False Flag (6 page)

“Yes, of course, Governor,” replied Pearson sheepishly.

“Now, the first order of business is I need the military to help me move forward,” said O’Brien. “I want you to sit tight while I meet with one of my commanders. Peter! Send in the next appointment.” O’Brien took another drag on his cigar and studied Pearson.
I showed him.

His nephew Peter opened the door, and Brad entered and immediately stopped. The cigar smoke had filled the room, making it uncomfortable for any nonsmoker.

“Close the door behind you, Peter,” said O’Brien. “What’s your name, soldier?” O’Brien never had much use for the military in the past. But now, they were
his
military.

“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Bradlee of 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment based at Fort Devens,” said Brad. Brad looked around the room before adding, “Hello, Agent Pearson. I’m surprised to see you.”

O’Brien sat back in his chair.
These two don’t like each other
. “Have a seat, Colonel. I’m James O’Brien, duly appointed governor of Region I by the President. I take it you two know each other.”

“We do, Governor,” replied Pearson. “We’ve met at Colonel Bradlee’s office on two occasions.”

O’Brien didn’t rise through the ranks of the union without being able to analyze body language and know what his adversaries were thinking. If there was animosity between them, so be it.
One will keep tabs on the other for me
.

“Good,” said O’Brien. “The first order of business is to establish a few ground rules. First, nothing happens in my region unless I know about it. Second, we all serve at the pleasure of the President. He has a vision for restoring our country to greatness. We will follow all of his directives, even if they don’t necessarily align with our own point of view. Third, when I need something, it’s as if the President himself fucking asked for it. Are we clear?” O’Brien purposefully took a deep draw on his cigar and filled the air to the point it even nauseated him somewhat.

“Yes, Governor,” said Pearson.

Brad sat silently for a brief moment, staring at O’Brien. Finally, he spoke. “What can I do to help?”

“I need security established around this building, Colonel,” replied O’Brien. “Put in place your best soldiers. Once the word gets out that this office has been established, I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and fuckin’ Harry thinking they can stop by for a chat.”

“Okay,” replied Brad dryly.

“There’s one more thing, Colonel. I want to train my own security force to conduct the initiatives outlined by the President. In Massachusetts, I have handpicked forty-four men for this purpose. I will have them report to Camp Curtis Guild for training Monday morning. I expect you to personally oversee their training, Colonel. Pearson, I want you to make sure they receive all the equipment they need to pursue the missions required by this office. There are forty-four armories located in Massachusetts, one for each of my men. Do whatever it takes to give each of them access immediately. Are we clear?”

“Governor, the Massachusetts National Guard armories are controlled by Governor Baker,” said Pearson.

O’Brien slammed his hand on the table and stood. “Charlie fuckin’ Baker don’t run shit anymore, you hear me? I do! Why? The President said so. Now, I want the keys to those armories. My men will be equipped to conduct the business of this office. Got it?”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Pearson.

O’Brien turned towards Brad. “What about you?”

“I’ll see your people at oh-eight-hundred Monday morning,
Governor
.”

Chapter 9

Friday, September 9, 2016

7:20 p.m.

Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor

99 High Street Rooftop

Boston, Massachusetts

O’Brien stood on the rooftop of 99 High Street and stared out across Boston Harbor. He had big plans for this city, and the rest of the states in Region I—Connecticut, Rhode Island, Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. Boston was the big prize for him. It was his home. Controlling Boston would be critical to establishing his power base. Then he could deal with the other states within
his region
.

“Well, look at you, Mr. Governor Big Shot!” exclaimed a voice out of the darkness.

O’Brien turned and started to laugh. “Marion, my friend!” he shouted back. “You are the only man who can get away with that. Come on over here and share a drink with me.” The two men shook hands heartily, and O’Brien poured them a drink. He lit another cigar.

Marion La Rue was a longtime member of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters until he retired. He was periodically called upon by union leaders in Boston to undertake special
projects
, which included orchestrating the walkout of MBTA bus drivers during the St. Patrick’s Day festivities. Most of his assignments required months of planning and were flawlessly executed. Although the death of Pumpsie Jones was unforeseen during the St. Patrick’s Day project, it ultimately helped gain the MBTA union the upper hand.

