America Rising (17 page)

“I’m sure many of you are also aware of the sudden retirements and disappearances of Edwin Chalmers, Anita Cowell, Nathan Rifkin and Wesley Mathers. Some of you may even have used their services. In each case, within days of their departures they were victims of a series of suspicious ‘accidents’ or unexplained occurrences.

“Edwin Chalmers’ house blew up in a gas explosion. Anita Cowell’s chartered jet lost an engine in mid-flight and barely made an emergency landing. Nathan Rifkin’s wife and children went inexplicably missing for a week. Wesley Mathers contracted a mysterious case of food poisoning and almost died. Immediately following each of these events, they dissolved their firms, packed up their possessions and left the country. All efforts to contact them, by myself personally and by others, were summarily rejected.

“There were other incidents as well. Mr. Cooper here can tell you about the intruders who broke into his house. Some of you may remember the late Senator Stens, his disappearance and subsequent hospitalization. It has also been made known to me that two weeks ago several members of prominent House and Senate committees were delivered DVDs similar to the one sent the late Senator Dalworth. They contained the most intimate personal and financial information, information impossible to access through normal, legal channels. What is most unusual is that in none of these instances was credit taken or demands made.”

Ray Carmody closed his folder and deferred to the president.

“Obviously it came too late to be included in this report,” she said, “But we believe this same group is also responsible for the death of Senator Hammer.”

An oppressive silence fell over the room, broken only by Frank Bernabe gently clearing his throat. “Excuse me, Madam President,” he said. “But why are you so sure a single group is responsible for all of these actions?”

Nancy Elias’s lips tightened. “In every instance they left something behind.” She nodded at Ray Carmody.

“This.”

Her chief of staff pressed a button and a TV monitor on the far wall flickered to life. Its screen was filled with the image of a plain white business card, printed with a single word in big black letters:

F E A R

O
nly minutes after the final press conference of President Elias’s economic summit, she called three meetings in the Oval Office.

The first was with Ray Carmody.

“Where do we stand with the task force, Ray?” the president asked.

“Assembled and ready to go,” he replied. “I’ve attached elements of CIA, NSA, Defense Intelligence, FBI, Homeland Security and Special Forces—both intelligence and ops—plus certain individuals who can be called on to perform, ah. . . special assignments. I can personally vouch for their trustworthiness and loyalty.

“I think it best if we assign this task force an innocuous name, say, Task Force One. Its team leaders will report to the director, who will report to me; I and I alone will report to you. All communications will be back channel, nothing official, off the books and off the grid. You’ll have total deniability. TF1 is ready to proceed as soon as you give the word.”

“You have it,” Nancy Elias said. “And, Ray, I want to be sure that you and every member of this task force understand precisely what we’re dealing with. This is a group of armed revolutionaries with a high level of expertise who are seeking to bring down the government. They are terrorists, plain and simple, and they will be treated like terrorists.

“There will be no arrests and no trials; I don’t want to read about their heroic exploits in the
New York Times
or see some hotshot Johnny Cochran wannabe rubbing our noses in their crimes in court. These people are to be hunted down, interrogated—by any means necessary—and then terminated. No excuses, no exceptions. Is that understood?”

Ray Carmody said a quick prayer: God help us if we screw this up.

Then he said, “Yes, Madam President.”

* * *

The second meeting was with All-American Media founder, chairman and chief executive officer William S. Bigby. Bill Bigby was unprepossessing to the extreme—in his mid-seventies, tall but stooped, with a receding chin and high forehead topped with a few tufts of mousy brown hair. His manner was that of a petulant accountant, both irritable and irritating. Few people could stand to be around him for any reason other than money. Over the years he had given much of that to politicians of both parties but this was the first time he’d ever had a one-on-one with the president in the Oval Office. It was recognition he felt long since overdue. It was, however, recognition that came with a price. William Bigby had a pretty good idea what the president was going to ask. And he had no intention of giving it to her. Finessing that was what kept him awake last night and made him as wary as a buck on the first day of hunting season.

He settled into the high-back chair opposite the president’s ornately carved Resolute desk and took stock of the woman sitting there. She was a product of the same system that had nurtured and protected him and his colleagues, but there was something about her that had always made him uneasy. Part of it, he decided, was that she was a woman, and women just didn’t have the cold-hearted ruthlessness her job required. Part of it was that she was a politician, and politicians had this infantile need to be liked. But most of it was that she was just too damn smart.

William Bigby didn’t like smart people. Sooner or later they always turned out to be a problem. They noticed too much, thought too much. Saw a thousand shades of gray when the people who did William Bigby’s bidding saw only black and white. Frank Bernabe was like that too, and sooner or later that also would be a problem. But for now he would just try to get out of this meeting with as little damage to himself as possible.

Nancy Elias got straight to the point.

“Mr. Bigby,” she said. “I need your help.”

Her seemingly humble approach put William Bigby instantly on guard.

“Yes, Madam President?”

“At our meeting yesterday I spoke of the two crises facing our country. One, of course, is that group of terrorist revolutionaries. Rest assured, the effort to track them down and eliminate them is already under way. The second crisis, however, is almost as serious. You are of course aware of the group that calls itself SayNo, of its ‘New Declaration of Independence’ and plan to stage a New Bonus Army march on Washington and to camp for the month of July in Anacostia Park.”

William Bigby nodded gravely.

