

LIARS

The News Industry

Frank B. Thompson, III
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2014 Frank B. Thompson, III

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-10: 1499601255

ISBN-13: 978-1499601251
TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

prologue

day of reckoning

four years earlier

the capitalists

coming storm

rescue operation

cpac

the raid

future president

first logical steps

grilled on the hill

the campaign begins

plans discovered

mole

election approaches

publishers threatened

martinez wins!

mckinley's last order

last mission as americans

d-day+

future partners meet

saving his team

assassinations

going rogue

unlikely allies

breaking scandal

fallout of election

it's a go!

chatter

unthinkable occurs

the hours following

the days following

epilogue

about the author

other books by author

connect with author
DEDICATION

To my wife, daughter and those who keep them safe, so that my daughter can grow up and experience what it is like to be an American. For my parents who taught me what should truly be valued in life, and beyond.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

"Only God gets it right the first time." [Stephen King]

My sojourn into writing began many moons ago, in the 60s, before long hair, marijuana, surfing, driving and girls had come on the scene. The 60s was an era when the musical duo Simon and Garfunkel, the television show Kung Fu and the comedy hour of Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In were in vogue for teens my age. It was before Woodstock, so you were either a jock, hoodlum, cool, uncool, popular, a wallflower, a nerd, or a brainier type who learned Latin, while the rest of us took Español.

I was sitting at a desk peeking out at freedom from a third-story window, so the tardy bell would have by that time sounded, followed by the English teacher closing the one and only doorway of escape. I was a straight-A student at the time, so it wasn't like I hated school...just English.

The hour slowly ticked by as the red second hand of the wall-mounted Simplex chronograph advanced with that hesitating, analog motion. As the minute hand closed in on the end of the period, Mrs. Goldberg announced she would be reading a short story from one of her students, someone in one of her five classes who deserved meritorious mention.

Mrs. Goldberg started reading the paper and I still remember thinking, Wow, that's really kind of killer...I wonder which goody two shoes wrote it! It wasn't until the second or third paragraph into her monologue that I realized the teacher was reading mein paper...a short story on the final thoughts of a convict waiting to be taken to the electric chair or gas chamber. Macabre, I know, nevertheless that was what I assessed the homework assignment called for, and besides, as a preacher's kid I probably believed I was a prisoner of sorts at that juncture, having to give up every Sunday for church activities, which invariably grabbed an entire day of just larking around like every other kid on the block. Anyway, being put in the spotlight for that moment had never happened before, and therefore resonated with me and became one of my notable memories.

I still call to mind the pride I felt as the classroom listened in stony, near-riveted silence, and what's more, everyone in every one of Mrs. Goldberg's classes was going to be forced to listen to my wonderful brilliance...Yea! My conclusion had to be something like, I will finally be recognized for something! Sadly, what notoriety I might have gained was gone before I realized it, but the instance led to an idea that I might have a knack for writing, a revelation I promptly deep-sixed, a far-flung memory that would resurface a half-century later.

Now, on to mein novel...LIARS - The News Industry.

LIARS - The News Industry is a fictional account of events leading up to the violent overthrow of today's liberal media institutions. The novel is not written from the perspective of the messengers, but the real reasons for the media's behavior and one-sidedness: the puppet masters, those at the top who are really calling the shots. The Brian Williams(s), the Diane Sawyer(s), the Walter Cronkite(s); those are, or were, simply the mouthpieces, the talking heads, the emissaries, the window dressing, the lipstick for the otherwise ugly pig those at the top had turned into roses for millions of Americans over the past century. The publishers, the CEOs, those lurking behind the scenes, hidden from view, not noticed by the public, but making damn sure their ideas, theories and beliefs become a permanent part of Americana.

For what purpose? Power.

Power to influence elections, power to put like-minded minions into public office, the power to cover up the truth, or make certain the truth never saw the light of day. Power to safeguard those they consider friendly, those they consider allies, those who will do their bidding...all without being seen...a good thing if you were a hardcore-leftist in a country dominated by traditionalists.

How can I make such a boldism? Because, history proves me right!

Papers, the source for most news up to the advent of the television, have always represented the convictions of the owner, the publisher. You might not think it possible, but the most liberal of rags, The New York Times, was once a conservative newspaper! I know... it is hard to believe.

How is that possible? Because, history has shown that if a publisher were a conservative (like the original founder of The New York Times) chances were good the news being reported by that paper would be conservative, too! Makes perfect sense, right? Sure it does. If I owned a paper the last thing I'd want running were poof pieces on all the shenanigans going on in Washington these days.

So, things were hunky-dory, because Americans had choices. If a person were a progressive they could go out and buy a liberal rag. The same was true for a conservative, but all that went up in smoke at the beginning of the twentieth century, a period where economies of scale moved the industry to consolidate. The problem for Americans was control over the news industry fell into the hands of liberals. The metamorphosis that accompanied the takeover is the very reason every news organization today (save for FOX) are left-leaning machines with the Democrat Party their vehicle for helping them change the country. LIARS - The News Industry is this author's attempt to redress that aberration in history, a task that has not been easy to say the least.

One other thing: this is the professionally edited version of the novel. I ponied up the funds to rectify the previous typo-grammatical errors, so enjoy.

Frank B. Thompson, III
PROLOGUE

JANUARY 1, 2035

There is something indecent about putting into words let alone defending the brutal savagery of that one summer day, a day when a handful of glitterati lost their grasp over the truth, the day the publishers' power disappeared...over the people, over America.

History had provided glimpses of what lay ahead if those elitists had triumphed; the reprobate that was in the White House was just a minute taste of what would become a permanent resident if they achieved their aims. Hitler, Stalin, Mao Zedong had all come to power by almost identical means, by maintaining a tight grip over the people, by brandishing power over the truth. Those oppressors were not some improbable illustrations of what might one day be ensconced at the head of the country. Marx once said, "The goal of socialism is communism." Academians understood this to be the truth, so did the publishers, and yet they both persisted in pushing, in prodding the country on a course that would one day transform America.

The question remains: were the perpetrators of the brutal measures taken on that day justified? Even now, over twenty years later, the pundits were frightened to say, but the fact remains—the country had dodged a bullet and instead America was now recovering from the wrecking ball the old news establishment helped promulgate. Through the actions of a few unknowns, America escaped a fate that would otherwise have most assuredly taken place. Only through the likes of a growing number of orthodox news concerns, like Magnason Enterprise News Network, had America remained that one shining beacon up on the hill...for all the world to see.

The outcome of that one decisive day will remain a lasting part of American history. The day when a handful of publishers lost their hold over the news trade, and in turn, their sway over the American people. This is a recounting of that historic day, so that future generations can judge for themselves whether or not the violent acts of one equated to the heinous deeds of the other. It is written, so that citizens would realize that the nation came very close to the edge, so that they would be cognizant of the reason conservatism was now a pervasive part of news across the land...and of the demise of a small group of men, liars by any other name, who lost their stranglehold over America.

Professor Jason M. Hayden, Sr.

Chilton Archibald Conservatory
DAY OF RECKONING

NEW YORK, NY - Wednesday, 6:36 P.M.

Americans across the nation were going through their normal evening ritual of catching up on the day's events by tuning into one of the four major networks.

"Good evening this is World News Network (WNN) and I am Deena Crawford."

Ms. Deena Crawford, the WNN debutante and anchor, was sitting in her elevated chair behind the studio bureau wearing a Vuitton two-piece suit, Shellis diamond earrings and a pearl necklace. Behind the irresistible, blue-eyed brunette was the emblem of the company, a golden image of the world etched into white-plate glass, lighted from behind to showboat the letters of the logo: WNN.

Ms. Crawford was the face of WNN, one of the best, brightest and most convincing media darlings in the industry. Each night tens of millions of viewers hung on her every word, never questioning her motives, every time in lockstep with her take on the day's events. Ms. Crawford was at the top of her game; just one thing had eluded her in her illustrious career, that most coveted of awards in the field of journalism: the Pulitzer Prize. It appeared Ms. Crawford was going to at long last win it, not for her charity work, not for her philanthropy, but for acting as a professional news anchor, one who used the influence of her program to bring down a sitting Republican senator in the most recent election.

The teleprompter fed the anchor her lines, messaging that had gone through an approval process that extended all the way up to the proprietor of World News Network, Chairperson and CEO Donald Abraham. The same scene was being played out before tens of millions of Americans on the separate networks where subtle, clever packaging of words and the use of pictures and videos always conveyed the subliminal messaging the owners wanted imparted upon their audiences: a message that promoted their skewed views of reality, a message that moved the political agenda of a handful of men forward, a plan that led the country down a path different from that envisioned by the Founding Fathers. Their viewing public would be treated to an around-the-clock barrage of that propaganda. There was no countervailing voice to stop them.

Deena had one of the largest viewing audiences in cable news. Her broadcast would make the biggest achievable splash for her boss each day during the 6:30 P.M. time slot. The anchor kicked off her program with television footage of that afternoon's press conference with Democrat President, Nathan Martinez. Anyone tuning into any one of the major news channels would be treated to the same lead story being run simultaneously, all focused on the same single event. The only difference between what a viewer would see on one TV channel versus the others would be the angles in which the footage was shot.

President Martinez's Rose Garden announcement appeared in one portion of every television set, the live feed of Deena in the other. The President was standing behind a raised podium emblazoned with a larger than normal version of the presidential seal clearly visible for all to see. Martinez was flanked on his right by Democrat Senate Majority Leader, Jim Rooney and Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank. On Martinez's left by Democrat House Speaker, Patricia Bocchino and Secretary of Health and Human Services, Nancy Stoddard. Behind the President stood a dozen or more men and women dressed up as doctors, some wearing scrubs as if they just came out of an operating room, others in their white lab coats.

The female anchor kept on in an approving tone. "This afternoon President Nathan Martinez made an unscheduled appearance in the Rose Garden before a group of concerned American families to...to condemn recent efforts by Republicans, excuse me." The anchor covered her mouth a moment and coughed then continued, "To defund the President's signature."

The anchor hesitated one more moment, taking a sip of water, then continued to try to get through her lines.

"Attempts by Republicans to defund (more coughing)...the President's signature healthcare plan."

The right-hand pane with the news anchor now became a small inset in the upper right portion of everyone's TV, audio from the WNN news set was replaced by Martinez whose image filled most of the screen, as he launched into his monologue. The hubbub of cameras could be clearly made out snapping away as Martinez pontificated, adding to the theatrics of the choreographed occasion.

President Martinez could be heard saying in his deep, eloquent voice, "Most here understand what I'm trying to do for America and those that don't are simply not working on the people's behalf." It was the usual coverage the brass pushed each night with the objective of helping Martinez move his programs forward. The press would conveniently fail to notice the fact that it was the President's policies that caused the now downward spiraling economy, rising unemployment, and growing inflation. Those issues were unimportant, or minor, compared to the bigger picture.

As the President kept on reading from the two teleprompters, the camera crews panned from Martinez to the audience where they focused in on those with downcast, despondent peering faces. Mothers with children were singled out, as were women who could be seen with tears of joy in their eyes. The TV audience, however, was now scarcely paying any attention to the President, instead the viewing public's eyes were being drawn increasingly upon the tragedy that had begun to play itself out in the inset...the WNN news set.

Deena Crawford no longer appeared like herself; the facade of cool, unruffled and collected had disappeared...she, instead, gazed out at the cameras in abject fear, a horrific expression etched on her features. The news anchor was half standing, half leaning forward on her hands and appeared to be shouting in the direction of the cameras between fits of gagging coughs. No sound of what Crawford was yelling could be heard, just Martinez droning on in the background. Inexplicably, the producer in charge of the studio had not gone to commercial and instead millions watched as the final seconds of Crawford's life played out before their horrified eyes.

Just as suddenly, the shocking scene disappeared...replaced by static! Those just tuning in would think the static a temporary service problem; they would be wrong. The major news networks had gone dark...all of them.
FOUR YEARS EARLIER

Climate Change Threatens World

World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Global Warming could end life as we know it by 2040. Some experts forecast a 2.3-degree increase will lead to sea levels that are nine inches higher than today's. National weather expert and advisor of former President Evenson went on to warn that overlooking...

SOUTHAMPTON, NY - The red, limited-edition Bugatti came screeching up to the clubhouse entrance. One of only fifteen Sang Noir editions, and at over a million dollars a copy, it was the world's most expensive super-car. This was just one of three exotics the driver garaged at his Southampton estate. There was also a brand new silver Bentley and a diminutive Prius hidden under a tarp out of view. The tadpole-appearing hybrid was given to the patriarch by the Board, to be driven on special occasions when Donald needed to openly show his support for the Global Warming Movement his news conglomerate helped spawn and keep alive in the minds of millions. Only a few moments later, a black Mercedes Benz carrying two of the man's bodyguards came screeching up after great difficulty keeping up with the madman behind the wheel.

The once green, rolling fairways of this, one of the most expensive and exclusive private clubs in America, were now a dark shade of brown standing out in drab contrast to the white sandy dunes. Resting on the Great Peconic Bay from the second story window of the clubhouse one could easily see the Atlantic Ocean to the east. It was a serene, peaceful place year round, the opposite of the hectic urban life of Manhattan less than a hundred miles to the south.

A short, clumsy, little man made every effort to push his stubby arms through the sleeves of the Jon Green tailored, winter jacket while maintaining his clasp of his cellphone, switching the device from his left to right ear. By now, one of the burly bodyguards had stepped out of the idling black sedan and had briskly tromped over and opened the driver's door like a butler.

The chubby driver stepped ungraciously out of the low, slung cockpit, helped by the guard who received no acknowledgement for his efforts. The driver glanced at the parking attendant only to ensure his toss of the keys would be caught, and then switched his cellphone from one ear to the other.

Most Americans had never heard of Donald Abraham, Publisher of World News Network, much less, recognized that he was one of the most powerful people in American politics. His eyebrows were jet black and accentuated his piercing grey eyes. His face bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his breathing heavy as clouds of manmade fog emanated from his rather wide mouth set below the family's characteristic beak-like nose.

Concentrating on the conversation at hand, the question by the parking attendant fell unheeded upon his ears. The young man knew not to push his luck and ask a second time, as it would only provoke a quick, impatient snarl in reply.

The publisher turned to leave only to turn back when he remembered to threaten the car attendant.

"Pay attention boy, there better not be any more miles on that later."

The young car attendant appeared slightly mortified. "Oh, of course not Mr. Abraham. It will be just as you..."

The elderly brut cut him off, "And if I see one blemish on the paint, I'll have you thrown in jail!"

Donald Abraham was an alpha-male elitist who needed to possess rare, exotic toys to make up for his diminutive size and common appearance. Donald was a Democrat, his employees were Democrats and if he had his way everyone in America would be a Democrat.

The news baron now made his way along the paved sidewalk running around the north side of the club, followed by the bodyguard, passing both the eighteenth green and the heated Olympic-size pool. The lawn bordering either side of the pathway was now covered in a thin layer of ice broken in places by the footsteps of the club staff taking a shortcut from the employee parking lot a half-mile away.

"How much do I owe them?" Donald Abraham paused on the sidewalk a moment. "When do they have to have it?" The publisher remained quiet as he listened to his attorney's position before shouting, "They said that? You tell them they'll see their money in a month!"

Donald Abraham hated being told what to do. Nobody ever told him what to do, but the union bosses had him over a barrel, there was no choice. "Yes, okay, fine, just get it to them."

The publisher paid attention for one more moment.

"I don't give a damn what the Board says, just make the arrangements."

This publisher was not only the most arrogant ass to sit at the head of the company; he was also the most indebted, thanks to a hedonistic lifestyle that even the Queen of England would have envied.

Donald was the fifth member to carry the title 'Publisher' at World News Network, a legacy that began at the turn of the twentieth century and like past generations, he readily availed himself of the clout his news conglomerate carried to empower and hold sway over one of two political parties. Donald was part of a small group of elitists who wanted nothing less than to see that party in permanent domination over the nation. This was not simply an idle thought; their objective was very close to becoming a reality.

To the publisher's way of imagining, he was the closest thing to royalty one could be in the country and had reached the zenith of power for a private citizen. That was one of the reasons America needed to be changed and from Donald's vantage point, his family's efforts for the past century were close to being realized. It had taken him nearly forty years of playing hardball with the facts and this game of his, but he had almost won.

Donald checked his watch. Time for that drink.

Donald Abraham attended the Columbia University School of Journalism his family founded in 1920. He had grown long hair, worn an Army jacket and become a leader of an underground movement, the New Revolutionaries, a group of anarchists who championed the violent overthrow of the United States Government, usually by attempting to bomb government institutions. Donald managed to graduate, even though he at no time really ever attended classes from his junior year on, thanks to his own flesh and blood's influence, and in 1969 went to work at World News Network.

