Hijacking of the American Presidency: Terrorists in the White House

By Assad R. Wright

In the Hijacking of the American Presidency: Terrorists in the White House, when Chuck Chisolm gave his report of the splinter group’s intent to assassinate the sitting president and have the vice-president, their hand-picked puppet installed in his stead, the reaction by the agents and policy makers present, was indicative of the view held by many that Americans would always behave according to the rule of law provided in the constitution and a belief system long considered superior to others.
“But…that’s like hijacking the presidency of the United States of America,” one agent protested, his voice almost cracking in panic.
“And putting terrorists in the White House,” another joined the protest.
“This cannot be,” the deputy exclaimed. “We are the United States of America, not a Third World country ruled by juntas.”
Later when the deputy of the Department of Defense was apprised of the plan, his reaction was similar. “Mother of God, “the Department of Defense deputy shouted. “What you’re talking about is madness…madness. Madness! You’re talking about hijacking the presidency of the United States. You’re talking about overthrowing the constitution of the United States, and you’re talking about a coup-de-tat right here in the United States of America. Has everybody gone mad?”
The bottom line is, since the tenets of the constitution and the long held values considered ‘American’ are no longer considered sacrosanct; one can expect radical changes that mirror even fractious societies. Consequently, our security forces can no longer be merely reactive, but must be placed on a proactive footing with the ability to act preemptively if it becomes necessary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665555289

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© 2022 Assad R. Wright. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  03/18/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5527-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5528-9 (e)

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expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedica

tion

This book is dedicated to my siblings: Julie, Collin, Ryan, Kai, Kellymore, and Astel, and in Memory of Melda, Otis and, Nadira.

Contents

Overview

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Overview

T he dilemma of the king maker is that his first preference is to be king, which he cannot be. But for the inconvenience of birth, or a number of unfortunate circumstances, he would personally wield the power of a king. For the king maker, however, this represents but a slight setback, for, if he can’t be king himself, the next best thing is to control and influence the king. The best way to do that is to be a king maker.

The cover on the case in which the religious unit of the United States Department of Homeland Security Anti-Terrorism Task Force had managed, with the help of Providence, to avert the explosion of a twenty kiloton nuclear bomb on American soil by religious zealots, was barely closed when Chuck Chisolm, Rip Ganders, Prim Stone, and the rest of the unit become saddled with a case so insidious and so fraught with danger that all their previous cases appear like a walk in the park.

Disillusioned and fed-up with what they deem as the Twiddle-Dee, Twiddle-Dum effect of liberal and conservative politicians alike in Washington, an ultra-conservative splinter group from the Religious Right decides to put its own man in the White House, thereby assuring the group influence over both national and foreign policy. Not the least among its agenda is the modern day revival of the crusades. To accomplish this, the group is prepared to subvert the very constitution of the United States and accept the waging of World War III as a necessary step in what they perceive as a divine cause.

Faced with what is seen as the greatest threat to the Union since the civil war, the unit is determined to take whatever steps are necessary—no options off the table—to avert this disaster.

CHAPTER One

N ot in recent years had there been such a hoop-la surrounding the New Hampshire Primary. True, it had always been given the attention disproportionate to its size, not because of the number of electoral votes it carried, but, for some unquantifiable reasons, the New Hampshire Primary served as a measuring rod for the winners and losers in terms of campaign finance and prospects as viable candidates. This primary was different from all others, however.

Previously, a number of candidates from both parties came in with hopes riding high. A slip-up from an opponent could shower others into the limelight while, at the same time, silencing the prayers and wishes of others. This time, however, there were no such illusions. Every local and national poll that mattered, and even those that did not, pegged the Republican front-runner and the Democratic incumbent as prohibitive favorites. They were so far ahead of all their opponents that even the most optimistic of them viewed his candidacy as symbolic.

