A Third Term

A Story by Kevin

Political thriller about a president that gets a thrird term because of a terrorist attack on election day.

1:37Pm EST Washington D.C.

President Drake Butler was finishing his second term as president. The media and Congress had been less than kind to him over his two terms. The world was in turmoil. The economy neared depression. The three major political parties were as divisive as ever, maybe even more so as the civil war. In 2010 the Centrist party had become as strong as the Republican and Democratic Party. People were tired of partisan politics and elected their members to the Senate and House of Representatives at historical number. Capital hill is now about thirty-three percent republicans, thirty-three percent democrats, and thirty-three percent Centrists. In 2010 the American public was optimistic that the Centrist Party would help bring the ideals of the common working person to fruition. It didn’t. The third party prominence only added to the bickering and blaming for the problems that were occurring in the country. There were now three parties to blame and Capital Hill soon became a blaming ground and unproductive. People were being fired from jobs for voicing their political opinions. Violent crimes were being reported at the highest rate in history. Although the president was bearing the brunt o f this troubled time, everyone in Congress and the political circles knew but wouldn’t say that the main catalyst for all of this was oil. No one in Congress had an answer, just damnations of the leader. The oil companies made record profits, yet their shareholders weren’t seeing the same kind of return on their money. President Butler introduced several measures to resurrect the economy and lower oil prices but his ideas fell on deaf ears. His downfall was that he had lost the propaganda war. His legacy is certain to be the worst of any president that preceded him.

As a lame duck president, he now spends his last months at the Belle Haven Country Club.

“Damn, it’s a s a beautiful day. Couldn’t ask for a better day. The leaves are in full color and a huge monkey is about to be lifted off my back.”

Having cast his vote earlier that day the president decided to get in a round of golf before returning to the white house. He finishes his last hole, marks his score and says to his the rest of his foursome that includes two of his closest advisors, General JT Sumter, Admiral Larry Carpenter, and one of his advisors, Rich Kroger,.

“Seventy- six, with three birdies. Best round of my life. Well, luckiest really. Every bad swing seemed to get a lucky bounce off of something closer to the hole. Even that 20 yard sand trap shot that I hit way too hard, hit the flag on the pin and dropped in for a sandy birdie. My dad always said you get lucky before you die. I hope he was wrong. Let’s go in and get a bite and have a beer”

General Sumter (JT) and the president get in the golf cart and are followed Admiral Larry Carpenter (LP) and Rich. A shot rings out and President Drake Butler slumps in the golf cart as JT is driving him towards the clubhouse. Secret service agents and local authorities appear from everywhere looking for the source of the gun shot. JT sees blood coming from the president’s chest. His yellow sweater is quickly becoming a sea of red. Another shot rings from the copse of trees in a field across from the eighteenth green ricocheting off the metal driver in Rich’s golf bag and then grazes Larry’s shoulder. Larry winces in pain but continues to follow the president’s golf cart towards the presidential limousine in the private lot. Four secret service agents do the best they can to form a human barrier around the president’s golf cart and run along with the cart towards the limousine. One agent rides on the side board administering first aid to the president, using pressure to try and stop the bleeding. JT places a Bluetooth device on his ear and says, “Get a medic and tell the white house that we’ll be coming to the triage center in the bunker of the white house. We should be there in fifteen minutes. The president has been shot. I repeat. The president has been shot.”

JT takes the wheel of the Limousine. Rich sits next to the president and examines the president’s chest. He spots the entry of the bullet as the president wheezes in pain, and then loses consciousness. Rich rips open the sweater revealing a bullet wound to the president’s chest and a gaping exit wound in his back. The seat and carpet are quickly becoming a sea of red. The president’s breaths become shallow and short. Each subsequent breath comes with a wheeze. A small stream of blood trickles from his mouth and his heart quit beating. His body becomes limp and numerous attempts and resuscitation fail. Rich tells JT, “He’s dead. Poor B*****d shoots the round of his life and this is his reward. Call the White House press secretary. Have her prepare a statement.” JT takes off his blue tooth head set and says, “Someone give me a secure phone.” Larry hands him the phone and JT makes a call, “It’s started.” He says into the speaker. “Your double is dead.”

