Spare Me, Kill the Rest

By John Wayne Falbey

An election is coming and the majority of American voters don’t want either party’s candidate. A popular third-party challenger is gaining on them. He's a highly decorated, universally admired former commander of all U.S. special operations forces and has an earned Ph.D. in Economics from the University of Chicago. The Deep State is in a panic. It arranges for the general and his wife to be kidnapped and assassinated just as he begins his campaign.

Only a few specially trained, unique individuals are capable of rescuing the third-party candidate in time. But their leader, Brendan Whelan, and his wife are focusing on rebuilding their damaged marriage. The Deep State seizes and confines Whelan in a secret supermax federal prison built especially for the Deep State’s political prisoners. If anyone can free Whelan, it’s his half-dozen colleagues who also have prices on their heads and are being pursued by the CIA, FBI, NSA, and other alphabet agencies of the U.S. government.

Can they free their leader, find the presidential candidate, and rescue him in time for him to campaign successfully against the two major party candidates?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Wayne Falbey
• Release date: May 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990253100

John Wayne Falbey

John Wayne Falbey writes thrillers involving international espionage and geopolitical intrigue. His debut novel, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, has been endorsed by Compulsory Reads and became an internationally bestselling thriller. There now are eight books in the Sleeping Dogs series about a ruthless, patriotic black ops unit hunting and eliminating America's enemies. His latest novel in the Sleeping Dog series is Spare Me, Kill the Rest. He currently is working on the ninth book in the series. He also is the author of The Quixotics, an action-adventure tale of gunrunning, guerrilla warfare, and treachery in the Caribbean, and The Taxman Cometh, a story about a rogue IRS agent who tries to frame a former special ops warrior for murder.The writers currently at the top of his reading list include Brad Thor, Alex Berenson, Lee Child, Ben Coes, Brad Taylor, Robert Crais, John Sandford, and David Baldacci.A native Floridian and former transactional attorney, Falbey lives in Southwest Florida. He invites you to visit him at www.falbeybooks.com.

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PROLOGUE

The Orient Jerusalem Hotel, Israel

Nando Correia was standing in a position where he could surveil the hotel suite and balcony, as well as the windows and rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Brendan Whelan also kept his gaze moving across the same landscape. If the United States wanted someone dead, that person couldn't relax.

Cliff Levell took a sip of the ice-cold, Israeli-made Aviv vodka. Nando, his personal assistant-driver-bodyguard, had filled the tumbler to the brim. Nando was of medium height and build. His dark hair, eyes, and skin revealed his Portuguese ancestry by way of Brazil. He had just returned from picking up Whelan, who had been visiting his wife, Caitlin, at the Sheba Medical Center. She was being treated for injuries suffered when Whelan and his colleagues rescued her from a maximum-security Chinese biolab in the wastelands of western Djibouti.

The two men, under the watchful eyes of the ever-present Nando, were relaxing on the wide, wood plank balcony of Levell’s suite at the Orient Jerusalem Hotel. It was nine stories above street level and overlooked the fashionable German Colony neighborhood, famous for its German Templar architecture, boutiques, and cafes. Large potted trees shaded the two men. The leaves rustled in a gentle breeze. Sounds of a busy workday in a large city drifted up to them from Emek Refa'im Street below. Whelan’s mind drifted back over the preceding weeks.

It began when the current U.S. government administration formed a secret pact with the Chinese government. Its purpose was to avoid a world war by agreeing to divide the globe between them. The administration believed that to achieve their goal, they needed to get rid of a troublesome shadow government called the Society of Adam Smith (SAS). SAS was composed of patriots and constitutionalists and led by Cliff Levell. Levell had organized and trained a small group of special operators known as the Sleeping Dogs. Genetically, they were freaks of nature: far stronger, quicker, and wilier than any humans ever had been. Whelan was their leader. The administration believed that killing Whelan was tantamount to cutting the head off the snake—problem solved.

Acting through its Central Intelligence Agency, the administration had hired a professional assassin to kill Whelan. The hitman, a Scotsman, and his handler had botched the assignment and Whelan had made them pay for it.