Every national and international media outfit was heavily represented, from the most prestigious to the local high school newspaper. In truth, members of the media were fairly climbing over each other and getting into each other’s way. Everyone wanted to be the one with the breaking news. This was the type of situation on which media careers were made or broken. There was not one empty hotel room to be had anywhere. In fact, local residents were doing brisk business renting their homes and preparing meals for the largest influx of visitors in the state’s history. One of the major concerns of the local leaders was whether or not their infrastructure could bear up under such an onslaught. The transit authorities were fighting a losing battle in trying to keep the flow of traffic above a snail’s pace. The disconcerting truth was that New Hampshire was one step away from bedlam. Luckily for everyone concerned, they were in the last days of the madness, and the victory speeches of both front running candidates would allow the state to begin breathing again. As expected, the speech of the Democratic incumbent would come first. He was the overwhelming choice of the party and the only opponents he had were intransigent Democrats who knew full well that they didn’t have a snow ball’s chance in hell of posing a threat, but felt they had to make a statement anyway. As political oratory went, the incumbent was one in a million. Few could parallel him. It was often said that he could talk about the weather and have everyone teetering on the edges of their seats with bated breath. Most however, were waiting to hear from Senator Lincoln Madison, the Republican front runner, and the most likely victor in the November elections.

The ballroom of the magnificent New Era Hotel and Convention Center was jam-packed. At first, Senator Madison was unsure whether he wanted his New Hampshire campaign headquarters to be associated with such obvious opulence. To him, the price tag for commandeering such a place for the entire primary was staggering and, frankly, obscene. Nonetheless, his people convinced him that the price tag was inconsequential and, in any case, that was exactly the statement he needed to make as the future president of the United States in order to engender confidence and pride. The future president bit must have been convincing, because he did not argue any further, but went along with the whole thing. In the hallway leading to the ballroom he noticed his campaign manager, Templeton Banner, beckoning to him, and he walked over slowly.

Mr. Pres— Banner caught himself and, without a tinge of an apology, continued. Senator, it’s time to begin making your own history. The country is waiting for you. The world is awaiting you. It’s time to begin our march into destiny. Are you ready, sir?

Senator Lincoln Madison did not give a verbal response, but the look in his eyes said he was convinced. As far as he was concerned, it would take an act of God to wrest the presidency from him. His straightened form and purposeful stride toward the ballroom testified to the same. Caught off-guard, his entourage hurried to keep up with him as he strode onto the stage bedecked with Republican Party colors and flags. As he emerged on stage, there was a deafening roar accompanied by whistles and catcalls. All became silent when the candidate raised his hand, his palm spread forward. The silence was so complete it would make the proverbial pin drop sound like a bomb going off. The messianic look on his face made even the most skeptical among the audience gape with reverence. This was as close as one could get to deifying a mortal without blaspheming.

Fewer than two miles south of the New Era Hotel and Convention Center, Senator Wilson Adams’s campaign party was ensconced in the much less prestigious Hotel Camelot. In contrast to the on-top-of-the-world atmosphere at the New Era, the scene here was much more subdued, not unlike the senator’s campaign for the past two years. Indeed, he had resigned himself to playing second fiddle and catch-up to Lincoln Madison, the party’s anointed. But, unlike many others who dropped out of the race for the Republican nomination, he was a stubborn man and vowed to stay in the race all the way to the Nomination Convention. Like a life jacket, he held on to Yogi Berra’s edict, It’s not over until it’s over. For him, the fat lady would not sing until the convention. There were many who wondered why he was content to hang on, even when he knew he couldn’t win. Others were willing to stay with him, convinced tha,t despite all the hoopla, the senator was the better man.

When he walked into the room, the noise was much less than at the New Era, but it was not the noise that told the story. The story was told in the genuine affection, admiration, and trust in the faces of his supporters, workers, and even in those of the few media types brave enough to shun the carnival atmosphere of the New Era for the relatively low-key one of the Camelot. The senator began speaking in slow measured tones. There was no sense of disappointment at the lower-than-expected support the voting revealed. His demeanor, as always, was upbeat and reassuring as if his supporters needed consolation more than he. His smile reached out across the room and warmed their hearts as he concluded by saying, The steps of a righteous man are ordered by the Lord, and in no part of this campaign have I felt that my steps were being led anywhere except to finish this thing all the way to the convention. With that, he stepped off the stage and began shaking hands and embracing those he could reach.

Senator Lincoln Madison surveyed the silenced auditorium, fully aware of the power and control he had over them. His surveying gaze halted on the cherubic faces of two twelve year olds standing close to the stage. He remembered them and smiled. Three days ago he had seen them—or two carbon copies of them—at a brief stop-over in New York. He was struck by their innocent beauty and angelic appearance. His entourage and body guards were obvious victims also, for they all parted like the Red Sea before Moses’s rod as the two angelic forms glided forward bearing some of the most exquisite flowers they had seen in a long time. Not even the bodyguards made a single motion to stop them. Indeed, there was not the slightest reason for them to, since not even the slimmest semblance of a threat was evident. As they proffered their bouquets to the senator, the only thing that seemed missing was harp music.

