Seeds of Death: Resign or Die

By Dan Tamblo

Congress is corrupt. Reveal the guilty comes the cry. Suddenly the message changes: Resign or DIE! And they do.
Agent Spears must find out who and his investigation finds a sinister link in Washington D.C. but now he's the target! Seeds of Death takes you into the beltway of the rich and powerful where lives are traded for votes and no one is safe. We must change America. One politician at a time

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Tamblo
• Release date: Aug 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476356105

Dan Tamblo

I have been in business in Arizona for over 30 years. My degrees include Computer Programming, HVAC and Business. School of Hard Knocks is in there somewhere. Over the years, I have noticed corruption and wrote letters, newsletters and prodded them to go on a better path. But...corruption usually wins. Just look at our congress. I live in Phoenix Arizona with my wife, Karla,and my dog, Jake. I love to fish and take nature pictures around this great country. My website: www.dantamblo.com

Book preview

1

It Begins

Senator Alden drained his glass and pounded on the table, Another!

Looking around, he noticed the lounge mostly empty. His bloodshot eyes failed to focus on the clock on the wall.

Sherry, the waitress, caught his gaze and helped, It’s time to go home, sir.

He harrumphed a grunt of displeasure and threw a fifty on the table. As he pushed his rotund figure off the chair she steadied him.

Careful there, sir, she said.

I’m okay, I’m okay.

She held up his overcoat, Need a taxi?

He reached around and grabbed her butt cheek, I need a ride but not from no goddam taxi!

She side stepped his advance and swooped up the fifty, Good night, senator! Go home to your wife.

Yea, right. Hopefully, she’s asleep by now, he glanced up, Still time to say yes, little darling.

See you tomorrow.

He turned and ambled slowly down the hall, glancing off the wall. The back door opened easier than he thought and banged against the trash can guarding the entrance, toppling it into the bushes. The air was stone cold. Even though drunk, he still pulled his coat together to keep the chill off his corpulent figure. Walking along the aisle of cars, he bounced off several bruising a knee.

That’s gonna hurt in the morning, he thought.

In the far end of the parking lot a tow truck sat idling.

The senator found his car in handicap parking, ‘chirped’ the locks open and stumbled onto the seat. He closed the door as the keys dropped from his hand to the floor. Leaning down, his forehead touched off the horn.

Fuck! as fingers juggled keys jamming one into the ignition and started the engine. The radio blared an old crooner song as he eased out into the icy lot. Not caring to look for traffic, he pulled out without seeing the tow truck coming his direction. The truck’s engine roared as it picked up speed and its high beams suddenly flooded the drivers’ side of the senator’s car. His eyes widened the last second. The truck’s large iron grill pounded into the side of the car, wedging it into the far curb with a thunderous crash. Glass and metal shot out like bullets. Its fuel linkage stuck open and the engine whined its disapproval. Smoke spewed into the air as fire ignited under the hood. The driver door opened and a hooded, dark figure unbuckled the seat belt, slid out and sprinkled whisky in the cab, leaving the bottle on the seat. He walked over to the sedan and stared down at the senator bleeding, trying to gather his senses.

The senator opened a bloody eye, trying to focus. He fumbled for the door lever. The car door had him crushed against the steering column and console. He looked up at the outline of a raised arm with a claw hammer in a gloved hand. In a drunken stupor, he never sensed danger.

Help. Help me.

Senator, remember me?

What? he said weakly, squinting.

You once raped an intern.

Mickey, he stammered.

Without a sound, the arm swiftly brought the hammer down between his eyes. It shattered his skull, penetrating deep. Death came instantly. The hooded figure used the claw to scratch the word DOA across the cars’ hood. He then struck the claw into it and faded into the shadows.

2

Bookstore Arrival

The driver set the delivery on the counter of the bookstore. Curious, Steven signed the electronic tablet and opened the box. He held up two tee shirts while Stacy pulled out the introduction and directions.

Says here, she read, Use the DOA Peace and Love Template to turn ideas into profits. For your school and business. DOA is sweeping across America. Be part of it! Join the movement to URGE CORRUPT SENATORS TO RESIGN! As we watch you grow and spread the word of DOA, a reward of $1,000 will come to you. Watch every week for new DOA messages. Hmm. DOA. Dead on Arrival?

