Spiders from the Shadows: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Nine

By Chris Stewart

INTO THE LION’S DEN
“The battle wasn’t starting. It was almost over. There was nothing he could do now, no way to stop the coming wave from crashing down. He had walked into a den of predators so full of jealousy and fury that they couldn’t reason anymore. They were outsiders on the inside, the cancer next to the bone, the disease that would kill the nation after having lain dormant all these years.”
As the forces of Darkness work to consolidate worldwide power into a new regime, the Secretary of Defense realizes that he is the Republic’s last chance. With the former FBI Director by his side, the two men launch a daring plan to infiltrate Raven Rock—a secure underground military complex that is hosting the new government.
But Lucifer and his accomplices are not sitting idly by. After taking the FBI Director in to Raven Rock they launch a brilliant propaganda counterstrike that the SecDef never saw coming.
With no obstacles left in their way, the group of six men prepare to leave Raven Rock to begin reassembling the world they’ve destroyed. But the SecDef isn’t ready to give in. With one last card to play, he sends one of his most trusted allies, a woman with no experience in combat or espionage, on a life or death mission directly into the lion’s den.
Against the backdrop of torn-from-the-headlines Middle Eastern drama, the Wrath & Righteousness series is a fast-paced thriller that explores man’s role in the eternal battle between good and evil.
Wrath & Righteousnessis a ten episode e-book series by Chris Stewart, a world-record-setting Air Force pilot (fastest nonstop flight around the world) and New York Times bestselling author of several books, including The Miracle of Freedom. Each episode is approximately 50,000-60,000 words (roughly two-thirds the length of a normal novel). This series was adapted from the previously published The Great and Terrible series that was released from 2003-2008.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mercury Ink
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985461997

Chris Stewart

Chris Stewart is a former U. S. Air Force pilot assigned to fly the SR-71 Blackbird and B-1 bomber. He is the author of successful and acclaimed thrillers including Shattered Bone, The Kill Box, and The Third Consequence. He lives in Farmington, Utah.

Book preview

SPIDERS FROM THE SHADOWS

WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS

[Episode Nine]

CHRIS STEWART

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Mercury Radio Arts, Inc.

1133 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10036

www.glennbeck.com

www.mercuryink.com

Original Edition © The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Deseret Book Company) Condensed Edition © 2013 The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Mercury Radio Arts, Inc. under license from Deseret Book Company)

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Cover design by Richard Yoo

ISBN: 978-0-9854619-9-7 (eBook)

QED stands for Quality, Excellence and Design. The QED seal of approval shown here verifies that this eBook has passed a rigorous quality assurance process and will render well in most eBook reading platforms.

For more information please click here.

Indeed I tremble for my country when reflect that God is just: that his justice cannot sleep for ever[.]

Thomas Jefferson, Notes of the State of Virginia, Query 18

We shall nobly save or meanly lose the last, best hope of earth.

Abraham Lincoln,

Second Annual Message to Congress, Washington, D.C., Dec. 1, 1862

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

ONE

Offutt Air Force Base, Headquarters, U.S. Strategic Command, Eight Miles South of Omaha, Nebraska

The room was silent. They were alone. The two men stared at each other before one of them whistled quietly, a nervous habit he’d picked up as a kid, then swallowed and forced a smile. The air in the command center was cool but arid as the desert, the underground cooling systems pumping out purified, bone-dry atmosphere. The digital clocks on the wall behind them showed the local times in Moscow, Berlin, Jerusalem, New York, Hawaii, and a handful of others.

It was 3:14 a.m., local time. A little less than four hours until sunrise. Above the underground complex, the night was dark. To conserve energy, but mostly to avoid highlighting their capabilities to the local population, the base commander had ordered all lights extinguished after sunset. There were already hundreds of civilians at the gates. No reason to make it thousands. The time for riots and gunfights along the base security perimeter would come soon enough without publicizing the fact that the military had electricity, water, communications, and pretty much everything else.

Not the kind of things they needed to advertise right now.

But in the end, it wouldn’t matter. If things didn’t change soon, the base would run out of energy and supplies just like the local population.