As the senator took the offerings, he felt a slight pin prick, presumably by one of the pins holding the ribbons together. He briefly looked at the pinpricked finger, but otherwise ignored it under the dazzling smile of the two angels. At the recognition of the two angelic girls, the memory of three days ago came flooding back, and he wondered what they could be doing here in New Hampshire. The beatific smiles again flashed across the room, and he ignored the incident, confidently striding up to the microphone.

Our time has come. The four words thundering across the auditorium electrified the crowd, generating shouts and applauses, and even the marching band inadvisably struck up Hail to the Chief. It took even the senator several minutes before he could quiet the crowd, only to have them even more roiled by his next comments.

The White House is not within our grasp, it is in our grasp . . . in our grasp . . . in our grasp.

The next fifteen minutes witnessed more of the same: fiery speeches followed by raucous applause. By now the media was engrossed in sending reports and sound bites to their home bases, nationally and internationally. The twittering, blogging, and e-mailing from and about New Hampshire were simply staggering. It was as if the planet had laid aside everything to focus on this one thing: the New Hampshire Primary and the inevitable anointing of Senator Lincoln Madison as the future president of the United States.

Twenty minutes into his speech the senator paused, his left hand raised high as he often did with both hands. He was silent for several seconds, his left hand still raised. Was he pausing for effect? m any wondered. Slowly the senator’s right hand traveled up to the left side of his chest and tightly gripped it. A wildly disbelieving look came into his eyes and stayed there. As the crowd gave a puzzled gasp, he slowly sank to his knees and, from there, rolled over onto his back. Paralysis was all around for several seconds. Then the trained bodyguards and secret service personnel went into action, surrounding the senator while keeping the people from approaching too closely. Shortly after, they made way for several doctors and other medical personnel. One of the medics, later identified as Doctor Nathaniel Bender, with tears rolling down his cheek, announced in a voice barely above a whisper, The senator is dead.

Following that pronouncement, the only focused actions were that of the media. Trained for such events, they were in their element. The rest of the crowd walked around like in a scene from zombie land. Questions like, what really happened, how could this be, and why, could be heard repeated across the hall. There were no answers, only questions. The disbelief was a tangible thing in the auditorium. The shock was mind gripping now, the anger would come later with the acceptance of reality. One thing was certain, the news medias’ lead story, Senator’s sudden death throws race to the White House into chaos, was the absolute truth.

CHAPTER Two

T wo weeks after Senator Lincoln Madison’s untimely demise, Chuck Chisolm, Rip Ganders, Prim Stone, and a number of operatives from the religious unit of the anti-terrorism task force of homeland security were in the situation room listening to the D. The D was the idiom-spouting director of the Miami branch of the department, whose real name no one seemed to want to bother with. The D was sufficient for everyone.

Folks, I’m sure you are all aware of the sudden death of Senator Madison and the Pandora’s Box it has opened in the political arena. The D began speaking in a tone suggesting that the idea of the meeting was not of his own making.

Frankly, I’m not sure what this has to do with us or even if it belongs in our neck of the woods. On the surface it would seem to be just another cut and dried case of heart attack. However, the powers that be want to rule out anything sinister and make sure that everything is as it is supposed to be. Every task force and unit in the department, along with the sixteen secret service departments that we know about—and I’m sure those we don’t know about—and the FBI have been alerted.

I guess the conspiracy theorists are getting to them, Rip Ganders observed.

That may or may not be the case, the D responded, acknowledging Rip with a nod, b ut if 9/11 taught us anything, it’s that we can no longer afford to take anything for granted. All I’m asking at this juncture is that we keep our eyes open and our ears to the ground.

But wouldn’t the autopsy conclusively rule out any foul play? a young operative asked.

Not necessarily, Prim Stone cut in. There are a number of drugs in the field that can make death look like a heart attack. Worse, after doing their work, these drugs can disappear without leaving a trace.