The president bows his head and prays ending it with an apology to the God and the soul of his body double, “Texas” Buzz Holden. Buzz was an army Captain. His unit had visited the White House to receive medals of valor for their acts of heroism in the Middle East. When Buzz was seventeen both his parents were killed in a terrorist attack on the US Embassy in Saudi Arabia. Buzz was sent back home and his Grandmother finished raising him. After graduating from high school, he joined the army. Two months later his grandmother died. He had no other living relatives and no real friends. The government saw that he was a perfect candidate to be Drake Butler’s double. With all the turmoil in the world, it only made sense for the president to have a double. And shortly after Butler was elected president the Secret Service uncovered a plot to assassinate the president. It was very sophisticated and assassins had been captured at many of the president’s events. All but one of them managed to swallow a suicide pill before they were questioned. Three assassins were apprehended at events that were not on the president’s itinerary. President Butler had been a marked man for some time. The lone assassin that has been captured alive refuses to say much of anything. He has endured numerous torture sessions but has only muttered one phrase through it all, “When it ends, it will be nothing less than Flukie.”

This phrase was typed into every government computer’s data base. Each time the data base returned just three words, Watergate. Painter, Deep throat.

The Legend of Flukie is as follows; Since 1972, the White House has neither denied nor verified the existence of a Flukie. It had long been suspected that Flukie was involved with the Watergate break in. This man called Flukie seemed to be a mythical character. It seems that no one had ever really seen him, not even when he was arrested at the Watergate Hotel in 1972 with Bernard Baker, Virgilio Gonzalez, Eugenio, Martinez, James W. McCord, and Frank Sturgis. During the arrest all20of those five claimed to be plumbers. They had been gauranteed that if they were caught, local authorities would recognize that and they would be freed, but it seemed that this mythical Flukie held the get out of jail card. It was just a simple business card that read “W.K. Flukie.”White House Painter.”

Upon presenting the card to the arresting officers Flukie was released. Over the next three years, questions arose about this suspected sixth Watergate burglar. In 1975, when Jimmy Hoffa disappeared the government purposely leaked information to the press that a man named Flukie was found dead next to Joe Giacalone’s 1975 Mercury Marquis Brougham holding a Busch Beer bottle and note in his severed right hand. Reports stated that his murder was so gruesome that the coroner could only identify him by dental records. Any investigations the government conducted on Flukie had long since been ordered sealed and not to be opened until 2072. These reports were never confirmed and Flukie remains as much a mystery as Hoffa’s disappearance.

In the wooded area and brush from across the eighteenth hole in where the fatal shots were fired the FBI converges to find nothing but a half full Busch Beer bottle and half of a cash receipt with that reads “............nackers” .

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A year earlier, small time Las Vegas gamblers, Perry Rhodes and Earl Spates won tickets to a pro football playoff game in Washington DC. They are both Skins fans and were listening via streaming audio at their tailor outside of Vegas when the contest to win the tickets were announced. The luxury box normally reserved for President Drake Butler, were donated by him to a radio station to be given away to the common man to watch a game with the president.. The promotion was to bring in two Skins fans from outside the DC region. The winning requirements were the best story of hardship. Perry, being an English Major with a minor in Psychology decided that most everyone entering the contest would have a sad tear jerking story to tell. He decided to use some comedy. He wrote his story and another for Earl, giving them two chances to win. His submission was as follows;

This world has made me feel kind of like a hot dog. It stays in that package with his hot dog buddies. It never complains about it cramped quarters or that other hot dogs may be made from better parts. That hot dog knows he can be eaten right out of the pack, nuked in the microwave, boiled or barbequed but he never wavers. He Just keeps his place in line and waits, knowing he could be smothered in chili, onions, cheese, and knowing he’ll eventually be ingested and end up going to pot with the rest of the turds. He may even be chopped up and scrambled in eggs , put on top of a pizza, or thrown in with those pesky elbow macaroni noodles. He never complains; Not even when he’s put on the grill beside all beef, chicken, or pork dogs. Now that’s tolerance. Maybe that’s why so many kids wish they could be an Oscar Meyer Hot Dog. Kids are just more tolerant than adults. We could all learn from a hot dog. Ingratiate the hot dog. I know I’m going to relish the hot dog. I would really like to have a hot dog at the Skins game.

Earl's Submission;

As a young lad I would sit at breakfast eat sausage and often wondered if the pig died in vain. Even at a young age I knew my life was nothing more than a vessel that would eventually lead to death. More than anything, I didn’t want to die in vain. On one particular Saturday morning I asked, “Why don’t we ever have eggs for breakfast?”

My mother replied, “Because we’re having chicken for supper and I’m afraid they might be related and I don’t want to be responsible for the genocide of a chicken family.”