Next, the CIA, working through one of its top Paramilitary Operations Officers, Mean Max Urbach, engaged a four-person team of top special operators from the administration’s new global ally, China. To trap Whelan, the Chinese kidnapped his wife, Caitlin. He and the Dogs took the bait and tracked them to a new maximum-security Chinese virology lab in the Great Rift Valley of far western Djibouti. With the help of the Israeli military, the Sleeping Dogs penetrated the heavily secured lab carrying a tactical nuclear weapon. A small battalion of over six hundred PLA Ground Forces soldiers guarded the lab. Some considered them to be equal to the U.S. Army Rangers.

As most military and emergency responders come to realize, if anything can go wrong, it will. This mission had been no exception. Despite their success in blowing up the Chinese barracks and rescuing Caitlin, she and the Dogs became pinned down in the biolab with the nuke’s timer activated. Four of the seven Dogs suffered serious wounds and were unable to return fire. With scant minutes before the nuke exploded, an audacious Israeli helicopter crew dropped into the middle of the action and decimated the surviving PLA soldiers with machinegun and rocket fire. They pulled the wounded Dogs and Caitlin out of the pending holocaust and carried them to safety across the border in Ethiopia. The effort had cost the copilot his life. The pilot lost his right arm and with it his career as a pilot.

Despite their genetic gifts, some of the Dogs were still recovering from their recent wounds.

Cliff Levell’s voice interrupted Whelan’s thoughts. Even a modest student of world history knows all previously dominant civilizations had shelf lives. Levell savored the Aviv vodka distilled from wheat, barley, olives, figs, dates, grapes, and pomegranates, then shifted in his wheelchair and exhaled a long, slow breath as if impatient for Whelan to respond.

Brendan Whelan made an all but imperceptible nod, but said nothing.

With his usual impatience, Levell demanded, Well?

Whelan took a sip of his vodka and rolled it across his tongue before responding. Your question is whether I agree that America’s day in the sun is over.

The other man glared at him with his classic Clint Eastwood go-ahead-make-my-day, snarl. The only thing missing was the Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum. In his raspy growl, Levell repeated, Well? Louder this time.

Decline? Yes. Permanent? Maybe not.

Levell snorted and drained his glass. He tossed it, with a nod, to Nando. Nando moved with the fluidity and grace of a jungle cat, hinting at his background as one of the world’s top specialists in Capoeira Regional and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. He refilled the glass and brought it to Levell, then resumed his watchful position.

Why not permanent? Levell growled.

A couple of reasons. History is replete with examples of civilizations, cultures, and empires that thrived for a time and then failed. There is no uniform length of time for their existences.

Levell examined his glass as if searching for a missing olive or twist of lemon. That wasn’t my point. What’s your other reason?

 "In its two and a half centuries as a democratic republic, America has been here before. The Civil War is a good example. The nation was only seventy-four-years-old when a socially and morally unacceptable economic issue, slavery, tore it apart and citizens began killing citizens. In four years, there were one and a half million casualties. That was five percent of the total population of America at the time.

"There have been several periods where economic hardship, similar to the current situation, resulted from political corruption and poor government policies. The Great Depression is a good example.

Also, in the ‘60s and ‘70s, like today, there was serious political and racial unrest, lawlessness, and violence. Things looked grim, then Reagan arrived on the scene and the pendulum swung back the other way.

Levell grunted. The real point is democracy and the republic were saved in each of those instances because a strong leader—Lincoln, Reagan—came on the scene. It so happened that each of those leaders believed in the Constitution and the freedoms it guarantees. This time around, it looks like it will be different. A dictatorial regime is seizing power. Hell, it’s been in the process of doing so for decades.

Whelan shrugged. It happens. Ancient Greece’s period of democracy lasted 180 years. Republican Rome ended after 482 years.

Levell’s expression was that of a man who’d just eaten something disagreeable. That’s the trouble with you damn genetic freaks. You’re not only stronger than Hercules, you’re also smarter than any human should be.

Whelan said nothing, but he had his doubts whether he and the other men in the Sleeping Dogs unit were human. At least not Homo Sapiens.

Levell continued, I’m not as optimistic as you are this time around, Brendan. I’m reminded of Voltaire’s statement: ‘Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable.’

Whelan said, I think Oscar Wilde may have said it better: ‘The basis of optimism is sheer terror.’ Given the state of the nation and the world today, we should be terrified.

Exactly! Levell said. And that’s my point. We’re going to war against the corrupt and traitorous woke bastards that want to destroy America.