The young man wanted to say more, but, after viewing the faces of his fellow agents around the room, and seeing the years of experience and knowledge that comes along with that, he remained silent, not wanting to sound too green.

One of the reasons that red flags have gone up in this case, the D continued, always welcoming independent thinking and the input of his agents, is that he had a clean bill of health from a most rigorous medical exam he had just two days prior. The doctors cannot understand why signs of an impending, massive heart attack would not show up, and the ruling is that he died from a massive heart attack.

That certainly would make one think, wouldn’t it? Chuck Chisolm mused.

Yes, it would, the D responded. B ut no one wants to holler fire, before there is actual evidence of one. The experts have retraced their steps a full forty-eight hours before the incident and have come up with nothing: the food he ate, people he met, nothing.

But, why confine themselves to a mere forty-eight hours? Chuck wanted to know.

They are assuming that anything that would affect him so drastically, would have shown up during that forty-eight hours, the D explained.

I’m not so sure about that line of reasoning, Chuck confessed, unwittingly swallowing the D’s bait. Drug engineering has gotten really sophisticated nowadays. As you said, sir, we can’t take anything for granted. If his video history is available, it can’t hurt to go back even further.

I was hoping one of you would say that, the D smiled sheepishly. I really didn’t want to mandate anyone to do it, since it’s bound to be tedious and might well be an exercise in futility. Volunteering makes it so much more palatable. Donnelly will provide you three with anything you might need.

By you three, he meant Chuck, Rip, and Prim, who w ere recognized as the crack team of the unit that got results. They were more admired and respected by the entire department than they were envied.

The consensus, but unofficial leader of the trio, was Chuck Chisolm, the cerebral expert in a number of self-defense techniques, including earning a third-degree black-belt in more than one form of martial arts. Considered an intellectual, Chuck held a master’s degree in political science. What he was most noted for by his colleagues, was his ability to think clearly and act decisively in the direst of situations. He had recently undergone serious internal conflicts, mainly due to his religious upbringing and open-minded position in academia on one hand, and the actions of ten thousand, same-sex couples and the politics of a home-grown terrorist group that wanted to stop them at all costs, even to the extent of using a nuclear bomb to do it, on the other. In the process, he was not only able to minimize these conflicts, but was spiritually transformed in a way that changed his attitudinal prism. He was now a born-again believer like his fellow agent, Prim Stone, considered the moral barometer of the department. Prim was as proficient as any in the cognitive field as well as in self-defense techniques. She was also a marvel with small arms fire, particularly with her Sig Sauer P229 ICE gun.

The third member of the group, Rip Ganders, was built like the buttress of a fort. To think of him as pure brawn and no brains would be a serious miscalculation, however. He was as intellectually capable as most, and he was deadlier than most in arm-to-arm combat. What made him most fearsome, though, was his skill with and partiality for the use of his most prized possession: a specially designed revolver known as the USP 45 Tactical with magna-ported barrels, packing twice the wallop of a 357 magnum with very little recoil. The trio was considered the elite of the elite. A strict and uncompromising requirement of all members of the religious unit was that they be well schooled in the religious beliefs and practices of most religious organizations, nationally and internationally. Of course, special focus was always placed on the national aspects. There were unending workshops and lectures dealing with the psychology of understanding and interacting with these religions or cults. Many of these workshops were conducted by one or more members of the trio.

Donnelly, the communications guru, who headed the team of cyber-wizards responsible for operating one of the most sophisticated communications centers on the planet, nodded and explained that everything was ready for the trio.

Okay, folks, the D said, dismissing them, I don’t think it’s necessary for me to tell you that any information, particularly cyber-chatter, that is picked up regarding this affair—it’s not yet an operation—must be reported to Donnelly without delay.

With that he walked out while Chuck, Rip, and Prim went to a much smaller conference room adjacent to the D’s office.

Inside the smaller conference room, Donnelly went straight to work. As much as he admired and respected the trio, he was not one for small talk. The truth was that he was much more at home with gadgets than with people. He pulled out his palm pilot (the one the unit jokingly said was on steroids) and began fiddling with it. As he did so, the rear wall split down the middle and receded on both sides to reveal a state-of-the-art high-definition screen. Further fiddling with the palm pilot brought up images in stunning clarity on the screen.

Where in the VH would you like to begin? Donnelly wanted to know.

VH . . . and what would that be? Rip asked a bit puzzled.