Brucius Marino, the Secretary of Defense and the actual President of the Republic, was exhausted. He hadn’t slept at all in almost thirty hours, and he’d had little more than a couple of hours of sleep during the two days before that. He knew he had to find some time to rest; his mind was slow as molasses and he found himself sometimes stumbling on his feet and over his words. Worse, he micro-slept for fifteen or thirty seconds at the most awkward times—while talking to a subordinate, shaving, eating or  listening to a security brief. He couldn’t read a paragraph without nodding off.

What he needed was a shower, a hot meal, and twenty hours of sleep. But not right now. Not until he said good-bye. This was important. Maybe the most important thing they would do up to this point.

He looked across the table. There wasn’t a man in the world he trusted more than the man sitting opposite him, and this was the last time he would see him. Somehow they both knew.

James Davies, the FBI Director, kept his eyes low. He, too, was exhausted, his black eyes melting into the dark skin above his cheekbones, his curly hair cut to a stubble of black and gray. The portable table, mounted on rubber wheels, moved under the weight of the Secretary of Defense’s heavy arms. The military infirmary was all chrome, tile and white cement walls, causing their voices to echo, which created a stiff environment that magnified the awkwardness of it all.

How does it feel? Brucius asked.

James turned his head and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the strain. Feels like I swallowed a tennis ball.

Brucius flinched.

If it hurt like that going down, I can’t imagine what it’s going to feel like coming back up again.

Brucius winced again and subconsciously swallowed. It’s going to be OK, though?

James clenched his teeth, then rubbed his tongue across the new cap on his molar and nodded.

They were silent another moment.

You don’t have to do this, Brucius said.

I know that, sir.

Brucius shook his head. "I’m not sir to you, James. I never will be."

You’re the president, sir.

Not right now. Not yet. We’ve been through this.

You are the president, sir. That isn’t in dispute. That’s why I’m doing this, you know. As much affection as I might have for you, this isn’t about you or me or friendship. This is something different. More important. He nodded toward the hallway. That’s why all of us are doing this. It’s about the presidency. The country. It’s about the Constitution versus chaos. It’s the only thing we can do.

Brucius didn’t answer.

James broke into a smile. I love you, Brucius, you know that, but this is much more important than a single man.

There were footsteps in the hallway, the sound of clicking heels moving past, and they fell silent as they listened, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

We made a mistake. Brucius had a far-off look on his face as he spoke, his mind reflecting back. He had a sense of pain about him—a father reflecting on the passing of his child. He appeared to be racked with torment. What had happened to his country? What might he have done differently!

James sucked his teeth and waited.

We should have seen it coming, Brucius continued.

Again, James didn’t answer.

We should have known.

What are you talking about, Mr. Secretary?

The president we elected. He was good, smooth and said all the right things. But he didn’t love his country, at least not like you and I do. Not like our fathers. Not like our grandfathers. He saw our country as not that much different from all the others, not much better, in some ways maybe worse. He saw our sins and determined they precluded us from any further greatness. It wasn’t that he had an evil heart, he just couldn’t see or didn’t choose to see the good that was our country.

Hmmm, was all James offered.

Brucius leaned over and ran his hand over his head, then rested his elbows on his knees and looked up. It allowed him to surround himself with men like he was, only worse. Men who didn’t trust their own people. Men with a lust for power, and power, like cocaine, left them unsatisfied, always lusting for more. But it was us as much as anyone. We’re the ones who elected him. We’re the ones who put him there.

He paid a price for his folly.

Brucius thought of the nuclear attack over Washington, D.C., that had killed the president and answered, Yes, he did.

They fell silent another moment. Outside, a powerful storm was raging: enormous black clouds, billowing and boiling, dark and full. Thunderous rain. Constant spiderwebs of blue-white lightning. Something in the atmosphere had been thrown completely out of whack—whether from the EMP attack or the nuclear fallout, no one quite knew. Maybe it was from both. Maybe Mother Nature was just ticked off, but she was birthing storms now that billowed with more fury than they’d ever seen before. A particularly close bolt of lightning CRAAACKED and the thunder followed instantly, causing the air to sizzle with the smell of ozone. Both men stopped and looked out the window. It was almost as dark as midnight outside.

You get in and get out, Brucius said after the echoes from the frightening thunder had rolled past. You understand me, James. Don’t you go and be a hero. I need you here. I’m not being protective or patronizing; it’s the simple truth. You talk about doing this for our country—well, this is what your country needs for you to do: Complete this mission but stay alive! You’re no good to any of us dead. Brucius leaned forward, his weary eyes boring into the other man. "I mean it, James. If you consider me the president, then consider this an order. The country will need your loyalty and expertise. The country will need your truthfulness and intelligence. You do this and get out. Do not get yourself killed!"