WNN was a news conglomerate whose reach had far outgrown the original newspaper of the early twentieth century. It now included several dozen regional tabloids, over two hundred local television stations, three cable news channels and controlling interests in two national news networks. Donald's empire commanded just over thirty-five percent of the market and was the world's largest news organization; this was what made Donald Abraham one of the most powerful men in politics, and the most feared.

Donald's conglomerate sat at the head of an industry dominated by one ideology. His position as proprietor was unique: through his news operations, the publisher set the itinerary for the industry. The news baron now had his eyes set on taking their political party off the hook for voting in favor of the Iraq war. Donald was cognizant the effort would sooner, or later, result in the Republican Party bearing full responsibility for the outcome and once accomplished would set his news company to creating one more Vietnam in the minds of most Americans. The publisher's plan would hand the Democrats the White House in the next presidential election; it was simple and effective and would succeed only due to his manipulation over what tens of millions of Americans thought and believed.

The proof the WNN editors were relying upon came from a political hack and former US Diplomat who would do and say almost anything for the right price. The diplomat's claim went in opposition to the findings from both American and British intelligence services, thousands of trained professionals, many of whom risked their lives to uncover Saddam's secrets. WNN coverage would be followed by his competitors who would all report the same falsehoods. The Diplomat, supported by the press, would carry on the charade up to the point where her testimony would fall apart under oath before a congressional committee. The leaders of the party would ensure the timing of that event would occur following the election when the woman had served her purpose. Inside weeks, if not days, the whole affair would be forgotten by the American news industry. This was just one illustration of a myriad of propaganda campaigns Donald's editors would have spinning at any given time. It was a clear sample of the power this one man, this demigod, this autocrat wielded over the American people.

Donald hesitated at the rear entrance, turning off and pocketing his cellphone while his bodyguard opened the door. He entered the sunlit foyer passing a "No Cellphones Allowed" sign as soft music played in the background.

The news mogul ran his business much like the way he wanted to see the nation run. In his world, propaganda was the enabler and through it he wielded power over the politicians in Washington, and through them, the masses. Donald's foot soldiers were the editors, journalists and staff, all hired in view of the fact they were willing to propagate what was necessary to effect his desired ends. Everything revolved around him: Donald was all powerful, no threat yet existed, and soon even national elections would not matter.

The news industry had almost succeeded. Preying upon the emotions, downplaying the role of critical thinking, they created an environment where the Democrat Party maintained a driver's seat over an immense swath of the country through circumstances that would pit one American in opposition to another. The power of the media was changing American society and it was all primarily at the direction of one man, Donald Abraham.

Donald looked up to see an exceptionally beautiful woman standing just outside one of the clubhouse conference rooms. One of his major temptations in life was attractive women.

She was talking with an elderly woman, full-figured with shoulder-length blond hair in a form-fitting white outfit. Donald felt his heartbeat quicken, but was drawing a blank on her name. The publisher recalled a previous meeting twice before. Where? A party? Club event? Here? Where? Argh. Come on. Eyes? Boobs? Legs...Oh yes! Mrs. Scott. Donald remembered, Patty Scott! His new neighbor.

Wow, she looks good in that outfit! Damn, I'd like to bend her over and let her have what for.

"Good morning, Mrs. Scott."

"Hello," Mrs. Scott replied with a blank stare that told Donald she did not have any idea who he was.

"Donald Abraham, your next door neighbor," replied the publisher inwardly incensed Mrs. Scott did not recollect him.

"Oh yes, Mr. Abraham, good to see you again," Mrs. Scott replied flashing her Hollywood veneers.

Donald shook her extended hand. Mrs. Scott expected a firm, manlike handshake, only to be somewhat repulsed by his wet, fish-like grip.

"Pardon my interruption, but I've been meaning to speak to you and your husband about a party I'm having."

"A party? Oh, forgive me Mrs. Sterling. This is Donald Abraham, our neighbor."

"Nothing to forgive Patty. Nice to make your acquaintance, I'm Lucy."

Mrs. Sterling was also taken back by the limpness of his grip.

Mrs. Scott continued with the introduction. "Lucy serves with me on the Board of the Garden Club. Lucy, Mr. Abraham is the owner of the World News Network if my memory serves me correctly."

"Yes, I'm afraid you've caught me."

"Really," replied Mrs. Sterling. "You have a very influential news company, Mr. Abraham. Tell me, do you have any Republicans at all?"

That tramp, right-wing nut! The publisher decided to ignore the question responding with his own. "I'm here for a drink. Would either of you like to join me?"

"Isn't it a bit early?" replied the older woman.

Donald took a brisk glance at his watch, 10:14 A.M.

Donald's drinking habit would eventually catch up with him, just as it had for his father...and grandfather.

He responded by creating a fiction. "Oh, yes it is. I'm still on European time, just back from Paris, you know."

Mrs. Scott smiled, "I'm afraid it is a little early, thanks just the same Mr. Abraham. About your party, my husband and I would be delighted to come, but I'm afraid we will be traveling over the holidays."

Donald's days consisted of a routine of heavy drinking, micromanaging his news editors and power lunches with politicians and lobbyists. Possessing every material possession one could attain in his secular world, the news mogul spent the rest of his time golfing, traveling, pursuing extramarital affairs with his executives' wives and occasionally the daughters. His hedonistic behavior was an exemplification of the sort of eccentricities a person develops when they wield unchecked power for most of their lives.

"That's unfortunate, Mrs. Scott. Oh well, maybe next time." Donald was in point of fact thinking to himself, The hell with you then.

"Oh, but Lucy (Mrs. Sterling) might be able to go?"

That ugly hag!

"What do you think, Lucy?"

Mrs. Sterling had already made her mind up: she had no intentions of seeing this unsavory little fellow again.

"No, but thanks, I too will be traveling over the holidays."

Whew! That was goddamn close! thought Donald. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe next time." What a joke. I can't believe I just said that.

The publisher departed after some closing pleasantries and walked on to his regular haunt. Once out of earshot, the two women could not help but remark to one another on what an odd man Mr. Abraham was. His handshake was one thing, but the way the disgusting little person devoured Mrs. Scott with his gaze and the way he flashed around his jewelry was downright inexcusable for anyone with proper dignity.

Donald had left his current and fourth spouse, a thirty-something former model, at his Fifth Avenue penthouse, one of four homes. The other homes included the mansion just down the road, the plantation estate in the British Virgin Islands and the two-hundred-foot yacht he christened Lord of the Rings. Donald had not minded that his wife had some reason to stay in New York today; he would love nothing more than to replace number four with number five, but it didn't quite fit into his current plans.

Donald took his seat at his favorite booth as the bartender brought over the drink for the morning, vodka and orange juice. The publisher's morning ritual consisted of reading his paper with drink in hand followed by the occasional draw from an unfiltered cigarette.

Donald smiled at one of the headlines, "Poll: Americans Believe Democrats."

Donald began reading what his editors had approved for print in that day's edition. What little public outcry might arise from the right could easily be dismissed. Donald did not give a damn what the Republicans said in view of the fact no one would ever hear them. They could yell, scream, cry all they wanted, it would do them no good.

What his news conglomerate would purposely overlook would be the history of events, how the Democrats originally voted in opposition to the referendum for going to war, soon followed by demands to recast their votes. It was only after internal polling showed the leadership erred on their original position that the loudmouths: Senate Minority Leader, James Rooney, and House Minority Leader, Patricia Bocchino, both demanded one more vote be cast.

The authorization had already been passed by the Republican majority; there was no need for an additional show of hands, but McKinley made the mistake of accommodating the Democrats. Today, the Democrats were now on record as having voted in favor of the Iraq war, an act that no longer served their purposes. The history of those events was long unremembered by the public and Donald along with the Democrats would now turn on President McKinley for his act of kindness...and naivety.

Donald's lead would be soon followed by the entire news industry, from cable news networks to the front page stories of his chief competitors, every news outlet in the nation, save one: the small, but growing, RHO Cable News Network.

"John, turn that channel to something with news on it," Donald said to the bartender.

"Yes, Mr. Abraham."

"Make damn sure it's not that RHO bullshit."

"Yes, Mr. Abraham."

"...this is American News and I am Alishah Mitchell. Today, Democrat Party leadership announced their intention to investigate the President who they now are convinced misled the American people on the intelligence information surrounding Iraq..."

Americans across the country would be treated to the same concocted story. On the Latin American news network, the following would be heard throughout the day:

"Buenas tardes, soy Juan Martínez reportando de Latino News Network. En vivo desde el edificio del Capitolio, donde Líder Minoritario del Senado, Jim Rooney ha anunciado públicamente..."

Donald Abraham's own news network would, of course, run something similar.

"I am Christiane Jackson, WNN White House correspondent and I'm standing with Senate Majority Leader Jim Rooney. Senator Rooney, you have publicly stated that you believe President McKinley lied with reference to the evidence for going to war. This is, on the face of it, a very provocative declaration. What do you have to say to the American people..."

That evening, Donald's star news anchor, Deena Crawford, would run with the same story and one of the prettiest faces in the business.

"This is WNN Nightly News and I am Deena Crawford. Today, Senate Leader, Jim Rooney went before Congress to announce his party's intention to pursue legal actions against Republican Party President, William McKinley. Senator Rooney was quoted as saying, 'McKinley cannot deceive the American people..."

The news coverage would be carried by both the national and local news operations and eventually find its way into the homes of more than half the nation.

Donald smiled to himself. There was no way his little game of his could fail. There was, after all, nothing to stop him.
THE CAPITALISTS

ZURICH, SWITZERLAND - The fifty-five-year-old billionaire sat in the power bucket seat gazing out on the European Alps passing below. The CEO took no notice, instead staring off in stony silence at the growing darkness on the eastern horizon, detached from his surroundings deep in thought.

Living carried with it a heavy burden, a weight that every living person bore with them throughout their lives. Most would at no time acknowledge that most primal fear until late in their life. That millstone that grew heavier with age was the practical understanding that one's time in this world was not infinite, that people aren't immortal. For Dr. Victor Magnason that final day would arrive thirty years too soon.

The CEO kept on peering off into the growing darkness struggling to come to terms with his own mortality.

In the short span of three decades, Victor succeeded in creating one of the most powerful venture capital companies in the world, Magnason Enterprise, Inc (MEI). The executive was a clear case in point of what someone with talent, remarkable ideas, ambition, hard work and a ruthless nature could accomplish in the one remaining bastion of capitalism, America.

The executive was gifted with extraordinary recall and highly developed deductive faculties, both of which lent themselves to seeing opportunity long before the competition. Victor was a maverick, a risk taker, and one who came out on top, way out on top.

Einstein once said, "The secret to being a genius is knowing how to hide your sources." This held true for the CEO. There was no such thing as faultless originality; instead the executive simply connected the dots, the disparate ideas of others, and created a more complex richer result. If someone got in his way he'd usually run them over.

Many of the companies MEI had taken public would become Fortune 500 companies. Most had started out as someone else's properties, but once the CEO recognized their idea worked, he put his company into motion. Appealing to a person's greed usually got MEI in the door. If that maneuver did not work, another avenue would be taken, usually involving tactics that bordered on the illegal. Once in, the executive would either pry the business from their hands, or find out just enough to create something better. Usually the target business never saw what hit them before it was long too late.

"Damn it!" Magnason muttered out loud, then thought quietly, I had such grandiose plans and they now count for shit!

The seven-hour flight from Zürich to New York would give him the prospects to reflect on his limited time ahead, and of the legacy he wanted to leave behind, something bigger than a venture capital establishment with his name attached.

The concluding diagnosis from Dr. Edsel Weinberg had only confirmed the earlier predictions by American neurologists; Creutzfeldt–Jakob was the diagnosis, a rare degenerative, nervous disorder that was not only incurable it was invariably fatal.

The CEO's right hand quivered, and these tremors would become more pronounced with time, the pain more intolerable.

Dr. Weinberg had not sugarcoated things. The CEO had five, maybe six years to live. The trembling was the first sign his nervous system was beginning to deteriorate under the attack of the rare virus. Four years out the doctor expected the executive would need assistance getting around. Beyond that, Weinberg expected him to be bed ridden followed by a requirement for life support. The CEO's plans called for a different sort of ending. The last thing Victor was going to do was become a vegetable, and while Kevorkian may have lost the legal battle in America, there were plenty of countries abroad who were under no such constraints.

The thing that concerned the CEO most was not that he was going to die; it was that he had so little time to carry out his new idea. Taking on the media establishment was not going to be as easy a task as manhandling a Fortune 500 into his grasp. There were different things at play, including their hold over the Democrat Party.

No, the executive was not going to fritter away his time on building a bigger, more financially sound company in as much as he was conscious of the fatal flaw to that way of thinking. The title of Ray Bradbury's novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes, best summed up the CEO's thoughts on America's future and that of his company. If the country succumbed to the liberals' plan it was just a matter of time before the private sector would fall into their greedy hands. There was still something he needed to do before he met his maker. Something that would forever solidify his legacy.

The flight attendant returned to the cabin closing the door to the sleeping accommodations behind her. Liz was beautiful and full-figured with blue eyes and long, straight blonde hair. Liz was wearing bedroom slippers and a robe. "Here you are Dr. Magnason," she said handing him a tumbler of mineral water.

"Thanks for remembering, Liz."

"My pleasure Dr. Magnason. Do you mind if I join you?"

"No, of course not."

The flight attendant took a seat across from him. "I can't help but notice you appear a little dejected. Did it have something to do with your meeting?"

"I would rather not talk about it."

"Okay. So, what do you want to talk about?"

"Liz, are you a Democrat?"

"Heavens no. I'm a red-blooded traditionalist."

"Then let me ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"What do you think of our news industry?"

"What do you mean, the newspapers?"

"Everything, tabloids, cable and network news, do you think they're fair in their coverage of events?"

"Ha! You're kidding, right?"

"I take that to mean no."

"Of course, no. They're as biased as any group could be."

"If you can see it so easily, how is it that nearly half of all Americans don't see it?"

"I chalk it up to ignorance, or stupidity."

"I know my next question isn't going to be a fair question, it requires you to put yourself in their shoes for a moment. Try to answer my question through the lens of your emotions."

"Okay?"

"If you all of a sudden had things you thought to be true challenged and proven to be wrong, how would you respond?"

"Emotionally?"

"Yes, emotionally."

"I'd probably feel like I was being personally attacked. I'd probably get angry and feel like fighting back."

"What if what you believed in was proven to be irrefutably wrong, without question?"

"I'd have pretty much the same reaction."

"Why?"

"Just take the subject of God for instance. I'm going to continue believing in God no matter what the atheists and agnostics have to say and if they try to impose their beliefs on me I'm going to get angry and fight back somehow. What is it that you're trying to understand?"

"Emotions are something I've always found hard to grasp. You've been helpful."

"Are you hungry?"

"No, but go ahead, help yourself."

Liz stood from the leather chair then stretched her back upward. "You know you're a real animal."

"Yes," the CEO smiled, "I've heard that."

"Sure, you don't want something to eat now?"

"Yes, I imagine so."

"Okay then." Liz re-crossed the cabin floor then turned and smiled as she opened the rear cabin door. "I'll have something ready in a few minutes."

The CEO smiled in return. "Thanks Liz."

Over the past three decades this executive had seen where the ultraists' actions were leading the country. In Europe an almost identical fraternity had succeeded in creating a society where liberty and freedom were overtaken by the call for fairness and equality. The changes required ever-expanding regulation and growing entitlement programs, both of which caused government to grow at the expense of the private sector. The costs of the mistakes were now beginning to surface in countries like Greece, Italy, France and the United Kingdom.

The CEO was convinced those responsible for the debacle, the elitists, were motivated in the main by their own self interests. Liberalism, socialism, communism all created as a natural byproduct of their existence either a permanent governing class, bureaucracies and autocrats where power rested permanently in the hands of a few. Victor understood the reason the small clique of revolutionaries succeeded, and it was not owing to the fact that the broader public naturally embraced their beliefs; the real reason behind their success was their complete domination of the press.

The European media had succeeded in duping the citizenry who even today did not understand the reasons for their rampant unemployment and collapsing economic systems. The same thing was now happening back home, and like in Europe, the same type of people now had their eyes set on taking America down an indistinguishable path using their tried and proven means.

The CEO had first thought of countering the encroachments through the defense of the U.S. Constitution. The executive envisioned a major law practice to take on anything like the ACLU, the NAACP, and other iconoclastic, activist groups. In Victor's spare time traveling about the world, he had even attained a Scientiae Juridicae Doctor (S.J.D.), so that he could become personally involved in the more consequential cases.

His motivation came from the recognition that over his lifetime, the lower courts were being used to change the original meaning of the founding document. Part of the reason for the elites' success were appointments to the bench, judges who were allowing case law to advance an open interpretation of the U.S. Constitution. The CEO understood what their actions would lead to; he had seen what happened in Europe.