From that day forward I ate in silence and Saturday breakfast became mundane. I even quit chuckling when my younger brother would put the links of sausage in his nose and pour the syrup on my sister’s golden blond hair. I just sat and chewed, but I was chewing on more than just food. I was also chewing on the meaning of life and what his purpose was. Each night, on bended knees, I prayed for guidance. I prayed for a sign. Each time I inquired why a being so mighty didn’t send him a clue.

Several Saturdays later I awoke to the smell of something different that had been prepared for the breaking of my nocturnal fast. I came to the table wiping the sleep from my eyes and shaking off the effects of a fitful night’s sleep to find a table full of ham, biscuits, red eyed gravy, grits, and apple juice.

I wondered aloud, “How is my brother gonna get one of those big pieces of ham in his nose.”

Then I lamented to my mother that apple juice would have him shitting like a goose before and through lunch and supper.

Then I heard about this radio contest. It was the sign I was looking for. Winning this would be a break from my otherwise boring mundane life.

Earl's entry won the contest. Perry's was second place. Once informed of their winning Earl said, “Maybe we can get an autograph or two and pilfer some presidential s**t from his luxury box to sell on the Internet.”

This comment got Perry's mind working.

Earl could see the wheels turning and ask Perry, “You're not thinking what I think you're thinking? …... are you?”

“Let's just say I'm working on it.” is Perry's reply.

Earl gets up and walks away shaking his head and mumbling, “Scamming the president. He repeats this several times adding a few more expletives each time.

A week later at the casino bar earl is having a beer after work when Perry comes in and says to Earl, “Okay. Here's the plan.” He takes out a pocket sized spiral notebook from his shirt pocket. “you know that abandoned land with that missile silo on it?”

“You mean that one that has the nuclear warning signs on it?” Earl asks after sipping from his beer.

“Yep buddy boy. That's the one. We're going to get the president to sign it over to us and we can fix up the silo to live in.”

This causes Earl to choke on his next sip. “What the hell? How we gonna pull that off?”

Just listen.” says Perry. “I have a friend at the property assessor's who can get me a blank deed. I checked with her and she said that that land has no owner and the only way it can be deeded is by the president. All we have to do is get him to sign the deed.”

“One problem, Perry. The president ain't just going to give us that land.”

Perry shushes Earl. “Sure he will. He just won't know it. I took the letters we got from the contest with the presidential seal on them and took them and the blank deed to my work at the paper mill. I made the deed so that is has the original presidential seal on it and made several replicas of the letter from him. We'll mix the deed in with the letter we get him to autograph.”

“It won't work.” Earls utters. “He'll get suspicious.”

“No he won't. We just tell him that we want to give them as gifts to our families at Christmas and show the people in the bar that he's just a regular good guy. He'll figure that what we are doing will be good for his image. Right now, his approval rating is at an all time low.”

Earl orders a shot of whiskey and looks at Perry. “So tell me again why we need to live in an abandoned missile silo?”

“This trailer is falling apart and the government invoked eminent domain on the land to build a road through here. We only rent so we are gonna be out on our asses in twenty-two months. The way I figure it the government owes it to us. Besides, we couldn't afford to move to anywhere. It's either make this scam work or we're homeless. Eventually some eccentric with more money than sense will want to buy it from us.”

Earl says, “We could go to work for one of the casinos and live in one of the pool cabanas.”

“Perry gives Earl a cross ways look.”Have you forgotten about what happened in 2001 when we got that computer chip chip and rigged the slot machines in our favor. We cheated three casinos out of ten thousand dollars and got caught. We're still on the black list. We couldn't get a job as a valet, let alone even get in one for an interview. We're lucky we're not dead. We would be if we hadn't gave the money back.”

Earl was getting nervous on the plane ride. The scam he and Perry concocted was weighing heavily on his mind. He and Perry had pulled many of small time scams on drunks in the bar casino where they frequented, but this could land them in big trouble. He had truly had never been anywhere other than his childhood home, his trailer in the Nevada desert, work at the plant where he works as a machine operator making screws and bolts, and his occasional trips to the small aging ruff neck casino and bar to place his bets on games. Perry was noticed the tension and tried to lighten up the situation by giving Earl advice about what to do in Washington.

“If you’re a noisy, pooper choose the handicapped stall. The other restroom patrons are more likely to not snicker and not point you out when you emerge into the establishment.

If you eat a bunch of those chili dogs you're gonna leave an odor in a single stall restroom that may cause another to become physically ill, make sure you carry a nuclear warning sign that you can tape to the door.

If we're in the taxi driving to or from don't fart. We'll have to stop so we can get out and escape the aroma before we black out, you should try to make it to the hotel and spare the public restroom of being shut down by the Health Dept.

