palms facing him and his fingers spread apart. He had ten seconds left for his signature sign-off.

“That’s all the time I have today, ladies and gentlemen. Please join me on this station tomorrow when I will bring you America’s Voice of Truth. Until then, this is Flash Greenwald signing off. May God be with you.”

“Great show, Boss,” the engineer said.

Greenwald ignored him, grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and paced down the hall to his corner office. He shut the door, hit the DND button on his phone, plopped down at his desk and pivoted his chair to look out at Lake Michigan. He removed his billfold from his back pocket and reached inside to pull out a small key. With the key, he unlocked a drawer in his massive oak desk and reached inside, fumbling around until he latched on to a bottle of valiums. From one of the other drawers, he drew out a bottle of vodka, half-empty. He threw a couple of the pills into the back of his throat and chased them down with a big swig of liquor. He slung the pill bottle back in the drawer, locked it and took one more slug of vodka before returning the bottle to the other drawer.

Soon he fell asleep in his chair.
In his dream, he is a little boy growing up in a Boston suburb. His father comes in late each night, smelling of gin, whips him for no good reason, calls him a fat sissy and sends him to bed. In the night, he sneaks into his parents’ bedroom and stabs his father with a butcher knife. In the morning, his father is gone. There is no sign of the murder. His mother makes him pancakes for breakfast and he eats three stacks, heaped with butter and syrup. When he gets to school, his teacher gives him the lead role, playing a famous politician in the school program. At the performance that evening, he receives a standing ovation. As he is walking out of the school auditorium holding his mother’s hand after the play, he sees a man on his knees scrubbing the floors at the school and recognizes him as his father. He walks out without speaking to him, rides home with his mother and the two of them never see his father again.

A thumping on his office door awakened him after a couple of hours.

“Flash. It’s Senator Wellborn. He’s been calling for three hours,” a voice behind the door said.

“Okay. I’ll take it,” Flash said, turning towards his phone and picking up the receiver.

“Senator,” Flash said not remembering his name, “sorry to keep you waiting. I was taping some shows for early broadcast tomorrow.”

“I understand, Mr. Greenwald. Business is business. But I need to know where you stand on this secession issue. My constituents are calling me like crazy.”

“Where do you stand, Senator?” Flash asked, fishing for some impromptu intelligence.

“I don’t have a problem with it if we don’t get ourselves into a Civil War,” he said.

“Do you think your constituents agree with you?” Flash asked.

“One hundred percent,” the Senator said.

“You have nothing to worry about on this end, Senator,” Flash said.

“Thanks, Flash. Is there anything I can do for you?” the Senator asked.

“Don’t forget my conservation project when the time comes,” Flash said.

The conversation project was a new park in Flash’s exclusive neighborhood.

“It’s a done deal, my friend,” the Senator said.

“It’s always good to talk to you, Senator,” Flash said hanging up the phone.

He leaned his head back on his headrest and started to drift off again, but another knock awoke him.

“Boss. It’s Leon,” the voice on the other side of the door said.

Flash sat up straight in his chair, tightened his tie and ran his fingers through what used to be his hair.

“I’ve got it,” he said into the intercom.

“Flash Greenwald,” he said in his radio voice.

“Flash, this is Leon Martinez. The Christian Militants are ready to take over the country. Are you for us or against us?” Martinez said.

Flash did not hesitate for a second, “Count me in, Mr. Martinez.” Then, without missing a beat, he added, “What’s it worth to you if I act as your undercover agent while you’re ascending to the throne?”

“It’s worth a lot. But you will take your assignments from me, not Westmoreland. Do we understand each other?” Martinez said.

“Perfectly, Leon,” Greenwald said.

“I’ll send someone from my office by your place in the morning to work out the details,” Martinez said.

“I think this is going to be the beginning of a long and fruitful friendship,” Flash said before he hung up the phone.

THE 225-HORSE
-POWER Yamaha four stroke outboard propelled Agent Brown’s twenty-one foot center console boat on plane at forty-five mph across the smooth water of Pickwick Reservoir in southwest Tennessee. To the west, Brown could see traffic crossing the Tennessee River on the Estes Kefauver Bridge. When he reached his destination, he cut the engine, raised the Bimini top and settled in for an afternoon on the water.

He pulled a Dr Pepper from the ice chest, hooked a minnow on his line, and dropped the bait into the water off the stern. In just a few seconds, the water boiled as a small mouth bass tried to make a quick snack of the minnow. Brown set the hook and fought the fish for a couple of minutes before netting him. He removed the hook, put his right thumb in the fish’s mouth, held him at arm’s length to get a good look at him, and gently released him back into the reservoir.

Brown grabbed his lunch bag and drew out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a moon pie.

“You never know what might be getting ready to happen,” he said to himself as he unwrapped the moon pie and ate it first.

To the edge of the console, he had attached a holder for what looked like a telescopic lens for a camera. After he finished his sandwich, he leaned over and put his eye to the lens while he cranked a handle that moved it a hundred and eighty degrees from east to west. At ninety degrees, he paused and adjusted the lens so that it zeroed in on a big house built on the top of a rise overlooking the lake. A couple of other adjustments brought into focus a man leaning against a stone wall that formed the property’s boundary. While Brown had him in his sights, the man raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and slowly panned across the lake.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Brown said, covering the lens and its holder with a beach towel before the man looked in his direction. Brown turned his back towards the man and cast a spinner bait into the water, working it back and forth, just an old boy out for a day of fishing. When he thought he had waited long enough, he reeled in his bait, started the engine, and roared off like every other bass fisherman on the lake.

When he reached the marina, he bounded ashore with a gear bag in his hand.

“You can keep the drinks in the ice chest,” he said to the teenage boy working at the dock as he handed him a ten dollar tip. “Turn the boat in for me.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, looking at the tip like it was an answered prayer, hoping there was beer in the ice chest.

Brown threw his bag into his Camaro, glanced at the map that lay open on the front passenger seat and headed north across the bridge to the other side of the lake. He soon came to a turn-off that led towards the top of the ridge where he had spotted the man with the binoculars. The road snaked up the bluff between large oak trees that blocked the sun, creating a canopy of green, an emerald tunnel. He checked the coordinates on his handheld GPS and pulled off the paved road onto a rocky trail not much broader than a foot path. From his trunk, he picked up a duffle bag and slung it across his back. From years of practice in woods and jungles around the world, he dead reckoned his way to the spot where he knew he would have the best vantage point, the best attack approach, the best shot.

Just before he reached the top of the rise, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl, dragging his bag along with him. He peered over the ridge and saw he was approximately two hundred and fifty yards from the stone fence bordering the estate he had seen from the lake. It was slightly below him and to his left. The man with the binoculars was nowhere to be seen, but he could make out a small group of men sitting around a picnic table in the shade near the house. He drew his own binoculars from the duffle bag and tried to hone in on the individual faces of the men around the table. They were all Caucasian males in their late twenties or early thirties, sporting close-cropped, military-type haircuts and wearing camo outfits.