“You are also doubtless aware of the recent attacks on the members of this SayNo group, one of which I believe resulted in a fatality. These attacks were extremely ill-advised and unfortunate, and have had the result of making them and others like them more popular than ever. According to their own records, which of course we have accessed, as many as twenty million people will participate in their pay-no-bills ‘Declaration.’ Another million have already pledged to join their Bonus Army. Our intelligence is that these numbers are substantially correct.

“I have directed my staff to explore ways to negate this threat and they have come up with several solutions, one of which can only be accomplished with your assistance. We need to turn the tide of public opinion against this SayNo group and their fellow travelers, Mr. Bigby. Take the bloom off their rose, so to speak. Paint them as dangerous left-wing radicals intent on destroying the country. As socialists or communists or fascists or whatever. You are the most important and influential media figure in the country; I don’t have to tell you how to play this.

“What I ask is that you use your media outlets to get this message out, to warn the American people that they’re being played for fools by a group that hates their country, that participating in this ‘New Declaration’ and march is wrong and evil and un-American. I know you will probably support my opponent next year, but this is bigger than that. Can I count on you, Mr. Bigby?”

William Bigby felt a cautious relief.

“Of course, Madam President. If this virus isn’t stopped it will infect the entire body politic.”

“Excellent. Thank you, sir. Now, one more thing, if I may.”

This was the money shot. He would have to be very careful now.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“It’s not enough for opinion makers like those at your network to oppose SayNo in general, we also have to show that there’s substantial public opposition to their agenda.”

The president stopped and flattened her hands on the desk.

“I would like you to speak with Ed Bane,” she said, “to enlist him in this cause. We both know the size and strength of his audience. If he can mobilize millions of—what do they call themselves? Bane-iacs?—to support their government, the capitalist system, our way of life, to organize against these radical leftists, we may be able to force them back into their holes.

“Two cautions, though, Mr. Bigby. One, this must be done without violence. Physically attacking these traitors, though completely understandable, only gains them more sympathy with the public. Don’t worry, though, when the time comes they will be taken care of.

“And, two, please tell Mr. Bane that his constant personal attacks on me are terribly unproductive. This is not about me or my feelings. Politics is a contact sport, and my skin is tough enough to deflect anything Ed Bane throws my way. But disparaging me, and more important, the presidency, to that extent only undermines public confidence in the entire government, the entire system. I don’t have to tell you the consequences if these left-wing revolutionaries found common cause with Mr. Bane’s army. We—you, me, all of us—would be doomed.”

William Bigby’s mind was churning. Nancy Elias did have a point. Destroying a few politicians, even a president, was one thing. But that was a very dangerous game—too much destruction and the rabble might no longer fear and respect the office, the system, the people who ran it and benefitted from it.

He was caught between the proverbial rock and hard place. Ed Bane was showing ever more disturbing signs of independence and megalomania. Yet he was All-American Media’s cash cow, a profit-generating machine like no one had ever seen. Controlling him was impossible, taking him off the air unthinkable. The Bane-iacs, however, could be much more easily manipulated. He resolved to tighten up control of the various groups he funded that made up the core of Bane’s supporters, and to send Russ Millar to meet with their leaders and tell them to keep their people in check. He was dancing on a high wire without a net, he knew. But, Bill Bigby told himself happily, that’s why I pay me the big bucks.

His mind at rest now, he stroked his chin and said thoughtfully, “I understand, Madam President. I’ll do my best. But Mr. Bane has already rejected a similar request made earlier, and legally speaking I have no control over the content of his program. I will convey your request to him with my strongest recommendation that he comply. But I’m afraid I can’t promise anything.”

Nancy Elias could see the calculation in William Bigby’s eyes. This pompous asshole is playing me, she thought contemptuously. He’ll risk everything generations have built for a few months’ profit. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She glanced at her visitor dismissively.

“Then your best will have to be good enough, Mr. Bigby.”

* * *

The third meeting was with Frank Bernabe.

It had been a very successful week for the chairman and CEO of Meyer Global Financial. The president had agreed to his proposals to chop entitlements down to size, eliminated Medicaid, turn Medicare into a voucher program and Social Security over to the tender mercies of Meyer Global and its Wall Street brethren. She’d also agreed with his suggestion to increase taxes on the poor and middle classes and lower them on the businesses and the wealthy, though movement on those would have to wait for her re-election.

And while he was philosophically opposed to reform and regulation of any kind, he knew it was important for Nancy Elias to be seen as demonstrating at least some modicum of concern for the teeming masses, just as he knew the end result of that concern would be business as usual. She had yet to commit to two more of his proposals—eliminate the home mortgage deduction and institute a flat-rate income tax—but he was confident that eventually she would come around.

The good news didn’t end there. His sources had already informed him of Ray Carmody’s task force and its mission. A brief, discreet talk with William Bigby filled him in on the media mogul’s intention to use all the powers of his network to slap down that radical bunch at SayNo. Best of all, in a few hours he’d be out of this stuffy provincial burg and back in Manhattan. As he sat in the chair across from the president in the Oval Office, he reflected admiringly on all he’d accomplished. It had been a very productive trip.

He had to admit, however, that Nancy Elias looked like shit. Her adamantly unstylish clothes had begun to hang on her large but increasingly gaunt frame, her eyes looked as if they’d been smudged with charcoal, and she moved with the weary, robotic energy of someone who’d substituted too much coffee and adrenaline for too little rest and relaxation. Even so, she seemed upbeat and in control.