That would be video history, Donnelly explained, with a look that said, Who in the twenty first century did not know what VH meant?

Acronyms. Too much of them, if you ask me, grumbled Rip.

The experts did two days; let’s double that, Chuck said decisively, taking the lead as usual.

Four days it is, Donnelly acquiesced and keyed the video to the required day. They settled down to watch.

The D was correct: it was tediously uninspiring work. They watch the senator as he shook what looked to them like a thousand hands, kissed a hundred babies, and went through a dozen arguments and conferences with his staff. There was nothing of interest they could see that would point to a conspiracy or the cause of the senator’s demise.

I’ll say one thing for him, Rip noted, h e did look presidential, whatever that means. Too bad his heart wasn’t up to it.

As they settled down to watch the next day of the senator’s campaign, Rip’s iPhone buzzed. He excused himself and walked to the left wall to answer the phone while the others intently watched the screen. There was a moment of intrigue when a small group of protesters approached the senator’s party in lower Manhattan. They were not really menacing, just boisterous and unruly. They went over the scene four times and were satisfied that nothing untoward had happened there.

None of the group came within six feet of the senator, Chuck noted. Unless they were using telepathy, we can dismiss this group as people of interest.

I agree, Prim concurred. "Nothing I can see there.

The party’s next stop was on the steps of the main library facing 42 Avenue. Here, a fairly large crowd was waiting for the party. The senator walked through the crowd, which politely gave way, allowing him to stop when he chose and exchange a few words here and there or to shake a hand or lift a baby aloft. At the top of the stairs, a small group of dignitaries awaited in what looked like a makeshift reception. A number of local politicians, who didn’t mind being seen with the Republican front-runner, were in attendance. It was not lost on them that the senator’s coat tail was a good thing to hang on to in an election year. The speeches and butt-kissing did not interest the group scrutinizing the video history. They were watching for possible contacts, not empty election-year verbiage. They watched closely as one after another politician came forward, preened and spoke. The mayor was one of the last to come forward, followed by one of his assistants carrying the proverbial key to the city. The key was so large that the poor assistant, small and skinny to begin with, seemed to be having serious difficulties maneuvering it.

Good grief, Prim exclaimed. Did they have to make that thing so big and, by the looks of it, so heavy?

You know what they say? ‘Every thing is bigger in the Big Apple’, Chuck chipped in, amused. The mayor had finished and the senator was looking at his watch when the crowd gave a low gasp.

Two of the most beautiful girls imaginable started up the stairs, the crowd melting away to their right and left to give them way. By the looks of them, they were no more than eleven or twelve years of age. They were wearing dresses so white that onlookers had to blink and refocus. The long dresses almost covered their feet, but there was no sense that they were in any danger of tripping. In fact, many looked closer just to make sure they were actually walking and not gliding on air. The two girls reached the top steps, glided forward, and stopped before the senator. The two bowed in perfect synchrony. They handed bouquets to the senator, one girl after the other, each with a smile so dazzling it appeared to drive back the dark clouds. The senator accepted the first bouquet and passed it to an aid on his right, not once taking his eyes off those mesmerizing smiles. As he received the second bouquet, there was a slight pause, a brief snag, almost unnoticed. He switched the bouquet from his left hand to his right and briefly brought one of the fingers on his left hand to his lips, while passing the bouquet to the aid.

If there are angels on earth, those two are it, Donnelly blurted out. They look unreal . . . not like real people . . . more like extracts from a book on Cherubim and seraphim, if such a book exists. He was trying to make sense of what his technologically ordered mind would not allow him to.

They may look like angels, but they are real flesh and blood people, Chuck interposed.

Angels? Did I hear someone say angels? Rip asked as he rejoined the group, stashing his iPhone away in his side pocket.

Take a look at the screen, Prim said.

Dear God! It can’t be— Rip gasped, sitting down heavily and gripping both arm rests of the chair. Can it?

Can it be what? Chuck asked, intensity creeping into his voice.

Can it be coincidence?

Can what be coincidence? Chuck pressed.

Those angels . . . I mean girls. They are carbon copies of the girl who delivered a bouquet with the super enhanced C4 that nearly wiped out an entire church during our last case and carbon copies of the ones in the SUV I saw driving away after the case was closed.