Be a shy pee-er and don't scream at the guy next to you these words, “I hope you’re admiring my shoes!” If you are in the middle of two other pee-ers, don't challenge them to a sword fight. That won't give you the privacy you so richly deserve.

Do not make idle conversation in the airport restroom. You may get accused of being a politician.

If you go “commando” double or even triple wipe.

And always, always lock the damn door.”

This brought a chuckle and wry smile from Earl.

Reassuringly Perry added, “Look, these guys are just guys. Plus they think we're just a couple of dumb-assed desert hillbillies. And we're going to make them think we are just that. That will work in our favor. Besides, once the deed is signed, the president is responsible. All we have to do is get him to sign it.”

When Perry and Earl get to the stadium, they are throroughly checked over by the secret service. They pay little attention to the papers that Perry and Earl are going to have him autograph. They sit nervously watching the pre-game ceremonies when the president enters. He cordially introduces himself and congratulates them on winning the tickets. “I love the humor in those pieces you wrote. The radio station portrayed you two as a couple of simpletons but the sense of humor in your writing style tells me otherwise.” He produces a bottle of Irish whiskey. “Earl, I believe this is your drink of choice. Why don't you open it and we'll have a drink. More than anything, I miss going to the local bar, having a few drinks with buddies and shootin the s**t.”

Before the game, they have a few drinks and the president hurriedly signs all the autographs they want. “All right. Now that we have that out of the way, let's just act we've known each other for years and have a good time.”

After the game, the president thanks them for the camaraderie and treating him like a normal guy and leaves. A Secret Service agent brings them both a duffel bag of presidential memorabilia and informs them that if they'd like their stay has been extended and their hotel, food, and bar tabs would be covered until Wednesday. Perry and Earl take full advantage of the offer.

On the plane ride back to Nevada Perry admires the deed. Earl asks, “Now what.”

“We wait for the right moment.”

Six months later;

Wall Street is in a turmoil. The housing market had crashed and gas prices soared. Foreclosures were at an all time high. The country was officially in a recession heading for depression. On top of that, an assassination attempt was made on Butler as he addresses troops in the Middle East. Airline fuel tanks were targeted with shoulder launched missiles as a diversion, but the terrorists were unsuccessful at getting to the president. . He was taken to a safe bunker and would stay there for a couple of days until the area was secure and more fuel was delivered and Air Force One could fly him out.

Perry comes to the bar where Earl is having his usual after work beers. “ Time to cash in that deed. I saw on the news that with all this economic s**t they can't keep up with the paperwork and they've hired a bunch of untrained people to help with it. I'll go at the end of the day tomorrow when they're ready to leave and we'll get the deed transferred. Get your stuff packed. We'll be moving soon.”

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The news of the shooting has made its way to all the television stations. Christy Reltor, the White House Press secretary is addressing the media. “The president has been shot. His condition is unchanged since coming to the white house bunker hospital. More information is forthcoming. The Vice president is in the white house and the white house is prepared to go on as normal. More information is forthcoming.” With that, the press conference ends. The press hails a myriad of questions at Ms. Reltor. She turns and leaves the press room leaving all questions unanswered.

In Ellery Gomez’s campaign headquarters in Mount. Johnston, Tennessee, she looks at her husband and vice presidential running mate and says, “There was a whole lot left unsaid in that statement. I’m afraid there’s more to this than we’re being told. And I’m sure Butler’s party will try and spin this event as being something caused by me.”

Her husband Thomas Gomez answers, “There’s probably a whole lot more to this and something tells me the unusual events are going to continue. It was bad enough that Hurricane Chad decided to engulf Florida and head on to the coast of Alabama and Mississippi, and now this. What else?”

The television set that has been dominated by White House correspondents speculating about the health of the president and how this may affect the outcome of this presidential election are interrupted with more BREAKING NEWS. The screen splits showing a shot of New York and a reporter announcing that several thousand people were trapped on the subway and that they may be there for hours as the utility company estimated that it would take ten or more hours to get the electricity up and going. On top of that, 90% of the New York area was without electricity and she was imploring workers not to add to the traffic mayhem if they could stay at work.

The other side of the split screen a reporter from Chicago was reporting the same about the El Trains and most of the electricity Chicago was also out causing traffic mayhem.

Ellery shakes her head and asks Thomas, “Do you think the election may be postponed or even cancelled?”=0 A

Thomas answers solemnly, “I think this only the beginning. I hope Dallas, Phoenix and Los Angeles have enacted their emergency plans. I’d say the threat level in this country is as high as ever. Between the weather events and these so-called blackouts in Chicago and New York, I can only fear more will occur.”