Or Destiny of America?

How about Do Others Anonymously?

Whatever.

Look. There are also key chains, buttons and hats in here. Oh, look! An envelope with money in it!

He held up the envelope with the words DOA Seed written from a blunt pencil.

Cool.

What are those? she asked.

He held up a stack of postal cards with the words: CORRUPTION MUST RESIGN!

They’re called resign cards. To send to corrupt politicians. Think it will catch? asked Steve.

They’re selling NO BULLYING tee shirts in grade school. Sure. Only one way to find out.

Stacy turned her back to him stripping off her college shirt and slipping the DOA shirt on in its place. She faced Steven and looked down at the shirt.

Looks good on you.

Thanks. If we’re getting paid to put out this little fad, I’m in. Who knows, it may explode and there will be lots of orders. You never know what the kids will latch on to. Besides, no one has ever asked corrupt politicians to step down before, have they?

Not that I know of. Unless they film their wiener on the internet.

They both laughed.

Mostly, Stacey reflected, They get exposed and the news drops the story and they go on doing what they do best. Cheat and steal.

That sounds a bit sarcastic.

Tell me I’m inaccurate. You can’t. That’s what happens. Our country is no different than other third world countries. My dad says the cars and suits are nicer. What would you do?

What do you mean?

Stacey folded her arms, You’re a political major. As you go into politics, what would you do if you saw greed and theft and illegal graft as you rub elbows with the rich and powerful?

Steve twisted his mouth, First of all. I’m going into the news business. Political news. I don’t think I’ll be on the inside of anyone with power. They’ll always be on the defense.

But your job is to get the story. Find out the dirt.

No. I want to report on the process. Who’s running for what. I’m not a confrontational kind of guy.

So, if you come across a senator that just took a million dollars in a payoff you wouldn’t report it? Stacey’s face aghast.

Steve frowned, I would tell my editor. He directs what stories to pursue. It’s not always that easy.

NO! That’s what DOA is all about! You need to stand up and report the truth!

I could get fired.

Fired! Are you crazy? Stacey paced behind the counter, Okay, here’s another one. A senator, stinking drunk, drives his car off a bridge. His passenger drowns. You are in the car behind them. The senator wants you to drive him away from the scene and protect him. What do you do?

I’d keep him there until police arrive.

Okay, now he offers you $50,000 to help him escape.

I’d still keep him there.

So you’d keep him there but he now offers you $5,000,000. It’s important to him. There’ll be scandal and he may be charged with murder. Or not. But you could get $5,000,000. What do you do?

Steve’s eyes widened.

Oh, $5,000,000. I, uh, he stammered.

There! That’s the problem!

What? I didn’t say anything!

Exactly! You had the right answer up until we got to your greed level. You hesitated while your mind counted the money. You’re the type that can be paid off.

Aren’t we all?

No!

Steve reflected slowly, Yeah. Let’s put the shoe on your foot. What would you do?

Turn him in.

$50,000,000?

No.

$100,000,000?

No! No amount of money! Right is right! We’re talking about morals!

What if the senator was your father? Steve squinted.

Stacy Bilmont stopped, her face dour and red.

3

F.B.I. Agent Ben Spears

Ben Spears eyes centered on the man’s solar plexus, nostrils inhaled. His eyes squinted, relaxed, waiting as the attacker aimed the baton at his head and swung. In a blur, he ducked, stepped forward and lifted him high into the air and drove him into the mat. Hard.

Ungh, the man cried breathlessly, Hell, Ben. Good move. I wasn’t going to hit you!

I know, Pete! said Ben, I wasn’t going to let you!

He helped his friend up and both bowed to the other as they separated. The instructor let two more FBI Agents practice before moving on to defensive-offensive maneuvers with various weapons. An hour later, they headed for the showers.

Did you just pick this up in the last two years, Ben?

No. Been a part of my life since I saw the Ninja Turtles back in school.

You didn’t get this good from turtles, buddy, he laughed, You’re better than the instructor!

No. My parents got me into self defense early. Then, came academics, then girls.

Good upbringing. Awesome.

How about you?

Oh, I think I just short circuited to girls.

Hah. Girls are good!

Are you on the computer monitoring detail with Agent Gray?

Yes. Monitoring the world. Pretty interesting what goes on from shore to shore.