“Am I allowed to call you Jim, or should I use your fucking highness?” La Rue laughed. The men clinked glasses and downed the scotch. They both stood at the edge of the roof and stared off into the rapidly disappearing daylight.

“Isn’t this some shit?” asked O’Brien.

“Sure is. I’m glad you found me. I took the missus and our stuff over to my sister’s place. When your guys showed up at the door, I almost shot ‘em. When they told me you were the new governor, I told them to fuck off and slammed the door in their face.”

O’Brien’s whole body shook with laughter. “Listen, I’m still shocked by these events too. This whole situation presents a tremendous opportunity for us, my friend. Before I tell you what I have in mind, I need to know if you’re in. You and I have been friends for thirty years, Marion. We need each other now more than ever.”

La Rue poured another glass of scotch and drank it all. He poured each of them another glass. “Of course I’m in, Jim. But you’ve got all the power. What do you need me for?”

O’Brien pulled up a chair at an outdoor dining table and motioned for La Rue to do the same. “I’m a believer in turning a crisis into an opportunity. I need someone I can trust implicitly, not these mopes assigned to me by the government.”

“Obviously, I’d take a bullet for you, Jim. You know that. So what’s the plan?”

“Region I encompasses a lot of territory. I need to establish myself with the people of these other states, but I think it all starts right here in Boston.” O’Brien tapped his index finger as he spoke. “Once I get Boston under my control and running the way I want it to run, the rest of the region will follow by example. Of course, if they don’t, then we will have ways of dealing with that.”

“You have a solid base of support here,” said La Rue. “The unions have a strong representation in the community. We just need to get in touch with them and tell them what to do.”

“Yes, that’s part of it. To gain respect as their governor, I also need to give the rest of the population a reason to believe in me. Listen, power is not only what you have, but it’s what your adversaries think you have. Our people, the
working men and women
, will respect us because we’re the same. It’s the money people, you know, the ones who bought their yachts and big houses on our backs, that need to understand who’s runnin’ shit now.”

“So what do we do about them?” asked La Rue.

“In a normal world, before the lights went out, a threat is usually more terrifying to scare people than the thing itself. For example, when the blacks invade the malls, do you see the fear in the eyes of people? Black people aren’t there to rape, pillage, and burn. But the whites that fill up these malls don’t know that. They think just the opposite. So they’re afraid.”

“Are the tactics the same now that the power has gone away?” asked La Rue.

“Not necessarily. Remember, a good tactic is one that your people enjoy doing the most.” O’Brien took another swig of the scotch and winced. He was feeling good now.

“So, do you want me to round up the blacks and send them to the malls?” asked La Rue.

O’Brien laughed and toasted La Rue. “Very funny. No, what we need are some useful idiots. I don’t want to get in bed with the blacks necessarily, but I do have a plan for them. Tell me what you know about the gangs of Boston.” O’Brien stood and walked next to an air-conditioning unit. He began to pee while La Rue spoke.

“Let’s start with the blacks who are primarily located to the south in Mattapan, Roxbury, and Dorchester. They have never been able to coalesce as a unified group until recently. At the Boston Marathon, a large group of gang members came together as part of a Black Lives Matter march. The leader of the Academy Homes gang in Roxbury is a kid named Jarvis Rockwell. They call him
J-Rock
.” When O’Brien returned, La Rue took his turn at the
restroom
.

A full glass of scotch awaited his return. La Rue continued. “The Academy Homes gang, representing a large territory in central Roxbury near Martin Luther King Boulevard, has about five hundred members. J-Rock rose up the ranks starting as a runner, and graduated to enforcer by age sixteen, when he supposedly committed a double murder against an encroaching gang. At age twenty-three, he was the undisputed leader of the Academy Homes gang. At the Marathon, he marched side by side with his pregnant girlfriend and the leaders of the Franklin Field Boyz and the Castlegate Road Gang. I guess they found a common purpose. Anyway, you know how that ended. The thing got out of control and J-Rock’s girlfriend lost their baby.”

“Is he still runnin’ things?” asked O’Brien.