Victor understood it was only through the protections and freedoms of the founding document that people like himself were able to succeed. Having seen what the ultraists had done to business enterprises abroad, the CEO recognized if the movement succeeded in the states, the days of MEI would be numbered, and it would very likely be forced into bankruptcy by onerous taxes and the unions as had happened throughout Europe. The executive fully expected for MEI to disappear not long after the blue bloods succeeded, not many decades after he was gone.

Unfortunately, with the bad news confirmed, the law firm Victor envisioned would not have the impact he wanted within his remaining life. Time was short, the clock ticking and yet, the executive recognized the elitists could still be stopped from succeeding. He had a new idea on how to derail their movement. There was one last thing he needed to accomplish before he could die in peace. America had given him so much. Now, it was time to give something back.

The executive picked up the financial report for World News Network from the seat next to him and cracked it open.

Victor sighed to himself, It was not be going to be easy.

Those in power would fight tooth-and-nail to hold on to everything they had gained. The little exercise with Liz, however, confirmed what he had long suspected. The media establishment could be dethroned, but not by attacking the ideology itself. The only way his plan would work was by attacking those responsible for decimating the lies.

A few minutes later the executive set the report aside and stood from his chair, stretched out and smiled.

I think I am a little hungry, now.

\----------

BIG CANOE, GEORGIA - Company President Jack Newman peered out over the southern Appalachian Mountains watching the latest cold front making its presence felt. Ribbon lightning danced about the heavens, occasionally followed by the muffled clap of thunder. Rain pelted the double-pane windows of his second-story corner office and when the racket died down for a moment, it was replaced by the crackling noise of an oak-wood fire, burning away in the stone fireplace. The smell of the burning timber filled the room while a muted, flat-screen TV tacked to one of the knotty-pine walls aired one of the financial networks.

Jack was idly watching the spectacle of nature in solitude, using the excuse of preparing for the annual stockholder's conference when his desktop phone rang.

He pressed the speaker button. "This is Newman."

The voice of the Executive Vice President came over the speakerphone, "Jack, this is Pete. I just got off the phone with Victor. He's flying in from Europe and wants you to drop your homework and catch up with him in New York."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

Thank God, I can escape, Jack thought. "Really, what's up?"

"It appears the boss wants to look at acquiring a news company."

"That's a bit odd."

"It was a bit baffling for me as well."

"Did Victor say why he was in a rush?"

"No, just that he wants to look at obtaining majority interests in one of the chief news networks. Victor said he would fill you in on the details tomorrow. Kate has her people engaged in the research on the three companies he wants to pursue." (Kate was Katharine Tate, part of Jack's executive team.)

"Who are they?"

"World News Network, American News and World Tribune."

Today, the three principle news conglomerates were in effect one of the largest monopolies in the country: hundreds of national, regional and local gazette and broadcast operations where power, command, morals all resonated at the top in the hands of the publishers and from those lofty heights throughout America. All source materials– the stories, the editorials, the polling– it all originated at the headquarters level. When it came to news on economic, social, or political matters, the proprietor's ideology drove the messaging. The publishers, their companies, were also the unseen reason for the expectant Democrat Party successes in the upcoming midterm elections.

"Wow, those are some big names."

Jack quickly looked out his office window; the rain was turning to sleet. It was not like Victor to call for a face-to-face meeting so spontaneously, so something urgent must have come up, something that was time sensitive.

He needed to get going right away if he wanted any chance of avoiding sliding into a ditch, or off a precipice as he came down the mountain.

"I've got to get out of here before it's too late, send me what you and Kate come up with. Can you have your secretary wake up the flight crew?"

"Jasper airport?"

"Yes, why not. It's the closest airfield."

"Okay Jack, I'll take care of it."

"Pete, I've got to run before it starts becoming worse." Jack did not wait for the executive to reply; he hung up the phone and raced to his bedroom where he grabbed the handle of the pre-packed bag for just such events. He made his way downstairs to see his wife, daughters and in-laws sitting about the fireplace watching an NFL game: Atlanta was at home against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

"Gang, something urgent has come up. Dear, I'm going to have to run off to New York."

"Aw Dad, you promised," said his youngest daughter, still trying to sell her spouse's positive qualities to him even at this late stage of courtship.

"When will you be back?" asked his wife who, with years of familiar situations, had grown used to her husband being called away frequently. It was the nature of Jack Newman's business.

"I'm sorry, but it sounds urgent. I'll be back day after tomorrow. How are the Falcons doing?"

"We're behind by twenty-one," replied his eldest daughter's spouse.

"What quarter?"

"Fourth," came the reply.

"Damn, oh well. Maybe next week."

"Drive safely dear," his wife responded with a slight smile.

"Has the Bimmer still got gas?"

"Full tank," responded his youngest daughter.

"Very good, I'll see everyone day following next."

\----------

Jack ran to the jet, passing the copilot who could not keep up with his long, lanky strides. Jack could just make out the pilot pushing open the cabin door through the driving rain.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Newman," yelled the Captain over the noise of the engines as the executive scampered up the stairway.

"Thanks, Jerry," Jack responded as he passed the pilot, half drenched.

The pilot struggled to close the cabin door against the wind after the copilot made his entry.

"Jerry, do you need a hand with the door?"

WHAM!

"Never mind, looks like you got it."

"Here you go, Mr. Newman," said the copilot as he threw him a dry towel. "Do you need anything else while I'm up?"

"I'm okay, let's just get this over with."

"We're on our way," the pilot responded and disappeared behind the cockpit door followed by the copilot.

Jack plunked himself down in one of the cushioned leather chairs, breathing somewhat heavily following the recent exertion. Boy, I'm really out of shape, it's time for another one of those New Year's Resolution.

Moments later, the pilot's voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Newman, you better tighten up your seatbelt, things are going to get a little rough."

Wow, that's an understatement, he mused as the aircraft buffeted in the high winds as it made its way to the end of the runway. It did not take long before the Rolls-Royce turbofans began to whine as the pilots added power. The brakes let go with a jolt and the aircraft promptly began to pick up speed. The thumping noise the tires made rolling over the runway joints began coming in ever-increasing succession, until the aircraft pitched up into what seemed an impossible angle, accelerating at full power. The light aircraft was tossed about violently as it tenaciously climbed in the struggle against the forces of nature. The executive tightened his grip around the armrests as he watched the wing flex under the stress of the load being placed upon it from his port-side window. Ten minutes later, the turbulence began to subside. Jack's grip began to loosen. A few minutes later he was fast asleep.

\----------

MANHATTAN, NY - "Mr. Newman?"

"Yes, I'm Newman."

The driver turned and grabbed the door handle and opened it with a slight tug. Jack half heard the driver say, "I understand you're going to the Belmont?"

"Yes, the Belmont."

Jack spent time looking over what Pete sent him during breakfast; nothing he read gave any indication why Victor would be interested in a news company.

"First time to New York?" asked the driver when he retook his seat.

"Yes, I mean no." Jack was paying little attention save for the business algorithm running through his thoughts.

"Been here many times?"

Why the interest? Kept running through the executive's mind.

The driver continued to strike up a conversation without success. "I hear the Belmont is a grand old place. It's private isn't it?"

Now the driver was becoming annoying. "Look, I've got a lot on my mind, so if you don't mind, just drive."

The driver nodded he understood; this was, after all, New York where everyone naturally tended to be a little blunt.

A half-hour later Jack arrived out front of a four-story Brownstone with a red-painted door.

"Here, take this," said Jack as he pushed a hundred-dollar bill into the driver's hand.

"Well, thank you. Do you need any help?"

"No, I've got it."

The bellman for the club now opened the limo door saying, "Welcome to the Belmont Club."

"Thank you," replied Jack stepping briskly from the limo and up the stairs where another attendant was waiting.

"Welcome to the Belmont Club."

Jack nodded.

Jack was greeted by the concierge as he entered the foyer, "Hello, may I help you sir?"

"Hello, I'm Jack Newman here to see Dr. Magnason."

"Yes, Mr. Newman, Dr. Magnason is expecting you. This way, please."

Jack was led down a series of long hallways with walls of dark-stained, hardwood, tastefully decorated with framed black-and-white photos of past NYU rowing teams, and then into a private study.

"This way, Mr. Newman."

Victor was initially seated in one of the leather chairs facing the doorway when Jack entered. The CEO slowly stood when he saw his partner enter the room.

Victor was stocky, of average height and maybe a little overweight, a stark contrast to Jack's slim, tall build. Victor's features were rounded, his shoulders a bit bowed, overall an unimpressive physical specimen. Jack, on the other hand, looked like an athlete with his angular, chiseled body, tight-fitting suit, perfectly combed hair. In the extreme, Victor looked like Hardy, Jack like Laurel.

It was the eyes, however, that really set the two men apart, the mirrors into their respective souls. Those dark brown, piercing eyes of Victor's were menacing, shifty, never letting any detail, even the slightest, escape notice. They were eyes that cut right through a person, saw their fears, their over confidence, their humanity, all on display without a word being said.

Jack, on the other hand, had an amiable, friendly demeanor with bright, cheery, blue peepers, and smiles that naturally came easy to him. Victor usually wore something resembling a scowl. Anyway, the two men could have not been further apart in appearance and demeanor, again, kind of like Laurel and Hardy, but without the goofy personalities.

"Good to see you, Jack."

"Hello, Victor."

The two shook hands, Victor with a tired, but genuine smile that was born from years of familiarity and trust.

"Thanks for coming on such short notice."

The president noticed his partner was wearing his usual business-casual ensemble with what remained of his hair roughly combed in place, probably using the palm of his hand.

"Please, take a seat," said Victor pointing to an empty leather chair opposite his. The room was not well lit, and Jack's eyes took a little time to get adjusted to the darkness. There was a centerpiece lamp on a coffee table between the two chairs up against the wall. The lighting it cast illuminated the surroundings just enough for Jack to notice his partner's hand was trembling, almost uncontrollably as if shivering from cold.

Victor ignored his glance, fully aware his associate had noticed and started the conversation by asking about the family.

"So, Jack how's Susan and the family?" Victor smirked, adding, "I understand you've got a wedding coming up."

Jack nervously interlocked the fingers of his hands at the thought of the long-haired university dropout his youngest daughter was about to marry. "Yes, Sybil's engaged and the wedding plans have overtaken everyone's lives. Sybil has caught a real winner this time, Victor. A regular long hair, weirdo."

The CEO smiled, "You really don't remember much about what you and I looked like back at the university?"

"Of course I do, but that was back in the seventies when everyone had long hair."

Victor chuckled with that grin which every time reminded Jack of Disney's cartoon character, the Cheshire Cat. "I suppose you have a point. Oh well, don't forget a prenuptial agreement before all is said and done. That girl's going to inherit quite a bit when you're gone."

A wry smile came to Jack's face. Both men were now billionaires several times over thanks to their long and profitable relationship.

"Enough about all that, you'll figure it out. Now, on to why you're here. It was important you and I come face to face as soon as possible. What did you hear from Pete?"

"He mentioned you wanted to look into acquiring a news company."

"Yes, but not just any news company. One of the 'big three.'"

"I heard, why?"

"Because Jack, I have one last remaining goal I want to accomplish in life, and acquisition of one of the leading news companies is the first logical step to getting things rolling."

Jack thought Victor's statement odd. What did he mean, 'last remaining goal in life?' Oh well, he would be informed soon enough. Leave it to his partner to keep him in the dark until the last minute.

There was a knock at the door and a waiter appeared. "Good afternoon Dr. Magnason, Mr. Newman, am I intruding?"

"No, go ahead," replied Victor.

"Lunch will be served at one o'clock as requested, Dr. Magnason. In the meantime, may I get the two of you something to drink?"

"Jack, what are you having?"

"A coffee please."

"Decaffeinated tea for me," added the CEO.

"Very good, gentlemen." The waiter turned and departed the study, quietly closing the door behind him.

"So, Victor, where might we be rolling to this time?"

Victor's expression changed, a heavy weight seemed to descend upon his features.

"Before I explain my reasons I must get something off my chest. You noticed my trembling hand."

"Anything wrong?"

Victor chuckled with irony in his tone, "Just a bit, it's the first sign that my body is beginning to lose the battle. It's called Creutzfeldt–Jakob Disease and it's terminal. Doctors say I've got five, maybe six good years."

A look of shock came to the president's face. "It's terminal...five, or six years. For God's sake, surely there are still other options?"

"No, unfortunately the Swiss neurologists were my last hope."

Jack's look of shock became slowly replaced by sadness as Victor's situation began to sink in. Jack had been aware his friend was seeing specialists, but he was a private man. Jack struggled to maintain his emotions for the moment, as the CEO was truly his one and only real friend.

What seemed like an eternity passed before Victor broke the silence.

"Jack, I've already got our attorneys working on the transfer of power to you. I will be removing myself from the day-to-day business activities and board meetings when the paperwork is complete. I want to concentrate all my remaining time and energies on the one last thing I want to achieve before I come face to face with my maker."

Victor's expression all of a sudden began to radiate as he thought of his latest, greatest and final 'big idea.' "Jack, I want to knock off those rascals now running the Democrat Party. I want to send them backpacking and the only way to do that is to cut off their air supply."

"Let me guess, buying a major newspaper, then turning it into a conservative powerhouse would do that?"

"Yes, there's only one way to beat those bastards before they change the nation for good, and I think I've come up with the way to do it: by beating them at their own damn game, by creating our own news operation. It's the only way. If we can make a big enough splash, we could end their heydays, and for good."

"Do you really believe one of those hardcore, enlightened do-gooders would sell out to someone like you, or I?"

"Hell no, I don't expect them to, but the acquisition route is the first logical step. Yes, we might be wasting time with our overtures, but the two of us will not be idling waiting with bated breath. Instead, you and I will begin building something revolutionary, something that will end the monopoly they have held much too long."

"I long ago realized that without the news industry, the elitists running the show would lose their means of manipulating the American people. They should fall like a house of cards with the competitive venture I'm envisioning. I am convinced there is a chance that someone with my financial resources can bring about their demise, to prevent the same kind of debacle we're witnessing in Europe taking place here. America is the last bastion for people like you and I and if we lose it, if it becomes like Europe, you, MEI, everything will be eventually lost.

"Before I reach my final hour I plan to devote my energies and fortune to attaining the one solution I know is needed to save the country from those ignoramuses. I want to leave the American people with something they have not seen in over a century, a major news enterprise that will level the playing field and provide conservatism with an equal voice. What's more, you and I will make a mint in the process."

Victor was cognizant of something with respect to liberalism that most revolutionaries never wanted to admit: their beliefs could not stand on their own merits. The doctrine required the purveyors to lie, to distort the facts, to completely overlook any truth that conflicted with their own convictions. Right now, there was no countervailing force, nothing to dispel their lies. Victor's future news company would fill that void, bring forward an honest portrayal of events, and force the publishers out of business thereby changing the present course of the republic.

There was little time to waste; the country was worth preserving, worth fighting for and if need be, worth losing everything to protect...the CEO just hoped it was not already too late.

"Jack, are you ready for the biggest fight of our lives?"

\----------

Jack departed soon after lunch, while Victor remained at the Belmont sitting motionless in that same study, deep in thought. The publishers would naturally blow off any offer MEI tendered, but just the same, the CEO wanted to be able to personally meet the newsmen. Victor could already see them in his mind, all three - arrogant individuals who, like most dogmatists, would imagine they had the world by the throat. The hubris of the publishers, he was confident, would be their failing weakness. The newsmen would be alerted of his intentions, and they were bound to learn of his efforts sooner, or later anyway. By his playing the part of inept executive on a fool's errand now, Victor would give the three ultraists a false sense of security; their very imperiousness would be put to work against them blinding each to the real threat he posed. With luck, only too late would each discover the err of their ways...before they had time to marshal Washington and the Democrat Party.
COMING STORM

The headlines said it all: the midterm elections were over before they had even begun. The Democrats had already won!

Democrats Expected to Win

World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - For a combination of reasons increasingly bullish prognostications by pollsters promise a Democratic blowout. Democrats are expected to take the House by a significant margin and the Senate is too close to call.

There was good reason for the media's optimism; the past six years had been spent deriding the Republicans on every issue fathomable. By early morning, the day following the national election, Democrats had picked up more than two dozen Republican-held House seats without losing any of their own, putting Minority Leader Patricia Bocchino (D-Massachusetts) into the position of becoming the nation's first female speaker.

Democrats Take House!

American News

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Democrats recaptured the House last night defeating Republican incumbents in every region of the nation and are close to gaining control of the Senate in elections dominated by war, scandal and President McKinley's faltering leadership.

Two days after the midterm elections, the press' efforts to demonize a sitting Republican Senator had paid off.

Burton Concedes, Dems Win Control Over Senate

World Tribune

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Democrat Jim Deane, who campaigned for Virginia's U.S. Senate seat by opposing the war in Iraq and calling for economic fairness, yesterday succeeded in his improbable bid to unseat Republican Senator Robert Burton, giving the Democrats a sixty-seat majority and domination of both houses of Congress.