I bet. I’m being transferred to the European sector. Looking forward to it. Can I call on you from time to time to compare notes?

Certainly. We’re on the same team.

Yep. Same team.

They showered and Ben said ‘good-bye’. He walked out of the FBI training center to the end of the parking lot. There, he admired his classic 1970 Pontiac GTO and the work he’d spent on the frame-up restoration. The blue pearl paint gleamed in the early morning sunlight. He sat in the seat and fired it up. The low growl from the engine was only a clue to its real horsepower. It rumbled nicely as he cruised out the parking lot.

Ben Spears grew up in the heartland of America. A single child from a farming community near Pella, Iowa, his loving parents raised him with plenty of hard work injected with high expectations in school. At Iowa State University, many of his track and field records stood firm in their hall of fame. Driven by the good in his life he steered toward law enforcement to make the world better.

He parked in the far lot at the FBI Cyber Warfare Command Center.

The office door barely swung open when Kenneth caught up to him, Hey Ben! Your copy! Check it out!

He shoved a paper under his nose.

FIND YOUR STRENGTH THROUGH DOA

EVIL MUST PERISH. RESIGN OR DIE

When did you get this, he inquired.

Just now.

Source?

None. No beginning. No trail. Nothing. Same as the last couple months.

DOA had crossed the line from a simple religious mouthpiece to a call to kill.

Any more than this?

Yes. Several. He’s changed.

Gray seen this?

Yup. He’s waiting for you. Kenneth walked off with a smirk.

Looking down at his tie and gig line, he walked over to Agent Gray’s office. Gray, an old FBI agent assigned to the computer specialists’ wing had become, well, gray and wrinkled from the long hours smoking in front of old CRTs. From his years of smoking, his teeth were permanently stained and face showed the wrinkles. Quitting the habit left him no choice but to incessantly pop nicotine gum into his mouth. But Spears had as much respect as disdain for his boss.

Gray saw him approaching his office and barked, Come in here!

As he entered the office the leftover, stale cigarette smell hit his nostrils like a tiny, stinky needles.

Good morning, sir.

Ignoring the pleasantries, What’s going on with the DOA messages?

They’ve changed, sir. Up until last week they were all about peace, love, resign if you’re corrupt. Not about peace and love now.

I want a report within the hour. This is madness. One hour!

Not a problem, sir.

Spears walked to Kenneth’s work station in the main floor. Here, hundreds of operators searched and monitored transmissions from all over the globe. A huge telemetry board in the front of the room showed types of traffic from each country.

He walked up to Kenneth’s cubee. Instinctively, Kenneth hit a key and his display changed to a Black OPS game. He turned around.

Hey. Just had another conversation with the old man. I need some help here. Can you make me up a report-.

Here! as he stood and handed over several pages.

Uh, thanks.

Kenneth looked to be a comfortable guy, happy wherever he was, with disheveled, spiked red hair and loose jeans and an old black t-shirt. He cherished his bright red sneakers which he wore every day. His appearance said nothing of his off the charts I.Q.

What’s this look like to you? Spears queried.

This guy’s good. He’s done this before. But look at what we got! As he swept his arm around the room, he whistled a Beethoven tune to make his point.

What makes you think it’s just one guy? Spears asked.

Has to be. If it were a group there would be a braggart in the mix. That’s what got some of us caught. He mischievously looked up at Spears, Nobody is bragging anywhere. It has to be one guy. A super brain.

Super brain?

Oh yea. Everyone here is pretty sharp. He’s on a much higher level.

How do you know?

Because we haven’t been able to find him.

Well, we need to find him or them. Fast.

Oh, we will. Remember, we all trip up sooner or later. HA-ha.

How did you get caught?

Hacking into financial institutions. Just looking around.

Ben shook his head, Glad you’re on this side now.

Me, too.

They poured over the different DOA decrees and computer code trying to link any kind of source.

What’s this? he held up a message: Consider Black Wand

No idea. It came up this morning, too.

Okay. Spinning our wheels. Spears gathered up the reports and strode back to Gray’s office.

How does it work? Gray asked.

The messages came via a worm or virus or as DOA explains it a ‘seed’ planted six months ago. It surfaces and spreads. The source and any computer disc sectors are destroyed the moment the seed sprouts. The messages appear all over the world where goods are sold or ordered or in people’s emails. They seemed innocuous until now.