Are you sure? Chuck asked, barely above a whisper as the others trained their gazes on Rip.

As sure as anyone can be, he replied, leaving no room for doubt.

Donnelly— Chuck started, but was cut off.

You got it, Donnelly interrupted, already reversing the tape. He quickly got it back to the place where the girls began their climb up the stairs. Donnelly hit his play button and they watched again, much closer this time. After running the scene through three more times, they all admitted that they saw nothing that could be construed as dangerous or menacing from the girls.

Let’s all think this through a little, admonished Chuck. What exactly are we looking for?

Simple, answered Rip, we’re looking for anything the girls might have done that caused the senator to have a heart attack.

Now, that is most illogical, Donnelly noted. You’re asking us to believe that the girls could give the senator something three days earlier and, after walking around for three days and showing no signs, he just up and dropped dead from something he got three days before? Not to mention passing a rigorous medical examination two days before he dropped with nothing showing up? That is not logical.

If by logical you mean common sense, Prim responded pensively, I’m not so sure common sense has anything to do with this. A lot of the things that science and technology are accomplishing today have very little to do with common sense or what was once assumed logical. You of all people should know that, Donnelly. Viruses can have long incubation periods only to show up when they are ready to.

That is correct, Donnelly noted, b ut we are talking about a man-made drug, not a virus.

Prim gave a sardonic laugh . It doesn’t take man much to imitate or replicate nature, now does it?

I guess not, Donnelly agreed. But it would take a level of evil not easily imagined to do such a thing.

I don’t want to quote scriptures at a time like this, but don’t forget what is said about man: ‘The heart is desperately wicked above all things’. Without the restraining influence of grace, there is no telling what we are capable of.

Chuck was not averse to quoting scriptures, especially not after the experiences he had had in their last case, which changed his outlook on God and, subsequently, his whole life—spiritually anyway. However, they needed to focus on the problem at hand, and Prim’s observation about drugs with a delayed time period might just be worth looking into. He remembered something he thought was a bit odd in the VH but didn’t think it was significant.

Donnelly, can you run the scene again until I tell you to stop?

Sure can, Donnelly replied as he complied.

At Chuck’s command, Donnelly paused the video where the second girl was about to hand over her bouquet.

Now, watch closely, Chuck encouraged, nodding to Donnelly to press play again.

There, did you see that? Chuck asked excitedly.

I’m not sure, but I think I saw a slight pause.

That’s it! There was a brief pause, as if something happened to the senator to cause that pause.

Without being told, Donnelly slowed the speed of the video down and zoomed into that part of the scene in question.

I saw it clearly just now, Prim exulted. He was pricked by something from that ribbon keeping the flowers together.

Again, without being told, Donnelly ran that particular part of the video, frame by frame, in super slow-mo. He stopped at the part that Prim had alluded to and froze the frame while zooming in very closely. Now they could clearly see the pin pricking the finger. The next frame revealed a very small bead of blood. The next couple of frames caught the senator bringing the offending finger up to his mouth and, in pure reflex, licking the blood away while probably thinking nothing of it. After viewing these same frames a number of times, the team sat back in their chairs, their thoughts pensive, the atmosphere in the room becoming suddenly heavy and doleful.

I think we had better call the D in, Chuck sighed heavily. Suddenly the door opened and the D walked in.

No need to call me, I saw what you saw. Folks, it appears we may have a problem.

CHAPTER Three

L adies and gentlemen, we have a serious problem. The Republican Party chairman sounded truly disheartened as he addressed a small group of party big shots prior to a hastily called meeting of the party’s leaders. We are in limbo, if not total disarray. It’s imperative that we go into the upcoming meeting with a clear sense of where we are going and who we want to take us there.

I wouldn’t call it disarray, Senate Minority Leader McDermott said, although I must admit, Senator Madison’s death has taken us all by surprise and does seem to have left a gaping hole.

The question is, how do we fill it and with whom? Sheldon Blaize, an up and coming young senator from Georgia wanted to know. The young senator’s desire to run for the presidency as soon as the opportunity presented itself was an open secret. He never acknowledged or talked about it in public, but everyone concerned seemed to know. As sad as the senator’s death was, it presented an opportunity for someone else to fill in the gap. There was no reason that person couldn’t be him. Being pragmatic, however, he fully realized that his star had not yet risen to the point where the Republican top brass would consider him a replacement for the late senator. That was simply a bump in the road, not a game ending play. There was more than one road leading to Rome. He just had to find the right one.