Whelan took a long sip of his drink before responding. He wanted the Old Man to take another sip of his drink too. Maybe it would calm him. You’re a true patriot, Cliff. You’ve served your country selflessly—the Marine Corps, the CIA, and SAS, and you’ve paid a heavy price for it. But the other six men and I also spilled our blood in defense of America’s freedoms. This last operation nearly cost all our lives. And my wife’s. He paused and studied Levell.

After several quiet moments of sipping their vodkas, Levell’s anger seemed to have passed, and he rasped, Casualties aside, that was nice work you and the others did in Djibouti. The seven of you annihilated an entire ChiCom army battalion and destroyed the joint American-Chinese virology lab with a tactical nuke. And, thanks to your unusual genetics and a remarkable Israeli surgical team, your critically wounded are expected to make a complete recovery. In fact, given the incredible genetics you men have, everyone should be ready for action soon.

The two men sat in silence for several minutes, absorbed in their own thoughts and reflections.

Levell put his half-full tumbler down and leaned forward in his wheelchair. How is your wife? You haven’t mentioned Caitlin since you returned from the hospital.

She’s been through a nightmare, Whelan said matter-of-factly. Abducted, physically and emotionally abused, used as a pawn to trap and kill me, all the while knowing she also would be killed when she was no longer useful. Her arm was broken and wasn’t properly set until we reached the Israeli medical team in Kombolcha. And she has a grade 2 concussion from slamming into the bulkhead when our Black Hawk was hit by the shockwave from the nuke that covered our exfil from Djibouti.

Levell’s steel-gray eyes gave Whelan a piercing look. I know the two of you were having marital issues. Has this latest situation had an effect?

I’m sure it has, but I don’t know what that is yet. Like the man said, ‘Time will tell.’ And I don’t know how our two boys will react to all of this, either.

They again were silent for several moments. Nando stepped forward with an ice bucket and the bottle of Aviv. Levell nodded for him to refill his tumbler. Whelan declined another drink with a shake of his head. Nando stepped back into the shadows, ever alert.

Levell again savored the unusual flavor of the vodka, then said. Let’s discuss the elephant in the room.

You mean the fact that the current U.S. administration has increased the price on my head after we destroyed the Chinese virus, and the effect that action had on the U.S.-China collusion?

Right. Now, there will be a price on all the Dogs as well as me and the remaining members of the Society of Adam Smith.

Cliff, when you told me the U.S. government had issued a contract on my life and several attempts were made, I vowed to track down and kill every son-of-a-bitch responsible. It became even more personal when Caitlin got dragged into this and was nearly killed. He paused for a moment, then: Just so you know, finding and killing every damn one of them is still my primary purpose.

A faint, wintry smile spread across the lower half of Levell’s face. Knowing you, I would expect nothing less. It also will eliminate these woke bastards who are intent on destroying our freedoms and the Constitution that guarantees them. I’ll begin making preparations as soon as we’re finished here.

PART ONE: THE FALL OF EMPIRE

"The fall of Empire, gentlemen, is a massive thing, however, and not easily fought. It is dictated by a rising bureaucracy, a receding initiative, a freezing of caste, a damming of curiosity—a hundred other factors.

— Isaac Asimov. Foundation.

CHAPTER 1—DINGLE, IRELAND

Three Months Later.

Whelan was sitting in the cramped former pantry he'd converted into an office. It was just off the kitchen area of the Fianna House, the bed-and-breakfast he and his wife Caitlin owned. It sat on high ground overlooking the harbor southwest of town. The structure was initially built as a small farm bungalow in the late eighteenth century. It was expanded into a two-story manor house early in the twentieth century. Brendan and Caitlin Whelan bought the property after they were married. They modified the structure into a ten-bedroom, twelve-bathroom inn with a kitchen, dining room, library/sitting area, and the small office. It had taken a lot of work and money, but they loved their lives as innkeepers in an area where tourism flourished. 

The name Fianna House had been Caitlin's choice. In Celtic mythology, the Fianna were a caste of elite warriors who protected the high king of Ireland. People thought of them as almost godlike in their martial prowess. Given his otherworldly strength, intellect, and cunning, Caitlin thought of her husband as a contemporary version of a Fianna warrior. The name had become something of an insider's joke. Tourists often thought Fianna was the name of the present or past owner and asked if she was about. The Whelans, including their sons Sean and Declan, had grown weary of explaining its meaning to outsiders. When asked, they said, She's on holiday. In her absence, how may we help you?