“As far as I know,” replied La Rue. “Afterwards, he sat down with the leaders of the rival gangs mafia-style and they all came together. Jim, they’ve got a small army down there.”

“What about the Mexicans?” asked O’Brien.

“You mean the El Salvadorans out east?”

“Same thing.”

“Kind of,” said La Rue. “They’re brutal. A Central American drug cartel known as
Mara Salvatrucha,
or MS-13, predominantly operates in the East Boston ghettos, though they recently started to spread out all over the city. They’re headed up by a banger named Joaquin Guzman. This guy’s been deported four times, but he keeps coming back.”

“You say they’re brutal?”

“They’re rapists and conduct murders using machetes, like those ISIS fuckers. MS-13 already controls the alien smuggling routes along the Mexican border. They’ve teamed up with al-Qaeda terrorists and run the largest Islamic terrorist smuggling network in the country.”

“That’s a helluva combination,” said O’Brien.

“Then we have the Asians in Chinatown,” said La Rue. “They’re different from MS-13 and the blacks. I guess I could call them
businessmen
. MS-13 is all about demanding respect and revenge killings. They’re heavy into drugs. The black gangs just want to steal shit. But the Asians operate a huge oxycodone-running operation as well as legitimate businesses, but with an iron fist. They’re led by a white guy.”

“You’re kiddin’me, right?” asked O’Brien.

“Nope. He goes by the nickname
Bac Guai John
, or White Devil.”

“Seriously?” O’Brien filled their glasses with the last of the scotch.

“He’s got quite a story, like a celebrity. Hell, they did a whole article on him in
Rolling Stone
magazine.”

“Does he think he’s John
the-teflon-don
Gotti?” asked O’Brien.

“Pretty close.” They both sat silently for a few minutes and finished their drinks.

“Can they be controlled?” asked O’Brien.

“They’re all businessmen, Jim,” replied La Rue.

“Listen up, here’s what I want you to do.”

Chapter 10

Saturday, September 10, 2016

8:20 a.m.

Massachusetts General Hospital

Boston, Massachusetts

J.J. was filling his backpack with medical supplies when Katie and Steven came down the stairwell. He wanted to be left alone. Sabs was on his mind constantly, and he felt the anger come back. For years after his retirement, J.J. carried a lot of anger with him. He was disappointed in the lack of appreciation the veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan received in the media and by politicians. The mistreatment of vets at the VA hospitals made it worse.

Gradually, with the help of the Quinns, the anger over the atrocities of war and lack of respect for the soldiers who did their duty subsided. Falling in love with Sabs put his life on a new course. Then she was ripped away from him, by a bullet, on American soil. He tried to save her, but her wounds were too severe.

He hurriedly finished packing because he wanted to leave. He was not ready to engage in idle conversation.

“Hey, Doc!” said Steven. “I’m glad we caught you. We were thinking about tagging along. You know, it’s really not safe on the streets alone. Katie and I’ve got cabin fever and were gonna check things out around the building anyway.”

J.J. could tell Steven was trying hard to be chipper. It didn’t matter. “Thanks, but no,” he said. “I’d rather go alone.” He started for the stairwell and Steven followed him.

“Listen, Doc, I know you’re going through a rough time. But you are too valuable to us to get hurt by some thug wanting to steal your backpack or something.”

Katie added, “Plus, let me introduce you to Dr. Daugherty. He’s a great guy and really cares about his patients. I’m sure you two will hit it off, and he can help you hit the ground running. C’mon, J.J., let us walk you over there.”

J.J. knew they were right, of course, so he acquiesced. Katie and Steven strapped on their weapons and made J.J. do the same. He hadn’t thought of carrying his sidearm before, and he was glad they brought it to his attention.
Maybe I am in a fog
.

The trio walked quietly to Mass General, taking a different route than the day before. As they turned onto Cedar Street in the heart of Beacon Hill, J.J. was amazed at how deserted the streets were. Vehicles were abandoned in all directions. The intersection of Pinckney and Cedar was completely blocked due to an accident. But there were very few pedestrians. No one was willing to make eye contact with them, much less engage in conversation. Bostonians were scared.