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At his home in Milwaukee Wisconsin, the controversial presidential candidate, Tibauk Asana, stands in front of the television in disbelief. Asana has raised a lot of controversy. He is not the typical WASP presidential candidate. His mother is French Creole and his father refers to himself as a Muslamic Buddhist Baptist. The other presidential candidates have accused Asana of lying about his religion and just keep changing it in order to get votes from every religion. Asana never denies any of what he’s accused of doing. His patented response is, “We all mis- speak occasionally. It is possible that I could have mis-spoke. But I want to concentrate on the future and what I will DO as president and not what I say.”

The press has donned him, "The do as he does, not do as he say candidate. He is very popular among the young voters because they see him as “bucking” the system and a presidential rebel.

His running mate William “Billy” Carter, Jimmy Carter’s nephew, comes in to see why Teebama has been so quiet for the last fifteen minutes.

“As tragic as all of this may be, it works in our favor. The current administration has a low, low approval rating and I don’t think their candidate will get re-elected and I’ll make sure to remind the voters that Ellery Gomez was the Secretary of Energy before running for president and all the mess in New York and Chicago is her fault. That and the fact that many of her votes would come from Florida where turnout should be low because of the Hurricane, this should work nicely to our benefit.

JT, Rich, LP, Vice President Hemming and the other Cabinet members (Secretary of State, Andrew Fister, Secretary of Defense, Kyle Sounder, and Secretary of Homeland Security, Kevin KC Korhs, meet in a very private setting in a bunker under the White House.. The mood is somber. The doctor has informed them that the president is dead. The real President Butler emerges through a hidden door after all are seated. They all stare in disbelief. “The president explains to them about the body double and that only LP, JT, Rich, and the president knew in order to keep it from leaking. He reminded them of how much information had been leaked over his two terms already. He ended it with, “Gentlemen, this was the only way. There is a major terrorist event happening in this country as I speak. The only way to lure these terrorists out and more importantly lure out the moles within this country’s political system is to release the news that I have been assassinated. This will give them a sense of complacency and bring them out in the open. I know a life was lost, but it was lost for the good of the country. Butler then opens the secret entry again and says, “I have someone I want you to meet.” A figure only half emerges from the dark corridor. “Gentlemen, this is Flukie.”

Flukie explains that he has been undercover in the Middle East since 1976 and monitoring the planned attacks for US soil. The only reason he’s back is that he has information that someone in the white house has been leaking information to Middle Eastern terrorists for years. Not just one person but a network of people. Flukie continues and explains that he will be in contact with the president and the president only. He hands President Butler a dossier containing the names of persons suspected of leaking vital information to terrorist groups. Flukie excuses himself and disappears through the dark secret chamber.

Butler hands each person at the granite table a manila file. One by one each person casts a long suspicious look at Vice President Hemming.

Hemming, knowing he has no recourse, no alibi, and no where to hide, realizes his fate. He pulls a vial from the front pocket of his suit jacket, opens it and swallows the contents. His body falls from his chair and hits the floor. He convulses for a short time and dies before anyone has a chance to react. The scene becomes almost surreal. The poison he swallowed kills within fifteen seconds, and is not traceable in the blood stream. The CIA uses it to assassinate prominent Foreign Heads of State that become threats to the United States’ national security.

JT is the first to break the silence. “Get his a*s outta here. Damn traitor.” He pauses to give Rich and Larry time to drag his body into another room where Secret Service agents place him in a body bag. “As you can see the network of spies has to go well beyond Hemming. It’s much too complex. This is a conspiracy unlike any ever imagined in this country. You can plainly see that these are desperate times and call for desperate measures.”

Kohrs asks, “How many more have to die?”

JT pauses. “There will be more. If you look closely you’ll see the network of conspiracy he was involved in had many arms. And most of them are unnam ed. It’s going to take a lot of work and deceit on our end to uncover the network. Vice President Hemming was going to die. It was either this act of suicide or he would have eventually been hung for treason.”

Larry intercedes, “Holy s**t. This means that the Speaker of the House, David Douglas-Jones, has to take command. God save us. That buffoon will give away the country to the terrorists for a case of cheap liquor and a date with a porn star.”

The phone in front of Butler rings and he answers. After answering, the president says nothing. He just listens and then hangs up. He tells Rich, pointing to a screen on the wall, “Turn on that monitor.”

