No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (31 page)

“OK, OK, I get the message. How about if I told you that we’re flying in a team of New York’s best pastrami sandwich chefs, and we’re making pastrami sandwiches for everyone!”

Pandemonium ensued, and for the next twenty minutes Max sat with Rachel in his arms from hundreds of miles away, confident that he had done the unthinkable. They could see the crowd’s reaction from monitors placed out of the camera field. She smiled. His core purpose in being there, his image at least, was to keep them alive. Now, he had hit upon the keys, just one of them, to keep them happy. All he had to do was deliver.

Out of the crowd, entertainers trickled in, making their way to the front by elbow and nudge, until they were able to attain enough free space to do their thing. Most likely, they were displaced from Greenwich Village, unable to make a living in a dead city without power, without cars, and absent the people who populated it. They provided a small distraction while Max waited for the government helicopters to arrive.

“Tell me what you need, and let’s see if we can deliver!” Max hollered in his loudest voice. To come in with amplified sound in their situation would make him look like he was depriving them of the comforts they craved, and it would defeat the purpose of his visit. “I’m cold!” The crowd murmured in agreement.

“We’re gonna fix that,” Max replied. Do you want to know how?” “Yes!” They all wanted to know how the president of the United States was going to swoop in and make them comfortable again. No president had ever done that before. Max was ready.

“A long time ago,” he began, buying time, but the message needed to be told. “A guy who lived on Long Island made a machine that gave us free energy. He was from Croatia, so he wasn’t born here, and he had a hard time. A lot like some of you.” The crowd became silent, and as the sun descended over the hills in the distance, making purple and orange highlights on the clouds, he began a story that captured their imagination. For the moment, he was the only entertainment in their lives, and they clung to every word.

“His name was Nikola Tesla. He was what most people would call a genius, but he was just like you and me. He followed his dreams.”
“You know all of that talk about an energy crisis and how we are going to run out of power? That’s bullshit.” The crowd moved closer. This was what they needed to hear, straight talk in tough times, and delivered like a New Yorker.
“All along, since Tesla created this generator, we have been able to produce free energy.” Max paused, to allow his audience to absorb the meaning of his words. “What I’m telling you, is every month that you paid your utility bill, to keep you warm in the winter, cool in the summer, to cook your food and keep all of your gadgets running . . . it all can be supplied for free.”
Max didn’t wait for the helicopters to come. As long as he had their attention, he intended to use the opportunity to get his message to everyone who would listen. “We are all the victims of the Carrington Effect.” He didn’t pause. Delay would have left room for questions. “There are people who want you to die. They don’t believe that you can survive. I believe you can. Prove me right!”
They didn’t want to die, and despite their feelings of doom over the previous two weeks, they were there, not to die, but to survive. The people who chose to stay behind in the dead city had chosen to cling to the past and wither away until they were gone, or they refused to believe that the city would no longer sustain them. That group was the most dangerous; the scavengers and the gangs. If the spreading bubonic plague didn’t finish them off, they would soon be killing each other for control of dwindling resources.
“The Carrington Effect is something they probably never taught you about in school,” he continued. “There is a type of energy that can shut down all of our things we take for granted. It can come from the sun, but this time, it came from some bombs that did the same damage. This time, they went after you.” He paused this time, hoping that his message would get through before the helos popped over the horizon.
“I need to tell you. There are people who want us to fail, who think we don’t amount to a pile of garbage. These are not foreign enemies. They are Americans.” Their heads were turned in the direction of his holographic image.
That’s a good sign.
Max counted on his words being distributed in sound bites by the end of the day. His words needed to be heard by the nation, or he was wasting his time. While the message was being broadcast from drones, it was also being sent in a broadcast to every media outlet in the world.
The sound of large helicopters grew closer, and the effect of their appearance on the horizon was reassuring but terrifying. Six large Bell Boeing V-22 Ospreys, each capable of carrying cargo of twenty thousand pounds, rose above the distant hills like enormous black dragonflies. Their huge tilt-rotors tore through the air with their gigantic propellers until they approached the designated landing area. The crowd watched in fascination as the airplane transformed into a cargo helicopter by tilting into rotors and landing gingerly in a slow vertical descent. By the time the blades had stopped spinning, National Guard troops had already begun the process of off-loading their precious cargo.