Two weeks following the elections, the committee hearings surrounding the Subprime Mortgage Crisis continued up on The Hill. The debacle presented the Democrats with untold possibilities once they took the reins over Congress in mid-January. It was not a question of if the financial catastrophe would occur, it was only a question of when. True, the looming crisis was of their own party's making, but that did not matter, not once they seized control up on The Hill. The Democrat Party would seize upon this crisis, as they had many times before, and use the debacle to their political advantage. With the press entirely in the Democrat's pocket, the party would succeed in creating an alternative reality of events, and thus, rewrite history in the minds of most.

Republican President William W. McKinley's endeavors to avert the crisis had not been carried out forcefully enough; the moderates in his party caved in to the Democrats' stalling tactics just after the press began turning up the heat. The blame for the financial meltdown would be laid at McKinley's feet; the outgoing President would go down as the cause of the second greatest depression in American history. McKinley would leave a future Democrat President an "out" for any miscarriage his, or her, policies would create...it was a perfect storm...just waiting to break.

Today's hearing by the Financial Services Committee involved one of the men responsible for the looming crisis, Democrat presidential appointee: Director Jose Rivera. Rivera and his cronies had done everything possible to hide the state of affairs; he now sat in front of the committee saying little, knowing the problem was too big to hide. Due to the upcoming debacle, it was now up to his party and the media to keep the truth hidden, to defend the indefensible. When Rivera's party took control over Congress, the bureaucrat knew he would then be completely off the hook, as the condemnation would drop on someone else's shoulders.

The Democrats were perfectly aware they could not make hay on any of the issues that would certainly come up in today's hearings, the truth surrounding the financial meltdown would get in the way. The Democrats recognized it was their party's former President Gerald Evenson who got the whole ball rolling, forcing the mortgage banking industry into accepting notes from what were in essence his party's voters. The financial problems were just beginning to show up in record numbers of defaults and foreclosures. The real-estate bubble Evenson created was just about to go bust. More than three trillion dollars of worthless mortgages sat on the balance sheets of the twin, government-backed lending institutions: Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. It would ultimately be up to the taxpayers to make up for the losses; the Subprime Mortgage Crisis represented the single largest transfer of wealth to date. Little did anyone realize their hardships were just beginning.

The party playbook when faced with indefensible situations was to turn to the tactics laid out by Saul Alinsky in his Rules for Radicals. In this case, the Democrat politicians employed Rule Number 2: Ridicule. Name-calling, demonization, ostracism and shouts of racism, anything to distract from the real issues, anything the press could use to distract the public. There was no defense to the slanderous remarks in view of the fact they were based upon entirely irrational behavior. Alinsky's maxims had become a key part of the Democrat Party playbook. The sad thing was, the communist had been right; it worked. The Republicans had no response, unless they too embraced the same cheap expedient, but then again that would require a media that was on their side.

Vermont Representative, Jefferson Farbstein, speaking more to a few reporters seated in the audience than to the issue, had these words to say as the ranking Committee Democrat with his New England lisp.

"Fannie Mae and Fweddie Mac are not facing a financial cwisis and the more the Wepubwicans exaggewate that lie, the mowe they'we huwting those Amewicans who desewve a home. It's going to huwt the countwy's minowities who desewve affowdabwe housing.''

The second highest-ranking Democrat, New York Representative Joseph Jones, now thought the time appropriate to jump on Farbstein's bandwagon with his Harlem dialect.

''I agree wid the Congressman! It's discriminashun! Ah tell ya' it's racist! You's're talking about takin' away sump'n poo' families deserve and dat's an affo'dable place to live!"

The Chairperson had witnessed these hearings descend into utter chaos before on numerous occasions and attempted to stop the madness by pounding his gavel. This had little effect on Jones who responded by raising his voice over that of the Chairman.

"Dis is a witch hunt and ya're all racists!" Jones shouted.

The Chair responded, "Representative Jones, if you do not stop your outburst I will be forced to have you..."

Now, California Legislator Dabreesha Duvall saw her opportunity to join the spectacle with her own version of histrionics.

The din of the banging gavel could be heard as other Democrats joined the fray. One only had to look at the pages sitting behind the Democrats to understand this was nothing but a contrived event. The pages' smiles, chuckling, laughter said it all and these lunatics would soon be running Congress.

\----------

CAYMAN ISLANDS - Victor took the vibrating phone from his sweater pocket and looked to see the incoming call.

"Go ahead, Ingrid," Jack said to his secretary.

"Dr. Magnason, Mr. Newman has had me looking into someone who might help your efforts in Washington."

"Go ahead."

"Mr. Newman thinks he's found the person, former Republican Senator Robert Burton. The Senator served in the Senate the past several decades. Senator Burton's background and connections on several key committees are believed by Mr. Newman to be of utmost importance. The Senator is going to be a keynote speaker at Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC) next month. Jack would like for you to accompany him to the event to meet Senator Burton."

During election season most journalists dropped everything except political coverage; it was their official hunting season. The press were all out to find that next award-winning story, that next Watergate and for most this meant spending long hours on someone's campaign trail, some moderate, or Republican politician they might ruin. They always had one objective: to get that one photograph, that one verbal slip, that one video clip that would prevent his or her chances of winning an election.

Senator Burton was one of their victims. Plagued by dozens of reporters throughout his campaign, one journalist in particular had become so annoying with his line of questioning the Senator's handlers tried to get him thrown out of the Press Corps. The technique the reporter was using was one taught in hundreds of journalism schools across America: simply wear down your opponent with continuous, repetitive, provocative questioning. The modus operandi worked best in the closing moments of a busy day when the politician was leaving the stage and thought the pressure of the public appearance was all over and his guard was down.

The WNN reporter used the same line of questioning for the past three weeks, but was thwarted by the Senator's savvy political handlers until one late afternoon when the Senator's primary advisor was missing from the Senator's side.

"Senator, what is your position on Abu Ghraib? Do you think the administration should also be included in charges of torture?" the reporter pestered.

The video had shown the Senator ignored the question. The reporter rephrased the question more provocatively. "Why won't you answer the question? Do you approve of torturing helpless victims?"

Senator Burton replied heatedly, "Look, your question is absurd. A few bad eggs guarding prisoners in Iraq warrants an investigation...not impeachment. How can you stand there and ask the same damn, stupid questions? Are you really that ignorant, or are you just some sort of Democrat operative?"

Most of the audience applauded the Senator's response, obviously seeing his actions as justified. The problem was that from that point on, WNN controlled what the public saw and heard of the encounter and news diva Deena Crawford had worked her magic upon the Virginia voters. For the next months leading up to the election, the Senator continually lost ground under her assaults. The insistent reporter was rewarded by his peers with the 'Pulitzer Prize for Public Service' and Senator Robert Burton was now living a quiet life outside the spotlight of politics.

"Can I have someone make arrangements for you to attend, Dr. Magnason?"

The CEO thought for a moment about his condition, how he might appear in public; his medication would fix things temporarily, long enough to weather the event.

"Where is CPAC being held, Ingrid?"

"Washington."

"Anything else Jack wanted to add?"

"No, Dr. Magnason, that's everything."

"Okay Ingrid, make the arrangements. Contact my secretary with the details."

"So Ingrid, how's your granddaughter doing in school? Stephanie, isn't it?"

"Thank you for asking, Stephanie is doing really well. Her mother tells me she made honor roll this last semester."

"That is good to hear and really no surprise, a regular chip off the ole block."

Ingrid laughed, then in a more serious tone asked, "How are you holding up, Dr. Magnason?"

Victor was not surprised Jack would tell some of his closest staff about his condition. Word would get out soon enough.

"Thank you Ingrid, I'm doing fine."
RESCUE OPERATION

NORTHEAST PROVINCE, IRAQ - 5:53 P.M. Baghdad Time. Dusk of one more day was swiftly approaching in As-Sulaymāniyyah Province as the Blackhawk MH-60 and Apache attack helicopter lifted off in clouds of swirling sand leaving behind the men of the border-outpost, "Fort Wilderness." This was "Navaho Country," a phrase coined by the Arizona National Guard Commander Colonel Max H. Heston to describe one of the wildest provinces in Iraq, a 150-kilometer swath of mountainous terrain that offered an ideal place for outlaws, smugglers...and terrorists. Most of the contraband going through this region would ultimately wind up in devastating attacks on civilian and military targets. The President and the generals would be blamed for the carnage in the featured headlines of tomorrow's tabloids. It was a daily assault on both fronts.

The Colonel glanced briefly at his watch, and then at the junior officer Lt. Tim McFarland rocking back and forth in a seated position across from him, fast asleep. The Lieutenant was a young man from Flagstaff, Arizona and represented the kind of American who enlisted following the harrowing attacks of September 11, 2001. The Colonel thought about waking the officer but his questions regarding his observations on the outpost's defensive measures could wait. McFarland would be little good to him without some rest; it was after all probably going to be one more long night.

The weather was surprisingly good this time of year with cloudless blue skies and eighty-degree temperatures, a welcomed reprieve from the past two months of near constant rain. Who would have thought a monsoon season existed in this otherwise barren part of the world. The rain did, however, bring with it a positive side: it limited the mobility of both man and beast and created supply problems for America's fanatic enemies. With the improvement in weather, that all changed. The raids and trafficking had picked up and everyone inside the battalion was now on full alert.

Colonel Heston carried the Army-issue Baretta M9 on his right hip, with an effective range of fifty meters and fifteen round magazine. It would offer some means of protection in close-quarters fighting. Heston wore the familiar desert-tan, camouflage, combat fatigues and correspondingly festooned Kevlar helmet designed to blend into their desert surroundings. A pair of shatter-resistant goggles completed his ensemble.

The drone of the voices from the flight crew over his headset, the whine of the turbine engines, the rocking motion of the chopper all began to blur together and was a sign the Colonel was also beginning to succumb to his own exhaustion. The recent flurry of fourteen-hour days and stress of command, on this, his second tour of duty were beginning to take a toll on his physical conditioning. Colonel Heston unconsciously shifted his gaze to the open sliding door of the Blackhawk, at the passing mountainous terrain. His eyelids became heavy before closing. Heston was soon fast asleep.

A veteran of both Iraq Wars, Colonel Heston was called "Granddad" by his men when he was not looking. Heston was aware of this of course, but played along with the game. He was after all retiring soon, and this was to be his final tour of duty.

Retirement would bring with it a new career, politics. Already, Heston had begun getting the word out. The Colonel felt something was wrong with today's Republican Party. It needed people with more backbone, more willingness to stand up for their values, and more fortitude when taking on the Democrats. Heston was convinced most Republican voters wanted the same thing. The current crop of politicians was not cutting it and that was especially true for the two Arizona senators. Heston would run for politics with an agenda that would be based entirely on orthodox principles...and the Colonel was confident he would win.

\----------

The Colonel was violently shaken from his sleep by the earsplitting crack of an explosion. A ground-to-air missile had found its mark. The impact was terrifying, the fireball searing, the sound overpowering and the pressure wave felt like he'd been hit by a Mack Truck. Heston first gasped for a breath! The Colonel could not see anything, was he blind? Heston ripped off the shattered goggles and froze in terror. The gunner had been cut in half, and only the lower portion of the torso remained strapped in. The Colonel saw that the Lieutenant was still alive. The Colonel saw his own terror reflected in the soldier's blood-spattered face.

They were going down! Was it all over?

Heston's surroundings became a blur like the one experienced on a spinning carnival ride; he was being pinned to his seat by terrific centrifugal forces.

God help us! The Colonel thought just before everything went black.

Fourteen minutes later, the last light of the setting sun helped the Colonel make out several dark shapes struggling to pull him from the wreckage. Several strong hands held him firmly in place as one of the figures struggled to release his straps. His head was swimming, but Heston had the presence of mind to stay calm and looked to see if anyone else was alive. The Colonel then caught a glimpse of the Lieutenant. His body was limp and it appeared his hands were bound behind him. The Lieutenant was being half-carried, half-dragged between two white-robed figures toward what looked like vehicles.

The Blackhawk was a battle-tested design, which was why the Colonel and Lieutenant managed to survive the impact, that and a great deal of luck. Unbeknownst to the Colonel, the escorting Apache attack helicopter had also taken a direct hit, only it altogether lost any lift and plunged to the ground, instantly killing the two-man crew and leaving behind a jumbled metal wreck.

Heston was about to look in the direction where the two pilots should have been when he was all of a sudden snatched from his seat. Two pairs of hands restrained him while pulling him from the wreckage, maintaining their grip as Heston tried to steady himself.

About him stood the dark faces of a dozen or more bearded men, most dressed in white, but half a dozen in black, all wearing the familiar keffiyeh headdress. Each carried the terrorist weapon of choice, the AK-47. Two of the men dressed in the dark robes caught his eye, smiling with teeth missing. Each carried empty launch tubes for the ground-to-air missile used to bring the choppers down. The scene reminded him of a successful big-game hunt in Africa where he and the Lieutenant were the trophies.

Middle East Command only just discovered that Iranian-backed fanatics were armed with the late-model Chinese copy of the Stinger missile. This was a weapon the American intelligence community long feared would fall into terrorists' hands. Light to carry and easy to use and like the Stinger was a fire-and-forget weapon. Fired from the shoulder, the sixty-inch long missile carried a twenty-two pound charge of high explosives that was more than enough to bring down a commercial aircraft and just about anything in the U.S. military arsenal.

The Colonel's hands were still free, but the two men holding his arms behind him had leverage and strength working for them. If he were going to do something he would have to do it...too late!

A black-robed figure broke ranks and approached. The next thing Heston remembered seeing was the man suddenly lashing out with the butt of his assault rifle, pain, then darkness.

The Colonel woke for a moment looking down at sand and gravel passing beneath him. Heston then felt a sharp, stabbing pain in both shoulder joints as they were being forced into an unnatural position. Everything became a blur and then again, darkness.

\----------

WASHINGTON, D.C. - One hour, twenty-one minutes after the Colonel was first reported missing, the sun was streaming through the windows of the West Wing briefly brightening up the room before disappearing behind the dark clouds of a winter day. President William W. McKinley was seated in his leather chair at the middle of the sixteen-foot black-cherry wood table, his back to the west-facing windows. This was a daily briefing where cabinet members had a chance to bring up issues and ideas for his consideration.

The President was now midway thru his second term, and for much of that time McKinley and his Administration had been the media's punching bag. Blamed for everything ranging from ordering the atrocities at Abu Ghraib, to steering Hurricane Katrina into New Orleans, to a climbing unemployment rate hovering just above four percent, the most recent attacks had him facing charges that he purposely deceived the nation into attacking Iraq. McKinley and his staff recognized the stories were lies; they also understood they were powerless to respond to the attacks in any meaningful way.

McKinley was growing tired of being forced to defend his administration at every turn from daily attacks from the likes of World News Network, American News and World Tribune. McKinley believed if he and his administration succeeded in dispelling one set of myths they would only be replaced by some newly contrived fabrication, or worse yet, add creditability to the press' bizarre claims.

McKinley had arrived just short of six years ago. He had come to Washington carrying an olive branch with the same high-minded principles he had used with success in his home state. Unfortunately, McKinley was not acquainted with states where unions and high numbers of welfare recipients dominated elections and sent to Washington politicians who embraced a near socialist outlook. The only thing that had saved him in 2006 and ensured his reelection had been the outcome of his policies following the attacks of September 11th. For a time McKinley was unassailable by the press.

The assaults from the media began again in earnest during his reelection campaign. Everything McKinley's policies accomplished during his first term: saving the country from economic ruin to eliminating terrorist breeding grounds abroad, were rapidly forgotten by an establishment that secretly loathed the President's success. The accomplishments of the first term were replaced by one-sided attacks most of which were based on pure falsehoods.

McKinley was convinced that responding to the press' misrepresentations was beneath the dignity of the office, his lack of riposte, however, would exact a price on his party, give the media a freehand to get into the heads of the voters and hand the Democrats control of Congress...the White House appeared to be next.

The Commander and Chief now sat among his cabinet, the noise of journalists' cameras having long disappeared. McKinley was now thought of as a "Lame Duck," and there was nothing for the Press Corps to do. It was time for the press to move on to new ground. There was, after all, one more election coming.

Discussions for the day were winding up, and the staff were leaving the Cabinet Room when the Secretary of Defense, Donald Taggert, approached the President somewhat furtively.

"Mr. President."

"Yes, Don."

"We have an issue."

"Okay, go ahead."

The cabinet member glanced up to see that everyone had departed the chamber save the security detail. Seeing the coast was clear, Taggert went on.

"We have two officers who have been captured. Army Intelligence is convinced the officers are being held behind Iranian lines."

"How long ago?"

"Last evening, Baghdad time. Sir, the last thing we need to see are those two officers being beheaded on the internet."