The Syndicated News Channel (SNC) is showing the aftermath of the chaos, continually interviewing correspondents in the different cities and has more Breaking News. Dallas, Phoenix, Los Angeles, and Seattle are all experiencing black outs that encompass the vast majority of their respective cities. They are also reporting that they have received word from sources inside The White House that President Butler’s conditioned has worsened to the point that he is no longer conscious and the Vice president is not in the White House as earlier reported.

Rich says to the group, “As you can see, it didn’t take too long for these leaks to start.”

JT says, “I want all cell phones, Blackberries and any other PDA device on the table. You all might as well think of yourselves as a sequestered cabinet until I can find out who the mole is in here.”

Butler hands Admiral Larry Prater a file. “Get this to White House Press Secretary Reltor right away.” Butler nods to General JT Sumter and JT picks up a phone from the massive black granite table and dials. He says, “Prater is on his way. You will address the country in five minutes.

Butler’s party’s presidential candidate, Jim Crane and his running mate Cara Phelan, are en route to the white house but are denied access. There’s a fury of military personnel and secret service agents. It’s chaotic on and outside the grounds of the White House. A large and ever growing crowd of people are anxiously peering through the iron bars that surround the White House. The doomsday prophets are appearing on every street corner. The press is everywhere.

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Asana call for his driver to pick him up and take him to the Washington. The black sedan pulls in front of his home. Asana exit his home and is lead to the car. Something isn’t right. The Secret Service agent never greets him, looks at him, and doesn’t seem to want Asana to get a look at him. He just leads Asana to the door, ushers him in and closes it. Asana quickly dismisses the uneasiness as a result of the chaos throughout the country and begins to make calls on his phone.

Thirty minutes later, Asana tries to lower the window to speak to the driver and Secret Service agent. The control seems to be malfunctioning. The secret service agent speaks to him on the intercom system.

“Yes sir. What is it?”

Asana, trying to remain clam, but is obviously worried, “This is not the way to the airport! Where in the hell are you taking me?”

“Relax sir. The Milwaukee airport is closed. ‘We’ll have to drive to Chicago. The extra few hours will give order time to settle in Washington.”

“Okay. Close the window. I have some work to do and calls to make until we get there.”

Asana can’t help but notice the eerie feeling of loneliness and doom he seems to feel as the partition window closes. Asana dials his phone. No signal. He reaches for the switch to open the partition window. It’s not operating. He calls the driver on the intercom. “Open the window. What the hell is going on!”
The driver replies “Must’ve blown a fuse. Do you want to stop and have it fixed?”

“No, I need to get to Chicago.”

His driver pulls off Interstate 94 and heads east towards Lake Michigan on a lonely and deserted country road somewhere between Racine and Kenosha.

Two hours later the remnants of the burned out sedan and a charred body with a severed right hand are found by a deer hunter next to Lake Michigan. He calls the local authorities.

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As Ellery and Thomas Gomez finish packing in their home in Mount Johnston Tennessee, she asks her husband and vice presidential hopeful, “Are you still going to Phoenix? Knowing the answer to her questions, she almost pleads, “I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Ellery, Ellery, Ellery.” Thomas sighs as he caresses her hair. “We have to look at things logically and not put ourselves above what is best for the country and world for that matter. This seems to be the day that the terrorists have been waiting to capitalize upon. This is a well orchestrated attack that is only in its beginning stages. The blackouts in New York and Chicago coinciding with the election and the assassination of Butler are more than just coincidence. Asana was supposed to be in Chicago today. Crane was supposed to address potential voters in New York. This day will only get worse before it gets better. I know you think we should confront this side by side, but that may actually be the worst thing we could do. If all of the presidential candidates and their VP’s are in one place at the same time, it would make it much easier for terrorists to concentrate their attack on one city and branch out from there.” After a pause Thomas says, “No I’m not going to Phoenix. I’m going to Los Angeles. I’m flying into Burbank and meeting with the FEMA director there. And you need to go to the safe bunker in Montana and not to Washington DC. Once you land in Missoula, go straight to the safety bunker and don’t leave until you hear from me. I’ll meet you in Montana when I’m finished in LA. There’s no way we need to go to any of the places listed on our itineraries or agendas. Don’t forget the emergency cell phone either. We don’t want to use our current phones. Give me your current phone and I’ll have it shipped by parcel service outside the U.S. just in case it is being tracked. I have a feeling this terrorist attack has information connections inside the White House. High ranking connections.”

Before Thomas Gomez’s plane touches down in Burbank its descent path is over the greater Los Angeles area from South to North. His traveling secretary, Robert Puthoff nudges him awake from his nap.