When Senator McDermott spoke next, it was clear he was not addressing the young Senator Blaize.

At this stage, whatever we do must be precise and decisive. The party must not look like a chicken running around with its head cut off. By now, the Democrats and liberals are circling like sharks smelling blood in the water. And, really, there is no reason why they shouldn’t; we would. We have to present a picture of stability and it begins with us. Neither a maverick nor a Johnny Come Lately will do. The young senator could swear McDermott made his last statement with him in mind, even though he was trying hard to look anywhere except directly at him.

Representative Hyacinth Talbot, the minority leader in the House and a seasoned politician, spoke hesitantly, making sure the others could not deduce anything from her tone or demeanor.

With Senator Madison now out of the picture, we probably should be looking at the rest of the candidates still in play instead of looking for new blood.

I couldn’t agree with you more, Blaize spoke up, picking up on the current mood and realizing he had to play his cards right. He couldn’t do or say anything that would cause disaffection among this group. One word from any of them could send one to his proverbial political Siberia. The next person to speak was Andrew Guise, a top Republican strategist and member of several conservative think tanks.

If one were to follow that line of reasoning, a logical conclusion would lead us to Senator Wilson Adams. On the surface, the senator would seem to be a solid alternative: solid record of voting along conservative lines, respected inside and outside of politics, a solid family man—one the evangelical right should gravitate to—and very presidential in appearance. My reservations, however, have to do with his foreign policy qualification and predisposition. It is true that he is very strong on domestic policies, and his views are so appealing to the American people that, with Madison out of the way, he could conceivably take the election on his populist view alone. In fact, many are beginning to see a semi-isolationist or neo-isolationist proclivity, not unlike that of the 1970s, in much of his stand on dealing with the international community in a post 9/11 world. Whereas internationalists, such as Bush, see national security interests best served in our ability and willingness to take the fight to terrorist groups—or nations that support them—anywhere in the world, acting either unilaterally or multilaterally, the semi-isolationist sees no compelling reason for America to act as the world’s policeman or international benefactor trying to alleviate the ills of the world. Thus we hear such 1970s rhetoric such as, ‘heal thyself,’ ‘know thy limits,’ and, ‘circle the wagons to keep out the enemy,’ making political sound bites. Given the serious threat posed by international terrorist groups in general and the nuclear threat posed by the Fundamentalist Republic of New Iran in particular, America has to be prepared to act unilaterally if necessary, and we are not sure Senator Adams would be prepared to do that.

The group mulled over what Andrew Guise had just said, and at length Senator McDermott, the consensus point-man for the group, spoke up.

Sir, what you say may well be true, and I have no reason to doubt your assumptions at the moment, but we should remember that even presidents do not make decisions in a vacuum. Checks and balances in our system of government, his own cabinet and advisors, plus a political system entrenched in the notion that national security interests take priority over all other considerations, will in the end have greater impact on his policies than his personal ideology, particularly as it pertains to terrorism or threats from abroad.

Senator, Guise responded carefully, fully aware of the senator’s clout, I cannot argue against what you’ve just said. It’s just that I tend to be a bit leery at surprises. Best we know what we are dealing with beforehand.

What exactly are we dealing with in Senator Adams, apart from his semi-isolationist tendencies, of course? The last part of his question was asked as he looked at Mr. Guise, slightly amused, but without rancor.

The more germane question is, can he win? Guise asked.

I think he can, Congresswoman Talbot said with deep conviction. In fact, if not for Senator Madison’s enormous popularity, Adams would most certainly have been the front runner. Factor in an economy which continues to show no immediate signs of improvement, unemployment figures which seem to be resisting every attempt at stimulation, and health care and immigration policies which are becoming less and less popular, to name a few. There is every reason to believe that if we put the unified resources of the party behind Adams, we can take the White House in November. What the party certainly cannot afford at this juncture is indecisiveness, factionalism, and infighting.

The group was silent for several seconds, mulling over what the congresswoman had said. It was not lost on the group that the congresswoman was one of the most powerful politicians in the country and that her opinion carried a lot of weight. Each may have had his or her own preferences for Madison’s replacement, but if the congresswoman should choose to invoke party solidarity behind an electable candidate, then, in opposing her, they would have to tread as carefully as a barefoot man walking on broken glass. After what seemed like a long, painful moment of indecision followed by reluctant acquiescence, Senator McDermott broke the unsettling silence.