"You say they're being held behind Iranian lines?"

"Yes, Mr. President, that's what intelligence believes."

"Let me get to my office. I need to get Derrick on the line."

"I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. President."

The Special Activities Division (SAD) was a clandestine group that provided the Executive Office with options when overt military and or diplomatic actions could not be taken. Created in the mid-1980's by an Executive Order from President Ronald Reagan, SAD was the crème de la crème of covert US paramilitary organizations. It fell under the umbrella of the CIA's National Clandestine Service and would carry out 'Black-Operations' known as "Special Activities." SAD was an offensive weapon, a surgical scalpel, on call for just one man, the President of the United States.

The history of SAD began as a result of Reagan's stated aim of slowing the spread of communism by the Soviets. China at the time was nothing more than a small blip on anyone's radar. The Democrats, then in charge of Congress, resisted Reagan's endeavors to combat communism in countries like Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Afghanistan. The President's response was the creation of the Special Activities Division.

SAD resembled a twentieth-century incarnation of Rome's Praetorian Guard, an elite unit made up of the absolute best. They were also a group of men who did not officially exist and risked everything on the missions given them by the President of the United States.
CPAC

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The mood at CPAC was downtrodden, as the Democrats looked to soon be in control of all Congress after a twelve-year absence. What was just as disconcerting was the way the Republicans behaved during their decade in power. The Republican Party was now stacked with moderates who conducted themselves little differently from their counterparts in the Democrat Party on most pressing issues. Unfortunately, a majority in Washington on both sides of the aisle was beholden to the media, because without the support of the press most recognized they would not win reelection. This threat was why so many Republicans were towing the line on many progressive issues.

The press viewed weak moderate candidates as preferable to traditionalists, and their election tinkering resulted in both parties behaving increasingly like liberals. The result had been the Republican Party ran up the nation's debt, created a new bevy of entitlements and did nothing to stop the looming "Subprime Loan" crisis. To make matters worse, the Republicans had taken few steps to consolidate, or invigorate their voters; instead, they adopted a policy of laissez-faire and hoped for the best. The Republican Party had become inept, seeking only to placate its political enemies with kindness. As the fabrications surrounding the economy and war grew in audaciousness, enough voters became persuaded their party needed to be replaced.

What's more, a majority of Republican voters saw many of their representatives undermine attempts to secure orthodox judicial nominees, but worse still, many were behind an amnesty bill that, if passed, would have permanently put the power of future elections in the hands of the Democrats. The actions of the RINOs (Republicans in name only) had predictable results; their constituents had not turned out and the opposition now controlled both Houses of Congress.

American businesses were expeditious in reacting to the shift in power, and unemployment was already beginning to rise. Soon people's incomes would also be seen falling as companies began tightening their belts to weather one more spate of control by an otherwise antibusiness political party. The one redeeming factor was the moderate in the White House who still possessed the threat of veto power. Unfortunately, Senator Rooney could now override McKinley's veto with his sixty votes in the Senate.

Both Victor and Jack had traveled the world and seen first hand the human misery and true inequalities fanaticism spawned. In the Far East, the extreme form: communism created a ruling class of bureaucrats and politicians who lived opulent lifestyles at the expense of the cheap labor the Chinese people provided. Work conditions mirrored scenes from the early Industrial Revolution.

In the Middle East, except for Israel, Victor saw appalling third-world living conditions for all except a few members of a ruling caste. The basic necessities of palatable drinking water, sewage systems, electricity, never mind automobiles and flat-screen TVs, things Americans took for granted, did not exist for the masses.

In Europe, Victor had seen countries that transitioned to government-driven economies where politicians and bureaucrats represented the rich ruling class. Once-prosperous industries were now owned by the government because of tax foreclosures, and most were being sold off piecemeal to foreigners to keep the charade alive. It was nothing more than a temporary fix and would eventually come down around their ears.

Jobs and the private industry were leaving the worst of those countries including France, Italy, Spain and Greece, as businesses relocated overseas to escape onerous taxation, the high labor costs and inefficiencies created by the unions. The private sector had become not the engine that drove the economy, but the water trough wherefrom broadminded elitists sought to quench the ravenous thirst of their out-of-control programs. Those once-democratic societies were on the brink of disaster and when the money ran out, would face riots and chaos like that now being seen in Greece.

The more the CEO had seen abroad, the more he had come to loathe the anarchists and the chaos they created. Victor was never more convinced that the American people needed to be aware of what was in point of fact happening around them, and why.

America stood alone in the world. It was the last beacon of hope. It was the last nation to embrace capitalism in its truest sense...and the American people needed to be aware that their way of life was now at stake.

The driver spoke up as they pulled up in front of a massive glass and steel building.

"We have arrived, Mr. Newman."

"Don't bother getting the door," Jack said to ward off any undue attention.

The company president knew of how well Victor kept his identity hidden from the public. Victor was not like most of the high-profile executives, those who sought out the spotlight, who danced for the press, so they could see their mugs on the front page of some tabloid, or magazine cover. Victor worked behind the scenes and could walk about in public without the consequences that accompanied success.

Jack was not so lucky; after all, it was his job to be the face of MEI, which meant he would also become the occasional target of the news media. As far as the president could tell, they were mostly goofballs who were convinced business successes only occurred because someone else was taken advantage of, either through theft, or servitude. How they could be Americans and arrive at these conclusions was puzzling.

Both executives saw a throng of people with cameras hovering around the main entrance of the center. CPAC not only attracted mainstream Americans, the event also attracted droves of journalists who, at the orders of their editors, were there to create news.

"Probably reporters," remarked Jack. "Looking for someone to descend upon, I suspect. Let's take the side entrance and avoid that rabble."

Victor nodded.

Jack had the distinct impression he and Victor were being studied from afar, by the hungry eyes of a meandering mob of journalists. Wearing business suits for the occasion the two executives stood out like sore thumbs among the more casually dressed CPAC attendees.

"Tickets please..."

\----------

Later that afternoon...

The Senator's thoughts, as of late, centered on his time in Congress - how that time now appeared to have been all for nothing. Burton knew, however, he was too old to continue fighting the good fight, and his days in politics were at long last over. In many respects, he was very happy those days were now behind him.

Senator Burton's first term began during the wave of patriotism following Ronald Reagan's climb to the White House. Now, over three decades later, it had been much too long to have someone of Reagan's caliber missing in the Republican Party. Reagan had done so much to reverse the trend of decline, and it had been a great time to be a Republican, to know that someone was in the office who could really articulate the reasons for America's greatness, a person who could defend the principles that led to that high standing among a sea of dissidents.

Senator Burton agreed to see the two executives from Magnason Enterprise for one reason: they offered the possibility of hope. The face to face was arranged by Katharine Tate who was quite persuasive in getting that point across.

The Senator entered the private conference room an hour after his stage event and was greeted by Jack and Victor.

"Good afternoon Senator Burton, I am Jack Newman and this is Dr. Victor Magnason."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the Senator replied with a shake of each man's hand.

The Senator's handshake was firm, his eyes clear and alert, but his overall countenance telegraphed that his body was running on reserves. The point of this meeting needed to come up early.

Jack motioned to an empty chair at the head of the table. "Please, take a seat, Senator."

The politician slowly sat down smiling, "Thank you, I don't mind if I do. It has been a long day."

Victor remained silent, doing what he normally did in meetings with Jack - playing the role of silent partner.

"We saw your presentation and I must say we were both taken aback by your passionate plea for more government restraint."

"That has always been one of my pet peeves, Jack...may I call you Jack?"

"Certainly Senator, and please refer to my partner as Victor."

"Yes, of course," the Senator smiled. "Boy, could I tell the two of you some stories."

The light banter went on for several minutes, each man feeling the other out with words as their rapiers, each seeking to gauge the objective(s) of the person before them. All the while, Victor remained quiet, listening. Finally, a point was reached when the Senator believed he'd sized up Jack. Victor, however, remained a mystery.

"Jack, enough about Washington. What is it that you two sprites want from this old dog?"

The politician smiled, now waiting politely for an explanation on what for.

Jack responded to the Senator's silence with the reason, "I'm sorry, but we must be a little vague in our response. It is because we expect to rock quite a few boats up in Washington with what we're doing. There are quite a few people up here who would want nothing better than to see a new project of ours fail."

"Okay, you have my attention."

"Senator, Dr. Magnason and I are in the midst of creating an innovative news company that we are convinced will rock the industry. I can't go into details at this time except to say that the news company we are planning we believe will put today's cartel out of business in time."

The Senator's eyebrows rose just slightly for a moment.

"I am talking about a news company with a traditionalist viewpoint."

Senator Burton suddenly looked skeptical; he realized just how much of a long shot this whole idea really was.

Jack continued, "One of the panelists, I forget who, hit on the one point the media most fears, a challenge to their position of dominance..."

But, even as Jack continued talking, he did not realize the Senator's mind had begun to wander. Victor had picked up on the subtlety by his slight eye movements.

Senator Burton was a realist and while he understood there were many in his party who wanted the same things for the country, they had always been reacting to the one element they all feared, the press. The kind of misapplications the press could heap on any unfortunate politician who became a target was unfathomable. They were like a pack of wild animals running about the country and as with all wildlife, you were never quite sure what they were going to do next. One minute, they were amiable, harmless, purring little kittens. The next, snarling, foaming at the mouth, rabid dogs. The Senator understood in his heart that they were the primary reason conservatism was losing ground. For Republicans, it was every time like walking on eggshells. You didn't want to make too much noise, otherwise you'd wake up the beast.

"Jack, that is very interesting and my guess is you need someone to help you navigate Washington. Have I got it?"

"Yes, Senator, but we don't just need someone with connections, we need someone who, like ourselves, understands the kind of danger the country is in and is motivated to do something to change it. Our biggest obstacle and fear is the one mentioned by Professor Hayden, the part about how the establishment, with the help of the Democrats, brought about the demise of The Daily. We won't have the issue of the unions as The Daily did, but any legislation involving the internet could negatively hamper our efforts. We, of course, don't want to see the same thing happening to us that happened at The Daily."

"It sounds fascinating Jack, but I don't know how I can help."

Victor understood some of what Jack had been discussing was getting through to the Senator, and all the politician needed now was a little nudge.

Victor now spoke up for the first time. "Senator Burton, what we need is someone who can tell us what's going on behind closed doors, especially as it relates to the news business we're developing. Jack and I need to be prepared, financially, legally to take on the challenges that will surely be thrown our way. You heard what the other panelists had to say. The country is going off the deep end if we continue along this same path...it is only a question of when."

"Jack and I know the reason for the country's demise, and I suspect you know the reason, too. Americans need the option we will offer now; they need to know what is really taking place. Damn it! We want to turn the tide before it's too late. You are the one man we're missing to pull it off!"

\----------

As Jack and Victor made their way to the waiting limousine they could not help but notice a crowd of journalists gathered around a group of protestors waving banners, and chanting incomprehensible slogans. Victor recognized one of protestors off to the side being interviewed by a news reporter and film crew. He was the thirty-something-year-old who had seen shouting out "Liars! Liars! Liars!" during the Senator's presentation.

"Jack, the young man with long, stringy red hair."

"There's our problem in America. The radicals in this county are given just too big a voice."

"Yes, Jack, especially when you consider just how small a minority those people really are."
THE RAID

AZERBAIJAN PROVINCE, IRAN - Colonel Heston began to slowly regain consciousness and discovered he was in an upright sitting position, gagged with his feet tied, his hands bound behind his back and fastened together behind a wooden support. Heston was in the middle of a room that appeared like any other one would find in the average Arab household, only this one had no windows and only one doorway. The room was dark, hot and lit only by a single light bulb hanging from an electrical cord above his head. His vision remained somewhat blurred, both eyes swollen from the beatings that began soon following his arrival. Heston was just able to make out the Lieutenant two meters to his right, gagged and tied to a wooden post.

Colonel Heston now heard the faint sound of a woman's voice coming from the doorway. She was American by the tone of it. Probably from the northeastern seaboard by the inflection. What the hell is going on here?

The woman's voice was all of a sudden replaced by a commercial for...

A tractor commercial! What in the world would those bastards be watching American television for?

The Colonel now saw the Lieutenant motion for him to look in his direction. The young man was in just as bad a state as he must have been, his eyes nearly shut, lacerations and bruising to his face caused by the crash, the beatings, or both. Just the same, the Lieutenant was making an effort to blink his eyes...to send Morse Code! Blinking eyes furiously, the Lieutenant issued the warning.

"Z...A...R...Q...A..."

The Colonel did not need the rest: Abu al-Zarqawi! Heston had not seen him during the interrogations! The Colonel began to panic uncontrollably. Other than Osama Bin Laden, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was the second most sought after Al-Qaeda leader in the world. The fanatic had once been a reporter for an Islamist tabloid and joined Osama Bin Laden in Afghanistan and was now heading up his terrorist operations on targets in Iraq. Al-Zarqawi was notorious for the video footage that he posted on the internet showing in graphic detail, how seventh-century Muslim justice was meted out to "Western Infidels."

Colonel Heston now recognized what was in store for them if they could not find a way to escape. How long have I been unconscious? What is this? The first or second day? Heston could not tell, as his surroundings and lighting remained unchanged.

The Lieutenant then began motioning with his head again, this time in the direction of a dark corner of the room. The Colonel shook his head to help clear the cobwebs and then he saw them. Three bodies, two in Iraqi Police uniforms, a third buried under the other two and not clearly visible. Heston strained his eyes, then he caught sight of them, combat boots. It had to be the body of an American soldier; they were clearly Army issue.

Heston would not realize it, but the terrorists holding him had made several raids across the border and resulted in the capture of two Iraqi Police officers and an American private from his battalion. Their bodies were heaped up in the corner of the room attracting flies, the byproduct of the fanatic's attempts to intimidate Americans and their western allies. Bad lighting prevented the Colonel from determining how the men had died. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, it would only make matters worse in his mind.

The US Military sent officers through training for such events, but nothing could prepare someone for the panic and horror one experienced knowing that their lives were about to end in the most horrific of ways. Heston became frightened and began to scan his surroundings looking for some means of getting free. The Colonel tested the tension of his bindings. They were so tight that they cut off the circulation to his hands when he attempted to move them. The Colonel began to run through a mental checklist of what he needed to do if given a chance. Heston was desperate.

The Colonel asked himself, What have I overlooked?

The presence of the dead men's bodies meant he and the Lieutenant had little time. Heston shuffled his weight again trying to slacken the tension of the ropes. The Colonel noticed the Lieutenant was attempting the same thing. No good.

Heston had not seen how many of the terrorists there were. Their one chance might be to overpower the captors if they released them from their bindings. Did the Lieutenant know? Heston caught the Lieutenant's attention, but before the Lieutenant began to send the message, the two captives suddenly heard a familiar female's voice coming from the doorway. The Colonel and Lieutenant's eyes met with the same thought.

Deena Crawford...World News Network nightly anchor?

The Colonel strove to send the Lieutenant word by blinking his swollen eyes.

"N...U...M...B...E...R."

The Lieutenant blinked a response.

"S...I...X."

\----------

KURDISTAN REGION, IRAQ - It was pitch black out as the SAD officers waited in a shallow stream bed for the pair of unmarked MH-6 Little Birds. Their mission, to save two Army officers, a Colonel and Lieutenant believed held in an Iranian border town.

This team of men had been operating deep behind Iranian lines since the cessations of major combat operations. Their missions surrounded intelligence gathering and disruption of Iran's weapons smuggling operations, missions that conventional forces could not undertake without congressional approval.

Middle East Command suspected Al-Qaeda fanatics were behind the event and, if true, could have only been carried out with Iranian support...most likely by the Quds Force.

The Quds Force was the arm of Iran's Revolutionary Guards responsible for exporting the Islamic Revolutionary movement. The "Quds" portion of the title stood for 'al-Quds', the Arabic name for Jerusalem. Translated, they were the "Jerusalem Force." It was a body of soldiers who had developed a reputation for barbarity among Iran's neighbors and were the reason U.S. Military was still engaged with the Taliban, almost seven years later. The Iranians had picked up where Saddam's Iraqi intelligence service, Jihaz Al-Mukhabarat Al-A'ma, had left off. They were now the nation in the region harboring and training terrorists for attacks in opposition to the 'Western Infidels.'

The SAD team waiting to embark was part of the Special Operations Group (SOG), a tactical portion of the organization that often operated in high-threat military, or intelligence-gathering operations. It was a tactical team that wore and carried nothing that could be overtly tied to the U.S. Government...if captured they would be entirely on their own.

The Political Action Group (PAG) made up the other side of house with missions that were more strategic in nature, ranging from managing indigenous spy networks to backing political opposition of belligerent regimes. The two groups often worked together, and in this case this team was supported by PAG Officer Allen Sinatra out of Baghdad. Both groups reported up to Operations Command, buried three levels under CIA's facilities in Langley and was simply referred to by both groups as "Mother."