“Tom. Look out your window.”

He sees lots of smoke and fires burning. He looks at his traveling secretary and says, “Putty, please tell me those are wildfires burning.”

Bob turns a laptop towards Thomas. It streams a live news report from a local Los Angeles television station.

Footage of civil unrest, fires and looting play behind a reporter that is informing the public that Marshall Law has been declared for Orange and surrounding counties in Southern California.

The plane makes a steep and sudden turn and circles towards LAX. Gomez calls the pilot and asks, “What’s going on?”

“I had nothing to do with it. The coordinates were uploaded into the plane’s computer and I have no control. The plane is being landed in accordance with the Air Safety Act of 2002.”

(The Air Safety Act of 2002 [ASA02] mandated that any major airline landing on US soil or its territories be equipped with an on board flight computer that could land the plane remotely, preventing another terrorist attack similar to the 9-11 attack in 2001.)

After landing and taxiing to a tarmac on the Northern side of LAX, a marine anti terror squad enters the plane. After everything is cleared up Gomez and his secretary are led from the plane. As the ir eyes adjust to the bright sunshine, the scene resembles a movie war scene with small arms fire in the vicinity. The air filled with smoke and the smell of acrid and unceremonious death. Military personnel seem to be scrambling around the plane in a frantic state of organized chaos. Gomez can’t get the thought of how surreal the situation is even though the noise makes normal conversation incomprehensible.

Captain Brennan yells to Gomez, breaking his thought, “You’ll have to come with us, Senator. Things have become pretty dicey around here.” He keys the microphone on his radio. “Sergeant Wheeler! We need armored transport here pronto.” then Brennan shouts to a private, “Get the Senator and his aide a helmet and vest and keep them out of harm’s way until we can get them transported to a safe location.”

The deafening roar is silenced by the distinctive swoosh of an RPG hurtling above Gomez’s head and ends with the planes fuselage being gutted and torn almost in two.

Brennan barks in his radio, “Get that that damn transport vehicle hear; Double Time!” His order is followed by silence. “C’mon, Senator, we have to hoof it.” Brennan leads Gomez and his secretary, Puthoff across the tarmac towards a steep hill and takes them over the side and down to a corrugated drain pipe. “Stay inside here about twenty feet back, out of the light. I’ll be back with transportation. Here’s a sidearm for each of you. Don’t be afraid to use it. My guys are using the codeword Himalaya and Housecoat. If anyone approaches you need to say “Himalaya”. If they respond with anything other than “Housecoat”, shoot them. If I’m not back in an hour, head due north. You’ll be on your own for about six clicks where there’s a supply squad from the Army. Use the same code words with them.

JT speaking to Butler, “Sir, we found the Asana’s car. No sign of him. Just the charred remains of the driver. The local authorities are holding some evidence.”

“What would that be?” asked Butler.

“Flukie’s calling card. The severed hand of the driver holding a Busch Beer bottle.”

“Okay, JT. Get that evidence. Any witnesses?”

“Just a deer hunter that saw the smoke, went to investigate and called the locals, but nothing else.”

“Get him locked away somewhere safe.”

JT asks, “Should I tell Reltor that Asana is missing and for her to call a press conference.”

Butler calmly answers, “No. Tell her to announce that he is dead.”

‘Mr. President.” LP interrupts. “There’s something else you should know. From the early numbers in the election, Asana was winning by a landslide.”

“And one more thing.” adds Secretary of Homeland Security, Kevin KC Korhs, I’ve suspended the election. The idiot Speaker of The House wanted to declare a winner. Congress is calling an emergency session.”

Butler, motions everyone to sit down. “Asana is alive and well. It’s better that you know nothing more of where he is. As you read in the documents our Federal Intelligence Agencies believe that he is one of the people leaking information to terrorists. They also believe that there are others. Anyone heard about Gomez’s or Jim Crane and Cara Phelan?”

Secretary of State, Andrew Fister replies, Gomez’s husband is pinned down by terrorists at the edge of LAX.”

“Get him the hell out of there and to Montana. Make sure his wife is en route here before he arrives. Tell Reltor that their whereabouts are unknown.”

“What about Crane and Phelan?”

“Their plane was ordered down by the FAA in Nashville. The safest place we could find for them was the Federal Reserve Bank there. They are in the cash room, locked in the basement.” Fister answers.

“Who’s in there with them?” Butler demands.

“The bank president, four night shift workers, an engineer, and guards inside and out.” answers Fister.