Today, Whelan wasn't paying bills, planning menus, or ordering supplies. He was reviewing the itinerary for a trip he would begin tomorrow. It was a major point of contention between him and Caitlin. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as memories began to stir. 

Their relationship seemed magical almost from the moment they met. And then it wasn't. At first, Whelan believed it had been his fault. He'd been torn between the proverbial Scylla and Charybdis by a situation not of his making. His older brother, a huge and terrifying man of incarnate evil, sought to kill Whelan and everyone in his family. Rather than wait for Maksym to come to them in Dingle, where his loved ones would be in danger, Whelan chose to hunt Maksym down first. Given her husband's inhuman strength and other genetic gifts, Caitlin had been adamant that he should stay home and protect them. She had been right. While Whelan was away on the hunt, Maksym came to Dingle. He killed Caitlin's brother and several townspeople who were trying to guard her and the boys. Before it was over, he nearly succeeded in killing Whelan, Caitlin, Sean, and Declan.

Terrified by the experience, grieving the loss of her brother, and furious with her husband, Caitlin decided to end the marriage. She moved out, taking their two sons with her. To punctuate her determination not to consider reconciling, she took a lover and unintentionally became pregnant by him. Ultimately, Caitlin miscarried, overcame her grief and irrational anger, and hoped to restore her relationship with Whelan. 

To him, she appeared to be fully committed to the reconciliation. But Whelan wasn't as confident as Caitlin was. And that was on him. He was still deeply troubled by the suddenness and shock of her abandoning what had seemed a perfect relationship. Those who knew them said it was the closest and most romantic marriage they'd ever seen. 

During that difficult and challenging time, Chinese special operators charged with assassinating her husband kidnapped and nearly killed Caitlin. They held her in a secret PLA virology lab near the Great Rift in desolate western Djibouti. The lab was the site of the development of the latest deadly Chinese virus. Its purpose was to wipe out Western civilization, ushering in China's 4,000-year-old fantasy of world dominion. In the process of rescuing her, Whelan and his six colleagues, the enigmatic Sleeping Dogs had destroyed the lab and the virus with a tactical nuclear weapon. They had nearly died in the process, and all of them were wounded, some critically.

But, as their handler Cliff Levell often pointed out, the fight against the forces of oppression was eternal. So here Whelan was, about to leave home again to take the fight to the enemy. He didn't blame Caitlin for being furious with him. However, the CCP and their far-left allies running the current American administration were close to achieving their goal of a one-world government. It would mean dictatorial leadership by a small elite cadre ruling over the impoverished masses who would live at a level of bare subsistence. There would be no middle class, the backbone of free societies everywhere. There would be no free societies.

Realizing how tense these thoughts had made him, Whelan drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and expelled it in a long, slow sigh. The malapropism often attributed to an American baseball player, Yogi Berra, came to mind. It's déjà vu all over again. 

As if on cue, Caitlin tapped gently on the doorjamb.

Whelan opened his eyes and gave her a blank stare, then replaced it with a forced smile.

I hope I'm not disturbing you, she said.

No, I was just thinking about all the things that need attention at Fianna. He could tell by the grim set of her mouth, the stiffness of her posture, and the pain in her emerald-green eyes that trouble was close at hand. He knew better than to say it, but she was his wife, and the words slipped out as if compelled by a force of their own. Is there something on your mind, Kate?

She didn't respond immediately, then sighed and shook her head. You know what's on my mind, Bren. We've been through this a dozen times, and it never ends well.

Then perhaps we shouldn't go there again. He saw moisture fill her eyes. One small drop spilled from her left eye and tracked down her smooth cheek.

"I will never understand how you can place more value on Levell and those friends of yours than you do on me. I … I've apologized to you repeatedly for the disgusting way I reacted to you

leaving me and the boys to track down your brother, Maksym, before he could find us."

You needn't keep apologizing, Kate. I accepted it the first time. I understand why you did what you did. That's in the past.

But is it? You said you would never leave again. Yet, here you go again, putting yourself in harm's way. And for what? I just don't understand! She was openly sobbing now and trembling. 

Whelan rose from his chair and embraced her with a tight squeeze. He stroked her soft, shiny raven hair that always smelled clean and fresh. She slipped her arms around his waist and pulled her slim but voluptuous body against his. A torrent of memories swept through his mind. This was the girl he had fallen in love with almost at first sight. He had wooed her with an unquenchable passion. Eventually, with the support of her father, Tom, and brother, Padraig, he broke through her resistance. From that day forward, their life together had been almost idyllic. Until Maksym had come for them. Since then, they both had been struggling to recapture the magic, but Whelan couldn't overcome her infidelity. Trust was difficult to achieve, even harder to restore.