Officer Marcus McQueen was leader of this six-man team known by the code name "Black Angel." Marcus was in his early thirties, of average height and sturdy build. His nose was skewed slightly off-center as a result of hand-to-hand combat in one of his past missions. Marcus had seen frontline service for nearly a decade; his background included a stint in Delta Force and time as an instructor at "The Farm," the CIA training center for field agents.

Marcus checked his watch and then tapped the communications specialists, Officer Hunter Jefferies, to his immediate right, "It's time to contact Mother."

A few moments passed before Hunter responded, "I have Mother on the line."

"Mother, this is McQueen. Is the mission still a go?"

"Marcus, your target is stationary...your target is stationary. Mission a go...mission a go."

"Understood, Mother. Mission is a go. Out."

President McKinley, unlike his Democrat predecessor, had taken the leash off this pack of killers when the attack of September 11th occurred. Today, the Black Angel Team had a free hand in missions centered on stopping weapons shipments coming from Iran into Iraq. "Classified Authorization" placed no restrictions on the Rules of Engagement, which meant the gloves could come off. The Middle Eastern brand of terrorism Marcus and his team faced, likewise, recognized no such laws. To throw about pleas for the protections of the International Humanitarian Law, the Geneva Conventions, or the Hague Conventions would have simply drawn laughter from the combatants the team encountered. The kind of war Black Angel was fighting was a no-holds-barred conflict where barbarity was the nature of the game.

Marcus checked his watch again and pressed the contact in his ear. "Transport arriving in ten mikes. Prepare to depart."

Thirty meters behind Marcus in a shallow wadi sat an idling M2A2 Bradley that delivered his team to this rendezvous point. Mother confirmed earlier on-ground intelligence; heat signatures of three vehicles had shown up on satellite, crossing the border from the crash site and were monitored until the point where they disappeared undercover in the Iranian border town of Qsar Shirin.

The minutes ticked by.

Marcus peeked at his watch again and lowered his night-vision headgear into place and peered Southwest, the direction the Black Ops choppers would take. The team leader could now see four of his five officers who had taken up defensive positions in an arc facing the Iranian border.

Just to Marcus' side was Officer Hunter Jefferies, average height, average build and former big-wave surfer from Santa Clara whose youthful appearance belied the trained killer from the Army Rangers. Blond hair, blue eyes, Hunter would have stood out like a sore thumb during night time missions if not for the protective camouflage and paint he wore.

Behind Hunter and off to the left ten meters lay Officer Karl Hagman. Similar in build to Marcus, Karl was a former Greco-Roman wrestling champion at Penn State with a broad chest and limbs like steel. He was slated to take over as team leader when Marcus retired in the not-too-distant future. A Pittsburg native, Karl was the team's number-one sniper.

Officer Sean Crutchfield lay off to Marcus' right. Sean was less athletically built, tall, thin and wiry and had come directly from the CIA, an unusual path. What qualified Sean for SAD was his time inside Delta Force. Sean was the team's technical specialist, and a high-strung New Yorker.

Officer Elijah Lee lay prone off to the right of the metal monster. Like Sean, Elijah came from CIA, was a former Navy Seal and graduate from the U.S. Naval Academy. Elijah's dark-brown hair was always cropped close to the scalp and blended in uniformly with is naturally dark, native American skin color. Part Cherokee, part Irish, Elijah was a Nevada native and the team's number-two sniper.

Completing the six-man team and positioned farthest from Marcus to the left was Officer Joe Bogart. Joe was a recent arrival coming from the 75th Ranger Regiment. Medium height, talkative and a jokester, Joe was quickly fitting in and was the team's surveillance specialist.

Each officer wore desert camouflage uniforms that bore no symbols. They carried no personal effects. The protective headgear and combat outfit appeared like the types worn by Russian Special Forces, only SAD equipment was of a much higher quality. Ceramics doubled the protective power of the Kevlar vests, helmets and combat boots. Their night-vision hardware was of the latest technical design, but was modified to appear as low-cost Russian models.

The material of the combat suits was treated with a light-sensitive chemical agent that changed the outward appearance of the men to match the changing surroundings. In blackout conditions their exteriors became midnight-black, in moonlight, silver-grey. In the desert and on a cloudy day, the camouflage pattern was of muted shades of grey and tan; in bright sunlight, everything became a tan and brown camouflage pattern.

Elijah's voice came over Marcus' earpiece, "Birds approaching from the southwest."

Ten minutes later, the team was aboard two Little Birds and were making their way east across the border.

Two hours, fifty-five minutes after the officers were reported missing, the Black Angel team touched down in Iran. The objective was a sparsely lit village they glimpsed from the air, Qsar Shirin.

It was a dark, moonless night, and the outer layer of their combat fatigues turned jet-black. They looked like some kind of twenty-second century Ninjas. Off to the right a short distance was a chain of rocky hills the team would intercept and use to approach the town unobserved.

Qsar Shirin was a small village of about three dozen buildings and was now believed to be a launching point for Iranian-backed terrorists into Iraq. All inhabitants were to be considered hostile. Intelligence made several high altitude passes over the area and analysis of the RQ-4 Global Hawk data pinpointed several adjoining buildings as the most likely location of the captives.

The plan called for Marcus' team to split up into three groups; two teams of two would enter Qsar Shirin from different directions using their German HK417 assault rifles fitted out with night vision adapters and sound suppressors.

The two snipers carried the Russian OSV-96 and would position themselves on high ground and provide cover fire. The OSV-96 was a monster of a weapon weighing in at just under thirty pounds, and it fired a fifty-caliber projectile that created enough kinetic energy to take out an engine block, never mind a human being.

Behind the cover of a berm, Marcus pulled the latest reconnaissance map giving some last minute instructions.

"Joe, you and Hunter will come in from the north." Marcus passed his gloved index finger over the map, depicting the route they were to take.

"Sean and I will come in from the southwest." Marcus pointed to the spot on the map, a group of buildings in the center of the village. "Here is where Intelligence is convinced the captives are being held; it is the objective."

"Karl, you and Elijah will cover us from that position over there." Marcus pointed to a rock promontory, about one thousand meters to the west of town. "Open up when I give the word."

"Roger."

"Again, our mission is to rescue two officers believed to have been captured and brought here alive. Everyone else is to be considered hostiles. Those bastards have to be imagining they're safe this far into Iran, so they aren't likely to be expecting us. Everyone got it?"

The officers nodded in agreement.

"Everyone to your positions."

\----------

Two dark-robed figures entered the room holding the Colonel and Lieutenant. The shadows prevented their faces from being seen, the two terrorists talking with one another as if the two American captives were not even present. In any other situation, they would have appeared like a couple of businessmen standing about casually discussing the weather. Something caught the Colonel's eye. One of the men's robes was discolored, darker than the other robed figure. Heston now saw a trail of blood running from the dark group of bodies to beyond the doorway.

Colonel Heston's immediate thought, Okay, this is it.

The erect posture and hand gestures of one of the men, the way one of the terrorists cut off the other in mid-sentence convinced the Colonel that man was the ring leader. He was also the one with the blood-drenched robe. The two men's conversation became a whispered discussion followed by the suspected subordinate leaving.

The terrorist leader turned in the direction of the Colonel and stood as if waiting for something. Three dark-robed men now entered the room, pausing for a moment as if waiting for a command. The Colonel froze in terror as the solitary figure made a motion with his hand in the direction of Lieutenant McFarland. The Lieutenant was also watching the man's actions and made a desperate effort to wriggle free when the Lieutenant saw he was the one who would be next to be butchered. It was the only likely outcome, as the interrogations were all done and they had got nothing.

The Colonel could not control the tears that swelled up in the eyes as he watched the Lieutenant's efforts to struggle free being met with brutal kicks and punches from his captors. The pummeling went on until the Lieutenant at long last succumbed to the blows and the cowards began to untie his now limp body from the wooden post.

The Arab who remained standing now stooped down, so the Colonel could see his face. Heston had seen a photo of this man many times on American television and internal military reports: Abu al-Zarqawi. This was the same man who openly professed his actions were being guided by Allah, which was bullshit. The Colonel had read an English rendition of the parts of the Quran these extremists professed to be following, and it would take someone who was mentally deranged to interpret their brutal actions as something condoned by God.

That was when the Colonel heard the terrorist leader say in broken English, "Are you ready to meet God?" Al-Zarqawi then gave the other men the signal to carry the American soldier into the other room. The Al-Qaeda leader was savvy on how his cruelties would be portrayed by the American media. Either through sheer foolishness, or their own hollow beliefs, the news networks would send the American people his message. His objective was simple. The Al-Qaeda leader wanted to dispirit and break the resolve of the American people. The fanatic wanted to help the Democrats succeed in their demands for withdrawal from Islamic lands.

As he was being lifted to his feet, the Lieutenant turned his head to look at the Colonel one last time. His eyes said more than any words could, it was a pleading gaze that seemed to say, "Tell my parents I love them! Tell them that I will see them in the next life!"

The Lieutenant's eyes disappeared into the shadows and the Colonel watched on with tears as the terrorists blindfolded him. After a minute-long struggle, Heston watched the Lieutenant dragged off through the single doorway, his white, blood-drained hands tied tightly behind him, his boots bound together. The Lieutenant had no chance of escape.

The Colonel now struggled against his bindings, hoping upon hope, his ropes had somehow become loose, but it was to no avail. In the time that followed the Colonel heard the muffled yelling of the Lieutenant as the bastard, al-Zarqawi, began going through the ungodly ritual that preceded all his previous human sacrifices. The time arrived when the Al-Qaeda leader all of a sudden stopped his horrible diatribe. Moments later, Colonel Heston heard the horrifying, agonizing scream of his Lieutenant. This was the moment when the cold blade of steel was swung into the American's neck!

Nearly inhuman screams followed...short tortured screams suddenly replaced by another horrifying noise, the breathing action of the Lieutenant's still-functioning lungs, air escaping and being drawn in through his exposed windpipe. The grisly sound kept on for what seemed an eternity. Then, the bastard started again with his lunatic ravings.

The mad man finally stopped and a few moments later the Colonel could hear the shuffling of feet approaching the doorway. The Lieutenant's still quivering body was being dragged along the dirt floor. Then the two dark-robbed men dragging the body threw it into the corner of the room with the other dead like a sack of flour.

The Colonel now saw the lower portion of one more dark-robed man enter the room. The head of Lieutenant Tim McFarland was barely being held by a tuft of hair, blood still dripping to the floor from the exposed, severed neck. The Colonel had to avert his eyes; it was the most horrifying sight he had ever seen: the horror etched upon the Lieutenant's face...it was indescribable.

The dark-hooded figure tossed the Lieutenant's head up on the pile of bodies and turned to face the Colonel. His time had arrived! All of a sudden the reality of the situation overwhelmed him. Heston began to tremble uncontrollably. One of his captors laughed at the sight. The Colonel felt shame at his irrepressible behavior. All the while, the Al-Qaeda leader remained quiet watching the American officer, as strong, rough hands now grabbed and held the Colonel's arms firmly in place. Heston's bindings were cut free from the post. It was futile to resist at this point, to do so would have resulted in the same punishment the Lieutenant had received. No, the Colonel needed to preserve his strength for the right moment...he could only pray that break would arrive in time.

Heston was brought to a semi-standing position. A strip of coarse fabric was harshly put into place to blindfold him and tied off behind his head, pulling a clump of Heston's hair out in the process. Heston was dragged through what must have been the single doorway and forced into a kneeling position. Two burly sets of hands held him in place by his upper arms and shoulders. The Colonel tried to remove himself from his earthly surroundings. Heston began thinking of his wife and daughter; he wished he could see them one last time. Thoughts of their first date together, their daughter's first birthday, the day of his daughter's college graduation all raced through his mind.

The Colonel could hear his captors talking about him, as the Arab pronunciation of "American" came up various times. Suddenly, the blindfold was yanked off from over his head. The Colonel now saw several men dressed in Iranian Military uniforms, proof positive the Iranians were involved in support of al-Zarqawi and his network of insurgents! One Iranian soldier was adjusting the lighting fixtures, while another peered through the focal lens of an antiquated, tripod-mounted, video recorder. Both Iranians seemed indifferent to their tasks, just one more day on the job. Heston saw the still-hooded terrorist leader casually walk over to the third Iranian soldier, an officer by the look of the piping on his lapels, and strike up a conversation, his Lieutenant's blood still on his hands!

The Colonel's terror was, by now, nearly overwhelming. His time was fast running out. Colonel Heston needed to do one last thing before his end came, he began to recite, in spite of his gag, the first thing to pop into his mind: the 23rd Psalm. Heston closed his eyes and concentrated, focusing like he had never before, with all his internal might.

Heston half heard his muffled words as he spoke, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me..."

One of the captors now decided to sucker punch him hard to the right side of the head nearly knocking him unconscious. These were going to be his last words...before he met his maker, he needed to get them out!

His head spinning, Heston continued, "Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies."

The Colonel ignored the heavy handed brut who was yelling something incomprehensible then spat in his face. Heston was rocked by one more blow to the side of his head. Someone yelled out something in Arabic. The tormentor's howling ceased for the moment, Heston's surroundings were starting to become quiet. The American's thoughts were not clear, as his head now ached almost to the point he felt he might throw up. Heston now heard sandaled footsteps making their way from in front of him to a position to his rear. The treading stopped just behind him then nothing. The terrorist leader was waiting...waiting for something.

Colonel Heston kept his eyes tightly closed; he then felt the heat of the camera lighting come on as it might on any Hollywood film set. The American got a whiff of the stench of the un-bathed figures around him.

"Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over."

Cold sweat beaded on the Colonel's forehead.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD, for ever."

Colonel Maxwell Heston was now resigned to his fate...he was powerless to change it. Only God could intervene at this point.

"Amen."

Heston tried to clear his mind of thought, to give himself one last bit of courage, but it did not work! The Colonel heard his muffled screams as he struggled haplessly against the strong hands of his captors.

This is it, he thought, I'm going to die!

BOOM!

There was a sudden explosion!

The Colonel's eyes darted open, his senses heightened, his body tensed. More adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream giving him a tremendous surge of raw animal power. The two men holding him in place were shouting, distracted by the turn of events. Heston felt their grip weaken momentarily!

It's now, or never!

BOOM!

One more detonation!

BOOM!

Using his captors' hold to steady himself, the Colonel leapt to his feet. Heston's actions were as quick as the strike from a cobra. Heston felt the men's vice-like grips break free just long enough to knock one of the terrorists off balance. The Colonel threw his full weight, all two hundred pounds of it, at the teetering Muslim and they both fell hard to the dirt floor. Heston's luck held, and he managed to fall on top of his assailant. The fall knocked the wind out of his assailant!

The lights suddenly went out!

The racket of automatic fire was now going off close by.

Rata-Tat-Tat!

The American's position was highly precarious: his legs, hands bound. Heston had to try to maintain his position on top as the Arab was fighting to get free, kicking, biting and clawing at him. The Colonel was helpless to respond.

BOOM!

BOOM!

The percussion wave and flash of two more explosions ripped through the room. The Colonel expected to feel the sharp pain of a steel blade, or the biting penetration of a bullet at any moment.

Everything was pitch black.

The report of more machine gun fire...more grenades going off. All of it was getting much closer.

The terrorist underneath him had half worked himself free when Heston heard the man shudder violently in pain! The Colonel heard someone yell out in English, "Fire in the hole!"

The Colonel could only shut his eyes, as he was in no position to do anything more. The blast and bright flash of the percussion grenade instantly stunned him. His ears were ringing and he was temporarily deaf. The Colonel opened his eyes to see the flashes of gun reports coming from what seemed every direction; it was like the 4th of July and he was right in the middle of the fireworks.

Am I going make it? Has God really answered my prayers? Crap! The guy under me, he's...

\----------

McQueen and Sean were on opposite sides of a heavy metal door that had just been blasted from the hinges. First Sean, then McQueen, tossed stun-grenades into the entryway. Moments later, the bright flash of each exploding went off.

Both Americans recognized they did not have much time. First one, then two men dressed in Arab garb were sawn down. The blinding flash and the percussion wave rendered them helpless. They were easy meat.

The two officers rapidly made their way into the building when the lights went out following the distant crack of another detonation. The second SAD team had cut the power as they came in through the rear entrance. Marcus and his men were now at a distinct advantage, as both he and Sean pulled their night-vision goggles into place. The team leader motioned to Sean who tossed one more percussion grenade down the hallway, the two men averting their eyes as it went off.

Sean cut down one more robed man who, blinded by the grenade, aimlessly fired 7.62mm rounds in all directions as he stumbled down the hallway. This fanatic died instantly as three to four rounds hammered him backwards.