“Make sure they stay there. We need to keep all the candidates away from Washington. We can’t all be taken out in the same place. Having them all around the country will make it impossible for the terrorists to pin us all down.”

Butler sees the look of consternation on all the faces in the room. Each of them recalling what they read in documents earlier. The silence lingers until he says, “It’s the only way. We may have to sacrifice our lives. A lot of citizens may die other than us for no reason.” Butler notices JT’s expression as he talks on the phone. “What is it, Sumter?”

“It’s the Federal Reserve Banking System. Their computers have been taken over. The cash flow for the entire country has ceased. ATM’s and all the banks computers taken over. People will have access to cash by tomorrow if its not fixed.”

“Damn, I knew things were going to get dicey, but I never expected this. How did it happen?” asks Butler.

JT looks at the president and says, “ All the evidence points to Asana. Before he was elected Senator his company had the contract to maintenance the computers for the federal reserve banks. We think they connected wirelessly to the feds computers with cell phones and up loaded the files to a satellite connection through the a Kleer Ware router they had in the van.”

“How is it that we know this now?” Butler is beginning to lose his even temperment.

JT continues, “We have been tracking Asana’s cell phone and noticed some abnormalities. We were able to back track through his cell phone to the president of his company and then the service managers phones. The IP addresses of Federal Reserve Banks in each of the twelve districts. We need Asana’s cell phone to have any chance of correcting this.”

Butler pauses to reflect the events of the day. A day that was half over and a month of sleeplessness that was just starting.

“We need to get David Douglas-Jones here. We need to get some information fed to him. He influenced a lot of people to help his buddy Asana get that contract for his company. I‘m sure he wasn‘t let in on this plan because he‘s spineless and can‘t keep his mouth shut. So if we feed him the right information, we might just catch a break.”

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Asana’s captor stood vigil over him. The air was cold. It made Asan’s nose water. The breath of his assassin seemed to hang white in front of him. The snow crunched under his boots as he paced impatiently outside the open cabin door awaiting for his orders.

Asana couldn’t help but notice that his captor seemed to have a lot of military training, but also seemed to lack discipline. he started to formulate an escape plan as he lay in on the cot. It struck him as odd that neither his hands or feat had been bound.

It was almost as if his captor were reading his thoughts when he said, “It won’t do you any good to try and escape. We are 25 miles from anything. There’s a storm blowing from the east across the lake. I don’t know how much you know about the weather, but when a storm blows back across this lake from the east, it’s a bad one. In an hour you’d be snow-blind. In 90 minutes you’d be dead. In two days the animals would have your bones picked clean. Your skeletal remains wouldn’t be found until next June if ever.”

Just as quickly as those words left his captor’s mouth, he went back to rhymic crunching of the snow as he paced. His white breath hanging in front of him as before. Asana’ mind went back to his plan. His captor knew. This wasn’t the first time he’d kidnapped. They all formulated a plan to escape. A few tried to execute the plan. They all failed, as would Asana. Silently, the captor wished Asana would make a run for it. He’d shoot him and be done with it. After all, those were his orders. And you carried out Flukie’s orders.

A helicopter appears from the treeline and lands a few hundred feet from the cabin. Two men wearing camoflauge and black ski masks hustle to the sentry standing guard. “Where is he, Agent Smith?” the first asks.

Wiping the stinging snow that sprayed his face the man points, “In there, Sir”

The two men from the helicopter rush in the cabin grab Asana and hustle him toward the helicopter. “Smith!” the second man yells over the thunder of the whirling blades. He hands Smith an envelope “Clean up any loose ends here and meet Flukie. The coordinates are in the envelope.”

“Yes Sir!”

Smith goes about his duties. He grabs Asana’s brief case. That was all he took from the limousine before burning it. The cell phone was missing. He had no way to contact the helicopter to let them know. He remembered how thorough they were. They’d find Asana’s phone. They’d surely have searched him by now. He also cringed at the thought of how thorough they would be when they punished him for allowing Asana to secretly retrieve it without him knowing. He looked outside and mumbled, “Damn! Night sure does come quick when you get up this far north.“ The whining of snowmobile engines stops him from what he’s doing and Smith bolts out of the cabin and scurries into the woods. Moments later the fireball from the cabin lights the desolate clearing in the North woods along the Canadien border. Smith uses the light to read the coordinates to meet Flukie. He watches from the tree line as the unexpected snowmobiles pull away. He uncovers his and sets out Northwest. He remembered a small fishing and hunting camp ten miles from where he is. He needed to contact the helicopter and let them know that someone must have tracked Asana’s cell phone giving away the location..