How?

Originally, it began as a message for people to reveal corruption. But now, it’s changed. They, he, wants anyone, no one specific, not as a group, to rise up and meet their calling. Their destiny. They will know who they are. It’s now transformed into killing. They’ll know they can act out a killing of any corrupt official. Act as one, not as a group. And make it look like a single person doing in…

How long has this DOA been on our radar? Gray interrupted.

Been around for several months. We have all the transcripts and they seemed pretty benign. A message for corrupt politicians to resign. That sort of thing. But now, there’s this change. This is a direct call. They’re looking for assassins. From common people. In the name of God, sometimes. They placed these decrees into computers months ago and they just hang around in college, military, foreign and private servers for months, until they’re somehow triggered.

There has to be a source.

None. I have top guys working on it. Nothing yet. Since the seeds are planted long before we see them we don’t know when and where they were planted, which schools or which state. For all we know, which country.

Who all are seeing these messages?

Well, besides everyone in the free world, mostly college students. DOA seems to know colleges are the breeding ground for new ideas for social upheavals. There’s more. They have places set up in each major college to print t-shirts, banners and bumper stickers and the word DOA is everywhere on each campus. The kids think it’s a new trend!

How is that being done?

According to our junior agents planted in each college, they say a package is sent to student book stores with materials and instructions on how to get these things produced. It includes money to get them started. They are promised, by this mystical DOA, they will receive another stipend after the task is complete.

So there’s money in this package?

Yes. Enough to get a few hundred shirts made and the t-shirt companies around the campus see the sales potential and they produce more on their own. Same with banners and bumper stickers, key chains and lapel pins. Demand grows and sales follow. It takes on a life of its own. After all this is done, the student gets a pat-on-the-back letter with another $1,000.00 cash in it.

Mr. Gray’s eyes grew large. A thousand dollars! At each college?

At hundreds of colleges.

The two men stared at each other. The numbers were enormous.

Where were the packages mailed from? asked Gray.

Dead end so far. We’re still looking.

Gray picks up the telephone and began dialing. Keep looking, he growled. Find out where the thousand dollar letters are sent from!

Spears walked back to his office door and looked out across the computer complex with hundreds of operators pounding keys for hours on end. Some were a little older, maybe forty years old but most under thirty. Many had trouble with the law, stealing identities or taking money out of other people’s savings accounts. They faced a little jail time and the government induced them to switch over to the law enforcement side.

4

Pierce

Pierce walked along the pier, gazing over the water. The water had no ripples and birds were absent. The pines smelled fresh and the clouds hung just above fog level. He saw the trawler cruise around the row of moored fishing boats and head toward the end of the dock. He hopped down to the dock and quickened his pace, hugging the soft computer briefcase and back pack to his side. His hiking boots clunked on the deck as he approached the boat and a head stuck out of the wheelhouse.

Skip smiled a cherubic greeting and waved, Hey Pierce! How ya doin’?

Pierce looked at him and grinned. It had been a long time since he’d seen his old friend.

Great! he said. Can I get a ride to nowhere today?

Sure, anytime. Hop aboard so I don’t have to tie up.

Skip turned the wheel and reversed the motor and the boat barely sidled up to the dock. Pierce timed his jump and hopped over the rail near the wheel house.

The two men sized each other up and gave bear hugs. Skip’s size dwarfed Pierce.

Good to hear from you, Pierce. What’ve you been up to? He gave the engine a little more throttle and steered through the ‘no-wake’ zone and into the bay. He avoided the large public ferry backing up to its own dock.

Oh, not too much. Just been taking a few classes here and there. Working here and there. Not too much, really.

Skip looked over his spectacles and gave a little laugh. Like you have to work. Hah.

Well, y’know how it is. I still have to be around people.

Sure. I know. But your father left you with an awful lot of dough. You should settle down, buy a house, get a nice wife and have a few kids.

And be miserable?

No, you wouldn’t be miserable, per se. But…. Maybe it is time to settle down, eh? How old are you now? Twenty three, twenty four? He glanced over.

Twenty six.

Holy shit! You’d better get at it, Pierce. Life will pass you by if you’re not looking!

They both laughed. Pierce glanced at his friend’s short, graying hair and new bifocals. His old Seattle Seahawks cap badly needed replacement.