Marcus heard another explosion toward the rear of the complex, as Hunter and Joe cleared more rooms; the bad guys were trapped. Sean threw a second grenade down the hallway for good measure. Again, both SAD men averted their eyes. Sean swiftly followed up the detonation, moving quickly to the first doorway, rapidly glancing around the corner before peppering the room with rounds from his silenced weapon. Sean motioned to the team leader the 'all clear' signal as he pulled a magazine from his belt to rearm. Marcus moved rapidly past him to the next doorway. Marcus could make out someone yelling out in Arabic, "اقتلوا الأمريكية!" ("Kill the American!"), he had to act quickly! Glancing around the corner, the SAD leader saw only two men in an unfair struggle on the floor, as one was hog-tied. Marcus took aim, squeezed the trigger and all hell broke loose, brass rounds flying everywhere. Ducking back behind the doorway, he stooped down to make a smaller target; the team leader recognized this opponent could not see in the dark.

He yelled, "Fire in the hole!" and threw one more grenade into the room, his toss placed clear of the two men on the floor. There was a deafening explosion and blinding flash of light, which Marcus rapidly followed up with short, sustained bursts. One, then another assailant was caught in his gunfire. Marcus looked in the direction of the two men engaged in the one-sided struggle and saw the robed terrorist was reaching for his sheathed dagger fastened to his leg. The two combatants were thrashing around too much, and the SAD officer could not get a clear shot without risking hitting the American. Instinctively the Black Angel leader pulled his serrated-bladed knife from its sheath and made several catlike strides toward the two men yelling, "Move aside!"

Marcus was just about to drive home his blade when the officer felt as if he had been punched by a sledgehammer one, two, three times to his right. Marcus fell uncontrollably off to the left, pushed by the kinetic energy of the brass-plated projectiles. His special reinforced armor had just shaken off the blows of a 7.62mm round at close range. Marcus hit the floor hard, but instantly reached out and angled the knife with his extended right arm and thrust it into the side of the terrorist, now with dagger in hand. Marcus plunged the cold steel blade just under the Arab's armpit, who let out a shriek of pain, but the leader realized he had not dealt a death blow.

"Move aside!" he yelled.

Marcus wrenched the blade out of the man's chest at the very moment the American Colonel was clear, and drove the blade home again with all his might, piercing the fanatic's abdomen a second time. The blade passed completely through the victim's ribcage, the point of the blade not coming to a halt until it was buried in the victim up to the hilt. Marcus twisted and wrenched the cold steel sideways to disembowel, and the terrorist let out another inhuman scream. That Muslim was now on his way to meet up with those seventy-two virgins.

While this was taking place, Sean had been covering his boss from the doorway, taking several insurgents under fire as they ran through a second doorway, before moving into the killing room. Marcus examined the Colonel for wounds, then noticed Sean pull one more stun grenade from his belt. Both Marcus and the Colonel responded instantly by covering up, a fraction of a second later there was a blast as plaster from the ceiling rained down upon their heads. Sean followed up as before with gunfire.

Just when Marcus ungagged the American officer he yelled out, "Al-Zarqawi!" The heavy smoke of cordite filled the room as the Colonel coughed uncontrollably whilst trying to catch his breath. "Zarqawi is here!"

Marcus did not respond and instead instantly looked in Sean's direction, and motioned with his gloved index and middle fingers to the second doorway. Marcus knew the back room was not likely to be a dead-end, because the rats usually had tunnels dug for themselves for just such an event.

Marcus' partner, his weapon leveled, fired short bursts as he cleared the back room.

Marcus scanned the room, picking up an assault rifle laying next to a dead terrorist, pulled back the slide and saw the weapon was hot, then grabbed the Colonel by the arm and led him in the direction of the hallway. A moment later, another explosion went off, both men instinctively covered up before quickly rising to their feet. Marcus guided the colonel toward the front of the building. With the total darkness of his surroundings, the Colonel stumbled several times when he stepped onto the now cooling corpses.

Once clear, Marcus pressed the contact in his earpiece, "Listen up, al-Zarqawi is here. Let's get that SOB if possible!"

Marcus grabbed the Colonel by his arms and helped him up into to a semi-prone position yelling, "Colonel, is there anyone else alive?"

Heston shook his head.

Marcus placed the Colonel in the cover of a low wall facing the dirt thoroughfare. The hubbub of weapons fire and grenades had stopped.

"Colonel, take this." Marcus handed him the assault rifle. "Do you know how to use it?"

The officer nodded that he did.

"Okay, now stay here. I will be right back." Marcus pressed the contact in his ear, "Karl, you and Elijah maintain your position. Keep an eye out for company."

"Roger that," came Karl's voice over the audio, a little static obvious due to distance.

"Sean, any sign of Zarqawi?"

A static-free response came back from Sean, "All clear, looks like the shit went out the backdoor."

Tunnels, thought Marcus. "Listen up everyone, we've still got terrorists running around."

"This is Hunter, the place is booby trapped in spots. Keep an eye out."

Several affirmatives could be heard over the communications link.

Marcus touched his earpiece, "Sean, you, Joe and Hunter reconnoiter the premises. See if you can find anything important."

"Roger that," responded Sean.

A moment later Sean's voice came back over the link, "Marcus, I think I've found the Lieutenant."

"Roger that, I'm headed in your direction," Marcus responded turning on his helmet-embedded video recorder.

Rather than take time photographing the area for later study, Marcus' equipment would capture both audio and video records of the event. Marcus poked his head into each room to examine the contents. The only thing of some interest was a television set, which lay strewn in pieces about one of the rooms.

Marcus now came to the room where he almost bought it, taking time to examine some of the bodies before making his way back to Sean's position. That is when the officer discovered the Iranian Military were involved; three of the slowly cooling bodies were wearing military uniforms. Marcus took a closer look at the insignia, the gold eagle with lightning bolt in its claws embroidered into the officer's collar. Quds Force, he thought.

Joe's voice came back over the leader' headset. "We're going to have company. I'm looking at a Chinese transmitter. It was recently turned off, it's still warm."

Marcus' first thought, Got to hurry, no time to waste.

"What is it Sean?" Marcus asked as he came through the doorway.

"Two of our men and a couple of Iraqi Police by the look of their uniforms."

The team leader tapped his earpiece again. "Hunter, request immediate extraction. Confirm transport for the casualties, one living, two dead!"

"Marcus, this is Joe. I've come across something else, a cache of weapons."

"Anything interesting?"

"Yes, looks like they've got something that looks like our Stinger. There have to be a half-dozen of them."

Marcus looked again at his watch. So far, they had been lucky, but that luck might change at any moment.

"Joe, bring one of them and blow the rest."

"Will do, out."

Karl's voice came over the leader's earpiece. "We've got military vehicles approaching from the east! Estimated time of arrival, ten mikes (minutes)."

Marcus tapped his earpiece. "Are they armored?"

"No, soft skin."

"You and Elijah take them under fire when in range. See if you can cripple the transports first."

"Roger, that," responded Karl.

Marcus peered at Sean, "There's no time to take the Iraqis back. I've got them on video for later identification!"

Marcus then heard the distant crack of a high velocity rifle firing once, then one more, and another.

"Time to clear out!"

\----------

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Director Derrick J. Mitchum sat behind his office desk with the phone to his ear. The call to President William W. McKinley would update the leader of the free world on the results of the rescue mission.

Derrick was the fifth person to serve as Director of the Special Activities Division, his path beginning some fifteen years earlier as the number one of a six-man SAD team. As a result of his exemplary performance abroad, Derrick became a Field Operations officer before becoming the head of SAD. The Director was also a recipient of one of the CIA's highest awards, the Intelligence Star.

The SAD Director was handsome in a rugged sort of way, a shade over six feet, thinning hair, his trimmed mustache was a mix of grey-brown and he stayed fit by putting in an hour a day at the agency dojo five days a week. Derrick's line of work did not lend itself to a normal family life, and the result was two failed marriages and no one to carry on the family name.

His results as Director were impeccable. Derrick was a man of substance, not an empty suit, and was held in high esteem by his people, as he had been one of them. Years ago, before coming back to the States, Derrick had doubts on whether he could make the transition from a field operative to someone behind a desk. Derrick was happiest on missions, and it had been difficult becoming simply an observer.

Derrick's real joy in life was seeing justice meted out to the villains of the world, especially those who thought themselves untouchable. Gradually adjusting to the life of a bureaucrat, Derrick found he still needed an occasional trip into the field to bring back those memories of far more exciting days, back when he was in the Special Operations Group.

President McKinley answered from the Oval Office using the direct line with SAD.

"Mr. President, I am calling to inform you of the mission results."

"Go ahead Derrick."

"The team succeeded in rescuing the Colonel, we were too late to save the Lieutenant."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Derrick. Was it bad for him?"

The Director had watched the video Officer McQueen sent showing the work of the terrorists: dismembered human bodies. Derrick could make out the abrasions to their wrists where their hands were once bound. The Director felt his anger well up as he looked at the display of barbarity.

"No more than usual, Mr. President."

"Those bastards are going to pay for their actions one of these days. Did your team get back okay?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Damn, this is a nasty business we're in, what else?"

"Abu al-Zarqawi was present as were three members of the Quds Force."

"The Quds Force? I suppose you've got video of their involvement."

"Of course."

"Damn, I hate that we can't use any of it."

"It goes with the territory, Mr. President."

"I'm guessing al-Zarqawi managed to escape."

"Yes, we ran out of time."

"Too bad, ending that madman's life would have saved the world a lot of misery."

There was a short pause on the line.

"Derrick, was this McQueen's team again?"

"Yes, sir, it was."

"Is it true, he's retiring?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Do me a favor. When Marcus returns to the States and before being discharged, tell him I want to see him up here at the White House. I would like to give him my personal thanks for the work he's done for the country."

"I will make the arrangements."

"Very good Derrick, and as for yourself, keep up the good work."

Derrick hung up once the line went dead. There was no reason to mention any of the details on how the captives had been put to death. The atrocities committed by Muslim barbarians were something the Director expected. If captured, SAD personnel could expect no less. It took a different breed of man to take that kind of risk, and Derrick had been one of them. Derrick understood the risks his men were taking. The Director also knew that the cyanide capsule each man carried on each mission was the only thing that stood between them and those most horrible of deaths.

For the first two decades of SAD's existence, it was cloaked in secrecy, so much so that it was hidden to all, but the sitting President and Secretary of Defense. Times had changed and the anonymity it once held was exposed during the term of the Democrat Evenson. Today, depending on the political persuasion of a President, the Special Activities Division could be used as either a rapier, or political prop.

Derrick's loyalties would change depending on the nature of the man in the Oval Office. When the wrong kind of guy was in charge, Derrick's priorities would change; the President and his mission orders would not be followed to the letter. This, of course, remained unknown to the politician in the White House.

Secretly, Derrick would ensure his men's safety remained the top priority, and as for the fool's errands, they were given secondhand treatment. The Director had been around Washington a long time and he understood most popularity-seeking politicians. It was not results that they were after, not real meaningful results. No, they wanted only the appearance of results, props the press could use to display their prowess in office. When someone like Evenson showed up, when called for, the appearance of results are what SAD delivered. Nothing more, nothing less.
FUTURE PRESIDENT

DETROIT, MI - Few people had ever heard of Nathan Martinez, Jr. before the politician appeared upon the Washington political stage at the celebratory Democrat gala following the midterm elections. Everyone in the audience, most especially the media figureheads were taken aback by his smooth, articulate delivery that reminded most of them of video clips of Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech. His cue-card monologue was heavily laced with every heart-wrenching platitude the political advisor, Nelson Frank, could squeeze into the seven-minute time limit. It had been a home run!

Martinez's performance had outshone every other political personality, including the Democrat presidential frontrunner, Margaret Evenson, and marked the beginning of the myth.

Nathan Martinez was a product of LBJ's "Great Society" welfare programs that replaced the responsibilities of the head of the house and created single-parent households for eight out of ten minority children in the nation. The programs had also created a segment of society totally dependent upon the state and imbued with a sense of entitlement.

Martinez's early life was played out as a "professional student" and social butterfly and only attained a law degree some ten years after first entering the University of Michigan. The title of attorney in hand, Martinez entered for the briefest of periods the private sector where he was shocked by the experience. Constantly at odds with his coworkers, Martinez soon found himself back in the unemployment lines before being forced to return again to his safe haven, academia.

The Civil Rights legislation spawned something else, a new kind of nonprofit organization funded entirely by taxpayers and largely capitalized upon by white Blue-State liberals: community organizations. Theoretically created to mobilize poor communities into improving the safety and prosperity of their crime-ridden neighborhoods, it instead created a new kind of extortion racket where threats of boycotts and sign-toting demonstrations were only assuaged by backdoor payoffs.

The radical Bill Nash was running this kind of operation in the greater Detroit area and it was his ad for 'community activist' that Nathan Martinez, Jr. answered. Nash's operation blossomed under Martinez as the payoffs grew and later persuaded the young attorney to enter politics. Nash was well connected; Detroit was controlled by Democrats and Martinez's big break came in an election for a senate seat long held by Senator Charleen Brown. Senator Brown had made the mistake of overreaching one too many times, upsetting the establishment, particularly Detroit Mayor, Sean Dailey. With the election nearing, Martinez's name was brought up as someone who would secure the minority vote without outrageous demands or threats. Behind closed doors, the deal was struck and a month before the election Senator Brown mysteriously withdrew her name from the ballot, giving Nathan Martinez, Jr. the seat without challenge.

Most of the political establishment liked what they saw, Martinez was the right color, the right pedigree and of the right moral persuasion, all of which would keep those payoffs coming in, payoffs to maintain a seat at the table of power. In the case for the NAACP, it was blind support and delivery of the African American vote. The ACLU's contributions were pro-bono lawsuits that worked to chip away at the U.S. Constitution and kept opponents tied up in the courts with frivolous lawsuits. The list of special interest groups included extremists groups like the Sierra Club, the Green Movement, PITA, ACORN, NOW, and most recently, the Climate Change Federation.

\----------

PHOENIX, AZ - Colonel Heston often relived his horrifying experience when asleep, finding himself back in that windowless mud room, his hands and feet bound so tightly his circulation was cut off. The same hopeless feeling would overcome him as the Colonel struggled unsuccessfully to free himself from his bonds and the frightful sight of al-Zarqawi standing over him, smiling demonically while powerful arms grabbed and directed his eyes at the horrible sight of his Lieutenant's severed head!

"You bastard! You damn bastard!" Heston shouted just as he was shaken awake from his nightmare by air turbulence. The Colonel looked about at his surroundings, the business section of the 757. Most of the passengers Heston could see from his seat stared at him with questioning looks. One businessman the Colonel noticed appeared as if he understood what he was going through. The aircraft shuddered again as it met more rough air on its approach into Phoenix International. Cold sweat beaded from his forehead.

Half an hour later, the Colonel stepped from the flight and made his way to the lobby of the terminal. Standing there waiting for him just outside the security gate were his wife, daughter and son-in-law, each with tears of joy in their eyes. The women ran up and embraced him, soon followed by his two grandchildren who ran up yelling, "Grandpa, grandpa!"

He was home! He had made it home, alive!
FIRST LOGICAL STEPS

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - It was approaching nine in the evening, and the conference room table was strewn with empty Starbucks coffee cups, remnants of a Chinese takeout order and empty soda cans.

Jack Newman sat half slouched in the executive-style chair at the head of the table, unconsciously spinning his Monte Blanc around to the mild annoyance of some in the room. What began as a sharp-looking business executive at five that morning was now a disheveled mess: unbuttoned collar, missing tie, wrinkled white shirt and rolled up sleeves.

Gathered around the conference room table, most also slumped in their chairs, sat Jack's team. To the President's immediate right was his personal secretary, Ingrid Tisdale, with a notepad and pen in hand taking the minutes of the meeting in shorthand, a laptop at her elbow. Ingrid was a petite, silver-haired woman who remained youthful looking for someone seventy-seven years old. The southern bell with tons of southern charm had been with him and Victor since the company's inception in the early eighties. Ingrid had become a millionaire twice over through stock options, but the secretary never thought about retirement. Ingrid was always heard saying that it was being around the energetic, crazy people at MEI that kept her young at heart and sprightly in appearance. That was Ingrid Tisdale.

One chair removed from Jack's secretary sat Pete Niven, facing the view of downtown Atlanta. Pete sat leaning forward, his chin propped up on the palm of his hand, his arm supported by the table top, a cold cup of coffee sitting just in front of him. Pete arrived earlier that day from a trip to Asia, so his internal clock was not yet adjusted to the time difference, and his body was letting him know. Pete was tall, thin with reddish-blonde hair and had an innocent, almost childish charm about him, which often surfaced in these late night sessions.