James Davies studied his hands, large, rough, and thick-fingered. His father’s hands. His grandfather’s hands. The inherited hands of a former slave. A sudden chill ran through him. A premonition? A warning? He didn’t know. He looked across the table at his best friend, his mind drifting back. Do you remember the first time we ever met? he asked.

Are you kidding? I can’t remember anything that happened even a month ago. That was back in college. It seems like another world.

James rubbed his hands across his eyes. I remember it like it was yesterday. We were sitting in a physics lab. There were, I don’t know, forty or fifty kids, all of them as arrogant and self-absorbed as we were, all of them certain they were going to be the next billionaire, president or power-crazy CEO. You don’t fill a classroom at Yale with the weak in intellect or ego. An hour into the lab I looked down the row and caught your eye. You looked at me, then motioned to the back door. We picked up our books and headed out—

There was a gym across the hallway, Brucius remembered now. We ended up shooting hoops.

Yeah. You were taller by four inches, but I could still dunk on you.

I was jealous of your money, Brucius said.

I was jealous of your determination, James countered. The fact you were making it on your own.

Your dad was paying your way through college. He bought you that cool car, Brucius pointed out.

Cool? Are you kidding? That British Triumph was nothing but a piece of junk.

It was a chick magnet, baby.

The sucker never ran, James complained. I spent more time on the bus than any poor black kid in Memphis.

They both fell silent, smiling, the memory deep and full.

I’ll always remember, James repeated, his voice low and monotone. He was talking to himself now. I looked down the row of kids and saw you. You looked at me. And from that moment, before we had ever even spoken, I knew that you were going to be my best friend.

It was a long time ago, Brucius answered. But that has proven true.

"You know what else? Out of that whole group of kids, out of that entire bunch of snot-nosed, brilliant, ambitious, arrogant, give-it-to-me-because-I-deserve-it Yale freshman, I don’t think anyone would have predicted we would end up where we are. We never would have guessed it. Yet, he motioned to their surroundings, here we are."

"Audaces fortuna iuvat, Brucius smiled. Fortune favors the bold."

"Ab incunabulis, the FBI Director answered. From the cradle."

This made Brucius laugh. "I’ve got a better one: ‘Age. Fac ut gaudeam.’"

James had to think, translating in his head. "Go ahead. Make my day. He wet his lips and laughed. Gotta love that one."

I think it’s more appropriate than what you said. I’m pretty sure the only useful thing I did in my cradle was poop. I don’t think that I was predestined to—

James cut him off. Not predestined. Ordained. And yes, I think you were. I think we both were. We find ourselves here, at this critical juncture in time, not out of happenstance or luck or some perfect storm of time and circumstance. It certainly wasn’t inevitable, but I do think there is a purpose and plan to it all.

Brucius didn’t answer for a moment. Maybe, was all he said.

"Not maybe, Brucius. What I said was true."

Maybe. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how we got here; all that matters is what we do with this moment we’ve been given. All that really matters is what we do with right now.

James looked around as if caught in some internal debate, then turned back to his friend. I had an interesting experience about a year ago. It’ll sound crazy, and I’m not sure you’ll understand, but I want you to hear it. I know you’re not a Christian—despite my best efforts to save you, James gave him a wry smile, but I know your heart. So I want you to listen to what I’m going to tell you and really try to understand.

Brucius waited, his face unchanging.

"Last Christmas, Emily and I went to a Christmas concert at the National Cathedral. The Mormon Choir was there. They’re pretty good, you know. During the concert, they sang a song that harmonized with Silent Night. In the background they sang these words: This is a time of peace/This is a time of joy.

"As I heard those words, a feeling came over me, a certain assurance, as if a voice were speaking to me from God. It was a time for joy. It was a time for peace. It was the great breath of air before the deep plunge, the great calm of peace before the dark and deadly storm. It was the final moment of quiet, the deep sigh of hope before the last cage was opened to the darkness of a stark and evil world. The Lord’s angels were waiting to sound their trumps, but evil angels were also waiting to unleash their hate upon the world.

"And as they sang, I started wondering, how long will this last peace last? Now we know. It is over. How deep will be the darkness? Only time will tell. But