He stepped back and held her by the shoulders, looking directly into her eyes. "Kate, I made a poor decision to leave you and the boys by hoping to intercept Maksym before he found us in Dingle. The reality is he probably would have killed us even if I had stayed here and waited for him. As it was, he got the drop on Sven Larsen and me, something I didn't think anyone could do. He would have killed all of us if it hadn't been for his would-be accomplice, Andrei Ulyanin. He chose that moment to take his revenge for Maksym's murder of Andrei's old Spetsnaz colleague, Kirill Federov.

That's what I think life is, a series of experiences, some joyful, some unpleasant … even terrifying. Watching your children about to be slaughtered by that monster is something no parent should have to endure. You've worked hard to get past it and restore our relationship.

She shook her head. No. I haven't done enough; otherwise, why would you be going away again? Her voice had an unmistakable pleading note.

Now, it was Whelan's turn to wag his head. It isn't you, Kate. Don't personalize it. It's the situation. It sounds melodramatic, but evil forces are at work in the world …

"But there always have been evil forces at work, she interrupted. Why is it any different this time?

You're right. Periodically, corrupt and ambitious people gain control of powerful countries and want to use those resources to extend their power and wealth by seizing other nations. Usually, there have been other powerful, democratic countries that eventually disabuse the dictators of those ambitions, often through armed conflicts. It's different this time.

How is it different? There's never a point when there aren't brushfire wars somewhere in the world. There have always been power-hungry men, and there always will be. It's an incurable disease!

He pulled her in again and gently stroked her back. He could feel the tension in her lithe body. The rhomboid and other muscles were knotted under her skin. Yes, there always have been and always will be despots, but the difference this time is the world's two superpowers are being governed by autocratic regimes. Rather than destroy each other in a war for global dominion, they are colluding to share power. One will rule one half of the planet, the other will rule the remainder.

Caitlin stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. That … that's crazy. What about the rest of the nations? They will not allow this.

They won't have much choice. Remember, the two bad guys are the sole and only superpowers. But it's even worse. The Chinese are deceiving the fools in Washington. Their history, culture, and ambitions don't accommodate sharing power.

How do you know this?

Think what you will of Cliff Levell, but his sources are strategically placed.

She pulled back and looked up at him. You'll be leaving me all alone here.

You're never alone in Dingle. Your mother and father are here, along with aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, and lifelong friends.

But the ones that matter the most to me will all be in America—Sean and Declan at that sports academy in Florida—and you … wherever it is Levell sends you. I don't want to live like this, Bren. Can't you understand that? Her voice rose several decibels.

Kate, we agreed that the benefits the boys would get from attending the academy, both in education and sports, were optimal. It's not like I'm crossing the Rubicon. Once I finish this latest operation for Levell, I'll be on the next plane home. We can travel together to visit Sean and Declan.

She stared at him momentarily as if considering what he'd said, then her eyes opened wider. Wait! I have the perfect answer. I'll go to the States with you and visit the boys while you do whatever dangerous deeds Levell has in mind.

CHAPTER 2—THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

Some eighty-year-old men compete in Ironman distance races. Some fifty-year-old men can barely drag their overweight, under-exercised asses out of bed by noon. Carl Mathers, the current president of the United States, was old beyond his eighty years. It was far more than mere physical decline. He also showed signs of cognitive impairment. That was clear every time he spoke publicly or appeared at an event.

The legacy news media functioned as his political party's propaganda arm, but even the media was at a loss when it came to covering up the president's countless gaffes, outright lies, unintelligible mumblings, memory blackouts, and irrational mood swings. Most of its members were very left-wing-oriented graduates of the nation's finest schools of journalism. Supporting the leading candidate from the other major political party was unthinkable. He was the current president's immediate predecessor, Frederick Flagler, a man the media hated almost to the point of derangement.

The situation had gotten so bad that only the most unobservant, self-absorbed, and dim-witted members of the general populace failed to recognize its seriousness. America's enemies were amused by its leader's inability to govern. They were astonished at the opportunities available to them in the leadership vacuum. Former allies of America now desperately wooed the world's despots. The same people they figuratively had been flipping off while hiding behind America's power and might.