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CHAPTER 84

L

incoln spoke slowly, in deliberate, measured tones. His voice was higher in tone than Max expected, but his words riveted Max to his message.
“Politics is petty, partisan, and impotent,”
declared Lincoln. He appeared in the Oval Office at the behest of

Max, who was desperately seeking a path to resolving the challenge that threatened the nation. If he couldn’t win this battle, Americans would suffer, and his presidency would dissolve like dry sand in his hands. He was amazed at the book’s ability to focus on his most perplexing thoughts and provide guidance by the best of his predecessors, but that was the enlightenment that made the presidency a repository of wisdom.

“You have a keen sense of the obvious, and you are destined for greatness, provided you live to steer your dreams and goals past these petty roadblocks,”
continued Lincoln.
“I was challenged in my time, and you are challenged in yours. Do not become so caught up in yourself that you disregard the responsibility to which you have been entrusted by the will of the people.”
He had transformed from the image that had been inscribed in the national memory. The stovepipe hat was gone, along with his trademark beard. Sitting before Max was a contemporary Abraham Lincoln, dressed in a sport shirt and jeans, with athletic shoes matching the gray of his shirt. Abe was comfortable in his clothes, and he appreciated the change. Contrary to the popular image of Lincoln, the man appeared casual.

“You know, Mr. Masterson, that there are no coincidences. You were meant to be president, as was I. That is the reason why a man with no pedigree can attain the highest office in the land. It’s what sets us apart from the dictators and murderers who attain power by zealotry and blood. You will transcend the challenges that confront you, and you will do it in your own way. It is the order of life.”

“It appears that in your time, I can no longer assume that a man will be president after you are gone, but a woman may be seated in your stead. Come to think of it, a woman might be better suited to the office. Women seem to be immune to the vagaries that befall the men in politics.”

He blushed.
“You’re blushing, Abe. I didn’t think that politicians retained that quality once they attained public office,”
Max commented in a low voice.
Lincoln laughed heartily.
“You think I was a politician? I’m no more a politician than you are. I endured many defeats, and you endured none, but we ended up in the same place. Does that not tell you something?”
Max thought for as long as it took Lincoln to help himself to the benefits of the liquor cabinet.
“I kept a pitcher of cool water here during my term,”
he said.
“Help yourself to anything you choose, there is the best liquor . . .”
“I abstained from those vices during my life, and I choose not to take them up during my death,”
Lincoln responded.
“I’m sorry, Abe, I had no idea you were a teetotaler,”
said Max.
“Water suits me fine. I spent much of my years observing my contemporaries being seasick on land, and acting like pure asses.”