Are you married yet?

Touché. Got a girlfriend? Skip asked back.

Not really. Just dated a bit.

You look good. Working out, are ya?

Some sports here and there. Racquetball is my favorite. The other players are getting younger, though.

No doubt.

The boat worked its way around the islands of the Seattle Sound towards the western side of Orcas Island. The water had the typical calm for this time of year. The marine layer hovered, not wanting to lift away from the moody bay. A humid chill kept their coats zipped up to their chins. Along the shore, bald eagles kept watch every mile or so on the highest snags. Except for the occasional ferry, there were no other boats on the water. As they neared Orcas, a house appeared overlooking the water. Skip nosed the boat up to his dock, turned the wheel and cut the engine. He grabbed a line as Pierce grabbed another and they both jumped onto the dock to tighten the rope around the cleats. Skip peered over his glasses. Looks good. Let’s eat.

They made their way up the path to his home. Skip was proud of his little house. It had been through several owners before he bought it. A little redo here, a little paint there and in a few short years it became sound and comfortable. Behind was lush, green forest fed by the constant rain and rich soil. Ferns blanketed the ground between the pines. A small garden tractor stood guard over a fallow field waiting for the spring season.

The front door was unlocked, as usual, and the two men walked in, setting the bags down. Pierce looked around the living room and kitchen. It had all the conveniences but lacked a woman’s touch. The living room had its overstuffed chairs and wood tables with a scattering of magazines. On the walls were pictures of fishermen holding fish. A young Pierce smiled in several. While it was the typical wilderness cabin décor, an old army picture in the corner with Skip in camo and a sniper rifle in his hands somewhere in Thailand seemed out of place.

How ’bout a drink? Skip said, swinging his favorite bottle of scotch over Pierce’s head.

Uh-uh. You know I don’t drink, Skip.

How about a joint? He reached up to a small cookie jar on the refrigerator, looked at his guest, questioningly.

No. But you can go ahead. I don’t mind.

Skip put the cookie jar back saying, Maybe just a little Johnny tonight.

He poured a glass of scotch and set about lighting a fire in the stone fireplace.

They made a small meal of leftover lasagna and garlic bread. The evening gave way to night and they settled into the two chairs in front of the fire. The conversation was light, mostly about Skip’s escapades in Viet Nam. He’d worked as a sniper in the U.S. Army. Pierce listened intently, although he’d heard most of the stories many times. He knew Skip would run out of the same stories and start on the ills of the government, starting from President Johnson to Watergate to Carter to Reagan and continue forward. As he talked about the current ‘leadership’ his mood changed and the sixth scotch seemed to take over.

This administration is completely out of control and billions of dollars are disappearing right in front of America’s eyes. These bastards don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground! Whatever they learned in Yale or Harvard wasn’t how to run a country. They learned how to steal! And they’re stealing this damn country blind! You know what I mean? He shook his finger at Pierce.

Pierce was studying his old friend, waiting for him to take a breath.

Well, he began, What would you do if you were able to…

I’d fire ’em all!

Pierce chuckled, No, what if you were able to do something? We’ve talked about it for years but we never talked about what we would do about it if we had the chance.

Skip just glared, his eyes defiant, I’d fire congress!

The scotch was talking now.

But you can’t just fire congress, Skip. What else could be done?

The men looked at each other with blank looks.

Pierce changed tactics, What if we could just get rid of just the bad congressmen?

How?

I don’t know. Just theorizing. Just thinking.

Skip frowned, There’s no way to get each one to quit. That would be the best thing. Just the bad ones. Drains his glass, poured more and continued, There’s this immense wave of dishonesty from the Fed to the Treasury to Congress. They’re moving billions around the world like it’s their big piggy bank. Wall Street is part of it. They’re all part of it. All these people are either part of the CFR, Roffschilds or Biderburgers. Bilderbigers? Burgerbilders? Anyway, they’re all intermingled with each other like thieves. The media makes it sound like the administration is working hard to save the whole country. Whoever thought too much debt could be solved with more debt. They’re all culpable. Both parties. They’re all bad. The whole thing is rotten. . . . His drunken voice trailed off.

What about the middle party?

"They make sense but their bark has no bite. They’re the only ones not on the take. The status quo keeps them out of everything