The people most upset by the situation were the members of the small, highly influential group of White House insiders who had gotten Carl Mathers, a talentless, lifelong political hack, elected. They were his handlers. They all were wealthy. Some had made billions gaming capitalism. Others had acquired their fortunes the old-fashioned way—as politicians, they stole it from the taxpayers. To them, there was no such thing as enough. If anything kept them awake at night, it was the fear of not amassing more wealth. The best path to endless affluence was power. Power begot wealth. If the hand on the master control was theirs and could not be removed, they were unassailably comfortable. 

The key was always to be in control. If you held the seat of government forever, you and you alone would have charge of all matters—complete dominion over your world. You would be the elite—the ruling elite, and everyone else would be subject to your power, as well as in desperate, continuing need of your largesse. That need, combined with the ability to manipulate vote counts in critical electoral areas and use the media to assassinate the character of your opponents, guaranteed perpetual power.

Below the West Wing of the White House was an intelligence management center known as the Situation Room. It was a popular misconception that the Situation Room was a single chamber. In fact, it was a 6,000-square-foot operations center and three secure conference rooms. The entire facility was a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF, pronounced skiff). Because of the sensitive nature of the information disseminated and discussed in these rooms, they were constructed according to stringent standards and specifications. Essentially, they were spy-proof facilities where individuals with the appropriate security clearances could review and discuss the most sensitive classified materials.

Saul Weissheim, the White House Chief of Staff, had been pondering these matters as he waited for the other members of the core group to arrive for their meeting. Without question, Weissheim's group was the power behind the throne, or in this case, the Resolute Desk. They were leaders of a semi-secretive organization that controlled one of the two major political parties in the United States. They had manipulated the election of the doddering old fool who sat behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. There had been a considerable measure of illegal tampering and other dirty tricks, to be sure. Still, the group also benefitted from lucky breaks too. One example was the perfect timing of a dangerous global pandemic coinciding with the presidential campaign. A grim little smile drifted across Weissheim's face. The pandemic wasn't a matter of luck or coincidence. Their friends in China had released the virus at the group's request. They intended for its spread to affect the campaign, and it did. That was where luck played a role.

Weissheim and the others had used the plague as an excuse to keep Carl Mathers in his basement, off the campaign trail, and out of the public eye. Weissheim smiled again as he recalled the old maxim: When your opponent is self-destructing, get out of his way. Fred Flagler, the former president and current challenger, brought new meaning to self-destructive behavior. His enormous ego and unparalleled narcissism almost produced more fodder than the group's allies in the media could keep up with.

The arrival of other members interrupted Weissheim's thoughts. The first man to enter the room was Desmond Ibrahim. He had served eight years as POTUS before Flagler's single term. The person who had lost to Flagler was a woman who had been hand-picked by the party's power structure to succeed Ibrahim. They knew she was unpopular, a congenital liar, and had less charisma than waxed paper. But she had paid her dues and would follow the group's dictates. They didn't realize she was so unpopular and disliked that she was unelectable.

The person who entered the room behind Ibrahim was Marshall Jasper, a bald, humorless, middle-aged man, the CEO and principal shareholder of one of the largest multinational e-commerce companies in the world and one of the world's wealthiest men. Jasper chaired the meetings, which galled Ibrahim, who, with his haughty airs, status as a former POTUS, and authoritative baritone voice, thought he was the most qualified.

Both of them were wrong. That role belonged to Slobodan Petrović. An investor and venture capitalist, he was the group's oldest member and, like Jasper, also a multibillionaire. He was also the most abrasive and least liked. What was appreciated, however, were the hundreds of millions of dollars Petrović had provided over the years to fund the socialist, one-world movement. His lifelong dedication and commitment to the cause were a close second.

Three additional members arrived in the ensuing few minutes. Millicent Lee was Black and had built a prominent career in liberal politics as a former chair of the party's national committee and as an advisor to Ibrahim during his presidency. 

Angelina Camargo also had served Ibrahim in several diplomatic and cabinet posts, including Secretary of State, during his eight years in the Oval Office.

The sixth member was the current Secretary of Defense, Stanley Rodemach, a four-star Army general who recently retired as Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The president's people quickly convinced Congress to waive the requirement that a military person must be retired for a minimum of seven years before becoming eligible to hold the office of SecDef.

Jasper called the meeting to