Anyone here feel there’s a more viable candidate than Senator Wilson Adams?

There was no audible reply, each member seemingly engrossed in his or her own thoughts.

No? Well then, Senator Wilson Adams will have the full support of the GOP behind him as the party’s nominee. On the surface, however, there is very little we need to do about the other Republican candidates who chose to remain in the race. As you all know, this position must remain unofficial . . . nothing to the media. We must simply use the grapevine to the fullest. Call whoever you need to call as soon as possible. By the time of the emergency meeting, this should be understood.

Fifteen minutes later, the meeting broke up and the delegates headed for their respective vehicles. The junior senator, Sheldon Blaize, was about to open his car when his cell phone, which he had put on buzzer, buzzed insistently. The screen of his phone indicated that the number was blocked. He answered hesitantly, not knowing what to expect. The voice was nondescript and curt.

Senator, in light of the worldwide nuclear threat posed by the Fundamentalist Republic of New Iran, there are those who believe that you are best suited to be president and commander in chief of the United States of America. If you are interested, please be at this address at eight o’clock tomorrow night. The line went dead. A minute later, his text messaging system beeped, and an address showed up on the lighted screen.

CHAPTER Four

S everal days before the call to the junior senator, a splinter group from the Evangelical Right began gathering at the Zion Arms, a semi-private, five-star hotel on the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina. Ordinary guests to this hotel came highly recommended and closely vetted. Any aspiring guest who did not satisfy the management after a careful screening—one that would make screening for entry to the secret service seem slack—would simply be told that no vacancy was available at this time.

The group filtering into the penthouse suite of the Zion Arms needed no such screening. The hotel was owned and operated by subsidiaries belonging to the group. The penthouse was never rented out. The only access to it was by way of an elevator from the floor below, and that floor was not available to guests. The penthouse was more like an exclusive conference room rather than living quarters. The furniture was solid and functional, giving the impression that whatever business was carried on was serious, and no provision was made for pleasure or frivolity.

The demeanor of the men who began exiting the elevator and taking up seats around the solidly built and superbly polished mahogany table perfectly matched the somberness of the room. The men shook hands and greeted each other more out of necessity and tasks to be dispensed with as quickly as possible, than any sentiments of pleasure at renewing acquaintances. It was obvious that small talk was not part of the current agenda, for they went straight to the business at hand.

The proceedings were opened by Reverend Algernon Johnstone, who did not even bother to stand up. There really was no need to, for his voice—deep and guttural—seemed to bounce off the oak-paneled walls and filled the room. The man was very big and as solidly built as the mahogany desk on which his long hands with huge palms were pressing down. His bushy eyebrows overhung his eye sockets, giving his face a permanent scowl. When Reverend Johnstone was speaking, sitting, or standing, everyone tended to listen.

The time has come, he began slowly, making eye contact with each occupant around the table, for us to put our plan into full gear. In fact, this is not our plan but a divine mandate. The will of Almighty God is our call to action; it is the reason for our very existence. Now, the media, scholars, and every two-bit television know-it-all refer to what we stand for as the Evangelical Right. Many of our brothers and sisters use this as a badge of honor and have been duped into thinking that this has given them the power to help elect even presidents. But even if they have helped elect congressmen, senators or even presidents, what have they really achieved? Certainly not any meaningful change, for what have we in Washington except a constant revolving door of elected officials with no meaningful distinction among their policies? The blue print is there for all to see: more government spending, more pork barrel, the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer, robber barons operating with impunity in a system that allows them to do so legally, and terrorists, both homegrown and foreign, have the freedom to plot our destruction while we fiddle on as Nero did while Rome burned. This is true whether they call themselves Democrats or Republicans, Liberals or Conservatives. The result is a Tweedledum and Tweedledum syndrome which guarantees paralysis in government with no meaningful change socially, politically, economically, or morally.

Here he paused as if to gather reserved energy to launch into a higher level of tirade. He must have found some, for his voice became stronger, more agitated, and he was standing now, as straight as a ram rod, all seven feet of him.

"While this revolving door of stagnation is going on election