NO CORNER TO HIDE

“If you look below the bar, there is a place to put your glass. If you want ice, just push the button.”
“Ice, how delightful. I once dreamed of such a contrivance.”
Lincoln pushed the button for ice, and it complied, sending cubes bouncing across the carpet.
“I’ll get the hang of it, in time,”
he said smiling.
“Would you like one?”
“I don’t expect anyone to wait on me, especially you,”
replied Max.
“I have thought about what you told me, and I’m beginning to understand that there are some people who were meant to be here.”
Lincoln sat and sipped his water. He waited for Max to continue.
“If I was meant to be president, and you were, the wisdom that comes from this book will be provided from those who belonged here. I know that. What I need now is guidance. How do I deal with my enemy, and how do I turn our country toward greatness again?”
“Zealots should be killed. They will not negotiate. Those who choose to follow a path that conflicts with yours will be amenable to negotiation, but will resist surrender. Choose a path that provides them the dignity of proclaiming victory to their people. As to the rest, they are yours, and you must serve them with the same passion you reserve for your loved ones. Ignore the complainers and follow the dreamers, for they will take you to where you want to go.”
“I’m beginning to realize that there are some things that a president can do in the usual way, and others . . .”
Lincoln paused, deep in thought.
“When I became president of these United States, the South hated me in unison, and the nation was torn asunder. I was vilified by the very people who put me in office, and it was not safe for me anywhere. I resolved right then and there, on the day of my inauguration, that I would never cower in the Oval Office with no corner to hide. I would sneak out of the White House in disguise. My height gave me away sometimes, but it became a game of deception that I rather enjoyed. Other times, I would travel with General Wool in broad daylight, but only at times and places where they did not expect me. You should try it.”
“I have already thought of that,”
Max responded.
“I had some disguises prepared, and I’m driving my Secret Service to distraction.”
Lincoln chuckled with the memory of his deceptions, but immediately returned to the sober matters that he had been summoned to discuss.
“Max, learn by my mistakes, and profit from them. Never announce that you will be amongst the citizens unless you are surrounded by your protectors, but don’t stay cooped up in this monument to the past. Do it in your own way. You need to be a part of this nation in the same way that a man protects his family; don’t let them down, or risk failure.”
He sipped his ice water, looking into the glass and swirling its contents to hear the tinkle of the ice against the glass.
“The one familiar hand that we both are dealt is the threat from within. Once you step outside your world of isolation and comfort, they will pounce on you if they can find you . . .”
After a quick knock, the door to the Oval Office opened, and the glass fell. The cubes bounced across the presidential seal woven into the carpet. Lincoln was gone.

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CHAPTER 85

R

oger Sinclair strode into the Oval Office with authority and confidence and assessed the scene. Ice cubes and the glass lay in the center of the ornate rug, and the water had begun soaking into the seal at its center. “I never knew you to be one to

throw things,” he exclaimed.
“Some days I throw things, some days I don’t. Today’s a throwing
day,” Max replied without humor. “What have you got?” “Drone pictures. When we sent the drones to New York for
a flyover to assess the situation, I had one of them redirected to
that location in the Hamptons that we detected from the Satellite
shots in the dark zone. You know, the house that had lights when
everyone else was in darkness? Well, from GPS tracking and a review
of the public records, we determined that the house is owned by a
one-hundred-seventy-five-year-old man who has no mortgage, has
faithfully paid his property taxes on time, and drives a Bentley. This
may also interest you. He served in the Civil War . . .” “OK, are you just here for comedy relief, or do you have some
nefarious purpose in messing with me? I’m sure that if I rifle through
my desk, I’ll be able to find something else to throw . . .” Max pulled out the center drawer and quickly scanned its contents. “Would you prefer to be impaled with a letter opener or knocked unconscious
with a very ostentatious paperweight?”
“Neither, Mr. President. I’m serious. One thing about this
country that most people don’t realize is the records we don’t
keep. We keep birth records, marriage records, divorce and tax
records, and death records, but we don’t keep record of someone
who doesn’t die. What I’m saying here, Max, is that this house
seems to have its own shielded power source, and is owned by
the same person who has owned it since before the Civil War.
Homer Francis did not die. I doubt whether he survived the Civil
War, but he owns that house and has paid his taxes by check.
His bank account shows a balance of over a million dollars, and
the only payments are for taxes and a few for maintenance. He
apparently doesn’t eat, either.”
Max absorbed the information with renewed interest. His conversation with Lincoln had abruptly concluded before he could get a
firm grasp of the enormous task that lay before him, but Sinclair’s
intrusion was beginning to give him direction.
“And here is the real reason I came up here. I had some still
images taken from a drone that flew over the gated compound, and
instructed the CIA to give me high-resolution shots from all angles.
The drone was directed out over the Atlantic, made the turn, and
flew low over the large glass windows that face the water. This is
what we found.”
The images scrolled slowly across the iPad. They showed the
scene in extreme detail that exceeded the capacity of the human
eye. The digital cameras on drones were designed for military use
from high altitudes, and were capable of retrieving words off a page
at a distance that made their presence undetectable. With new invisibility technology, it was unlikely that the drone’s presence would
ever be detected by the human eye or by radar.