Sitting perfectly erect in her chair across from Pete's was Executive Advisor, Katharine (Kate) Tate. Kate was a longtime business associate, advising Jack on matters surrounding acquisitions; she was a nearly irresistible blonde who caused most men's hearts to go pitter patter. Kate was, however, not attracted to the opposite persuasion, but that never prevented her from using her charms to get what she wanted. Kate was one of the group that was every time annoyed by the President's mindless pen spinning, but she recognized after countless forums his actions were a sign he was reaching the end of his mental endurance. Kate also knew Jack would stop the annoying behavior when discussions moved on to the publishers.

Taking up three of the other chairs around the table were seated the rest of Jack's team: Benjamin Jordan, Thomas Phillips and Anne Dopson. All three were involved in the acquisitions side of the house. All three were relative newcomers having been with the company four, five and five years, respectively.

"Ingrid, what's last on tonight's agenda?" the MEI President asked, already aware of the answer.

"General discussions surrounding the acquisition of an existing news enterprise."

"Okay then. Kate, what has your team uncovered?"

Pulling a report from her valise, Kate flipped through the first series of pages.

"This report came in late today. I've only had a chance to skim through it. Ingrid, the report is out on the executive server in the subdirectory: 'News.' The name of the report is 'news0423.'"

"I'll see that everyone is copied, Kate."

"Thank you, Ingrid." Kate kept on without missing a beat. "My team has begun investigating the three owners: Donald Abraham of World News Network, Shmuel Weisser of American News and Jason Simon of World Tribune. Included in the report are several detailed interviews with people who have had some experience in dealing with each owner, including a handful of politicians.

"The publishers are referred to as 'The Big Three' up in Washington and it appears for good reason. The three families: the Abraham's, the Weisser's, the Simon's, all combined control nearly seventy percent of the market in this nation. Their combined newsprint, cable and broadcast operations account for roughly eighty-three percent of all domestic consumption. The market generates roughly fifty-six billion a year, largely through advertising sales. Just under two-hundred thousand people are either directly, or indirectly employed by the three men."

"Can you explain those figures again? Eighty-three percent of what?" asked Ben Jordan. "Wait a second, it's late. Kate, if you're going to be running through some numbers I'd like to be able to see them. It will make more sense."

Kate nodded. "Ingrid, would you be so kind as to print some copies out for us."

Jack's assistant popped open the lid to her laptop while responding, "Yes, of course Ms. Tate." Ingrid keyed in a series of keystrokes. "I'd be happy to."

Ingrid was always at the top of her game no matter what the hour.

"Excuse me, I'll be right back."

"Anyone need a break?" asked Jack who had temporarily ceased the mindless pen spinning, only to begin again to Kate's annoyance.

The response was near unanimous. "Yes!"

The conference room quickly cleared out as everyone began making their way to the coffee machine, or restrooms. Casual, lighthearted conversation ranged from kids in college, to the headaches of building a new home, to predictions of who would win the upcoming BCS Championship: the Florida Gators or Nebraska Cornhuskers.

\----------

AZERBAIJAN PROVINCE, IRAN - It was midday as the Special Activities Division officers watched the approaching convoy an informant had said were carrying a shipment of Chinese ground-to-air missiles. The destination was thought to be a terrorist training camp and principal staging area for raids into Iraq.

As for most missions, the team had selected a remote mountainous region in which to carry out the interception. The rocky terrain continued well into Iraq and was ideally suited for trafficking terrorists and contraband into that country; it, however, worked both ways.

This was to be a hit-and-run mission using something just introduced into the SAD arsenal: a thermobaric-tipped, man-portable missile system. To date, the Iranian response had proven to be ineffective. To counter the American's success, the Quds Force had added armored support to convoys.

Marcus smiled as he peered down from his steep, rocky perch at the pair of older, Russian-built BMP-70 armored personnel carriers as they entered the confined valley floor below. The only real threat his team faced was the Iranian Air Force. They could be a nasty surprise and nix any chance for he and his team being airlifted out following the attack.

Marcus took a rapid look about him, somewhere among the rocks and boulders his team lay in hiding, blending in so perfectly even he could not make out their positions.

That active camouflage was worth every penny, Marcus thought.

Marcus pressed the contact in his ear. "Hunter, are you ready to call in countermeasures?"

"I'm on top of it, Marcus," came Hunter's voice over his headset.

Marcus watched as the leading APC passed below his position; he could make out the driver and gunner through the OSV-96 scope. The turret-mounted 25-mm cannon was trained ninety degrees to the right.

Good, wrong direction, Marcus thought.

The turret would be where he would concentrate the armor piercing, high-explosive penetrators first.

Marcus scanned the scope over onto the two soft-skin transports.

It will be interesting to see how well that new warhead performs.

Marcus now looked at the second armored vehicle bringing up the rear. The cannon was trained ninety degrees to the left, and would be the first to let loose with those J-12B high-explosive rounds his team had met with before. Those damn things could be set for proximity, or impact detonation, and the shrapnel would tear a man apart.

Officer Sean Crutchfield would be taking out the transports with the rocket, Elijah the second APC. As for everyone else, they'd keep the men of foot under fire and on the defensive.

Marcus pressed the contact in his ear. "Karl, I've got the lead APC. You deal with the one in the rear."

"Roger that," came Karl's response over the encrypted link.

Hunter's voice now came through. "Marcus, the electronic jamming is in progress."

"Okay guys, let's take them out."

The gunner of the lead APC had no idea what hit him, the soldier was killed instantly by a large caliber projectile that lost very little of its velocity after penetrating the three-quarter inch hardened steel plate of the turret.

The squad commander at the rear of the APC had been shouting something to one of his team over the bellowing noise of the running diesel engine when he, and everyone else, was showered with blood, body parts and flying metal shrapnel. The APC lurched to a sudden stop, followed by the leader hitting the emergency release for the rear ramp; it fell open with a heavy thud.

Too soon, it turned out. The fireball hit the squad with such intensity it vaporized the epidural tissue and the shock wave; it did the rest.

The second APC faired little better. The turret gunner was similarly eliminated, as the squad commander had taken the same course of action. The Iranian officer and his squad were saved from the worst of the thermobaric blast by the frontal armor of the APC, but everyone was thrown from the cabin by the force of the shockwave. There was too little time to react; before the officer could pick himself up to engage his enemy, he took a round through the chest and died instantly. Much the same thing happened to all but two of his squad who found cover behind the APC.

The two men from Iranian Special Forces trembled in fear, and one started sobbing uncontrollably with the thought that he too was about to die. Suddenly, a heavy grey smoke descended upon them obscuring nearly everything. It was not diesel fuel burning; it was something else.

Marcus was stunned by the raw destruction the new warhead wrought on the target. The fireball, all Marcus could think to call it, engulfed the two transports with frightening results. It took a moment for his eyes to clear from a brilliant flash of light as intense as the sun's. It took no time for the shock wave to reach him, instantly followed by a nearly overpowering blast of heat.

Nearly nothing remained of the transport, save the metal shell of the chassis. The drivers had entirely disappeared, blown to smithereens.

God, I hope they never get that weapon, Marcus thought.

Marcus scanned the length of the line convoy. There was no movement, and all threats appeared to have been taken out. Even if someone had survived, they would have been so shocked by the blast as to have not presented any threat. Just the same, Marcus gave the command to cover their tracks with smoke and as the carnage disappeared he issued the command to clear out.

Joe remarked as the team filed, single file out and up the mountainside. "When are those bastards going to learn they're not ever going to win this fight?"

Hunter answered, "They're too stupid to understand, Eli."

"Stupid, or is it their ideology that prevents them from seeing the truth," remarked Sean.

"I imagine it's a little of both," answered Eli.

"God help us if they ever get the bomb," Sean now added.

"Damn if that isn't the truth."

\----------

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - Jack, coffee mug within reach, twirled his pen around as he perused the report Ingrid had waiting for him. The numbers were astounding: the three publishers held controlling interests in 'holding companies' that were nothing less than small kingdoms. All but thirteen percent of the country's news consumption was filtered through one of their holdings. If there were a weakness, it was that the news moguls had done little to diversify their interests, putting most all their eggs in one basket, the news business. The president would let Kate work through the numbers for the benefit of his team, but he could already see a trend. Each proprietor was losing money, vast sums of it in their printed media operations. They were, however, offsetting the red ink with profits coming from their cable and network operations. Jack could draw only one conclusion, he'd be wasting everyone's time looking to acquire any one of the three news organizations; those men, the publishers, would never sellout, but he would wait. The president would wait to see if his team drew the same conclusion.

Pete was feeling a bit more lively, the caffeine having kicked in. "Well, Jack, let's get this show on the road."

"Okay then, Kate, where were we?"

"Numbers, we were discussing the numbers. If you take a look at section three you will see some of the figures I was referring to."

Thomas Phillips responded after looking at some of the graphs surrounding marketshare.

"Wow, that's what I would call clout! Those three men control over eighty percent of what is read, or seen in news!"

"Yes, Tom, thanks for clearing that up for us," Anne Dopson added with a smirk.

Katherine kept on without giving anyone a glance. "The entire news industry appears to be going through some financial difficulties. It's reflected in the stock prices which are hovering at near all time lows for all three players."

"That sounds promising," Jack responded, stopping the spinning motion of his pen.

"Yes, and no," Kate replied. "Let me explain. I am convinced the three news organizations we are looking at are in effect a cartel for an ideology, an oligopoly if you will."

Crap, Jack thought, Kate saw right through the figures.

"Normally you would expect a CEO to make changes to maximize profitability. This is clearly not happening. Several studies of that industry over the last decade show very little change in the makeup and spin of the 'Big Three's' coverage."

"Can you explain what that means?" interjected Pete.

"The three news companies: World News Network, American News and World Tribune are not behaving like normal business enterprises. The owners are letting their ideology drive the impetus of their reporting and it's evidenced by their reactions to declining advertising revenues."

"If the news publishers were serious they would cut back on their rhetoric. Study after study has shown they are losing conservative and moderate subscribers because of their political positions and yet, they continue with the status quo."

"So, that works to our favor, doesn't it?" asked Pete with a grin.

"I don't think so, Pete. In fact, I am convinced their ideology presents a problem for us in any consequential negotiations."

Jack smiled to himself. Pete was a 'big picture' guy, never dabbling too much in the details, but Kate... Kate could see clearly what the news moguls were doing.

"Jack, I don't believe money is going to be enough to get any one of these publishers to move on any offer we make. The power they wield in the political arena is going to get in the way. You realize this whole exercise is probably going to be a complete waste of time."

Jack understood Kate was right and that she hated to waste her time on improbable situations. It was time to explain why the exercise was necessary; it was largely driven by Victor's desire to get into the same room with the news nobles.

"Kate, what you're saying may be true, but this is a step we must take. Victor and I have talked this situation over at some length. Everyone should be aware that there is one more plan in the event we're unsuccessful in schmoozing one of these three publishers. If we're lucky, we will pick any one of them up which means we won't have to go through some unnecessary exercise, later on."

"I've got a question."

"Go ahead, Anne."

"What do you mean by 'unnecessary exercise'?"

"I'm glad you asked. Victor has an idea for a new kind of news company that will revolutionize the industry. The existing brick and mortar operations, well they won't survive if he's got this right...and no, I don't have any of the details. You know our commander-in-chief."

"Okay, so why buy one of the dinosaurs if they're going to be put out to pasture anyway?"

"Ben, think about it. Why recreate the wheel if we don't have to?"

"Okay, I get it," replied Anne. "The employees have to be worth something, right?"

"How is that possible? They've all got to be diehard ideologues. I mean, we're talking about creating a conservative news powerhouse, right?"

Kate answered Ben's question, "Liberals yes, but needing to work all the same."

The conversation was not tracking in the direction the president wanted things to take.

"Ah hem, let's not get bogged down in the details for the moment. Let's get to the more pressing matter at hand, the publishers. Kate, what have your people discovered?"

Kate had no need to refer to the report to speak to this issue, as she had taken the time to speak with several people who knew the owners personally.

"The leader of the pack is Donald Abraham, the 'Alpha Male,' so to speak. The publisher is acknowledged by both analysts and industry insiders as the one who usually sets the agenda for the industry. For instance, we can thank Mr. Abraham for the headway Global Warming has made the past two decades and for the real estate debacle surrounding Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac.

"In the case of 'Global Warming,' it wasn't until WNN began promoting the theory, that man's actions were destroying the earth, that it gained popularity. Most recently, the United Nations has jumped on the bandwagon and is pushing for a worldwide tax on carbon emissions, with Donald Abraham providing his full support.

"In the case of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, Donald's news company has been providing the Democrat Party with the cover it's needed to keep those programs running without any real oversight. The result, worthless paper has been bought by the two state-backed institutions and that bubble was now about to burst.

"These are just two of a myriad of instances where Donald's news company has been instrumental in propping up his personal agenda. Without question, Mr. Abraham is a diehard, New York Democrat."

Pete added with a chuckle, "You mean liberal don't you?"

There was complete silence, and Pete glanced up to see Kate glaring at him. She was in no mood for his antics tonight.

"Just kidding, Kate. I meant to say, Abraham's more like a radical," Pete added, unaffected by her threatening stare.

Jack laughed inwardly at the interaction between the two opposite personalities, one carefree and happy-go-lucky (Pete), the other restrained and every time businesslike (Kate). Still, the chemistry between the two always seemed to work, each adding a different take on issues, helping him to see both sides of every situation.

Jack quickly spoke up before things became more heated. "So, what else did your people have to say about Mr. Abraham?"

Kate looked back to the report, flipped through a couple of pages, scanning each to maintain the cadence of the chief investigator's thinking.

"Donald is the fifth generation to lead the family business; he attended Columbia School of Journalism and during the 60's he was incarcerated several times for his involvement in antiwar rallies."

"So, he's also a community activist, too?" Pete added.

"Yes, I would say Donald Abraham qualifies as that. People who know him personally say he exhibits the characteristics of a Napoleonic Complex and is perpetually on a power trip. Married four times, all were settled outside the courts. He's notorious for his extramarital affairs, heavy drinking, chain smoking and a losing gambling habit, and is said to have several mistresses on the side. He's five-foot five, weighs one-hundred-ninety pounds and is sixty-three years of age."

"What a stellar member of society," Pete added, unable to control himself. "Do you have a picture of this godsend?"

Kate leafed to the section of the report dedicated to Donald Abraham then showed the group his photo.

Pete noted after seeing the publisher's photo, "Wow, that guy is a real catch."

Ingrid could not help but grin at Pete's comments. When she saw the news proprietor's picture Ingrid broke out in laughter. It was late. Everyone, save Kate, was getting a little giddy.

Jack had an indistinguishable reaction, laughing and adding, "I'd say Mr. Abraham looks a little like Bonaparte to me except, of course, for that proboscis of his."

"This is going to be a real treat," Pete commented while beaming broadly.

Kate disregarded everyone's comments and continued.

"Donald maintains his position through his family's control of all common stock. He has an extremely lavish lifestyle which requires the Board to regularly approve cash disbursements to his personal expense account."

"Really? How on earth did your people dig all this up?" asked the president.

"They are really good at what they do. That is all I should say."

"Okay then, what about Weisser?"

"Shmuel Weisser also inherited his position as publisher at American News. Mr. Weisser attended Oxford and lived a great part of his youth in Europe, only returning to the States when his father passed away twenty-five years ago. Shmuel is not in as secure a position as Donald; his family was forced to sell off a large portion of their common stock to help settle debts surrounding his father's estate."

"So, Shmuel doesn't have a lock on the voting shares."

"His family still controls fifty-one percent of the voting stock?"

Kate spent the next ten minutes going over what was notable on Shmuel Weisser before moving on to the final publisher, Jason Simon.

"Mr. Simon is a relative newbie to the news business having recently taken over the reins of the family-owned company when his oldest brother passed away, from AIDS."

"Mr. Simon's sexual preference is men. We also discovered that he also dabbles in pedophilia."

"This is hard for me to believe," Pete blurted out laughing. "How can all of them be complete degenerates? Is this what results from inbreeding?"

Almost everyone cracked up at the pun, save Kate who kept going, "He is a sports enthusiast, is part owner of the Redskins, spends a great deal of time in Europe at his favorite spot, Greece, where Mr. Simon lives for several months out of the year."

Jack had heard enough, "Okay, enough on the personal front. What about financial weaknesses?"

"Well, the print side of all three news companies is bleeding red. It's only their network and cable news operations that are showing some little profit. Overall, however, each is showing declining revenues."

"Reasons?"

"Changing markets, competition, poor management, and poor expense control. They now have competition from a cable news company, RHO, and it's starting to pick up the advertisers who've historically been stalwarts of the three corporations."

"On the print side of the business, the publishers are seeing revenue erosion from news sources on the internet. News aggregators like Timberlake Reports are popping up all over the place and are gradually picking up marketshare. So far, the efforts of the establishment have failed in coming up with a strategy that uses the internet."

"Are you aware of why RHO and Timberlake are doing so well?"

"Tom, I think so. If you look at the balance of the reporting for those two successes, they promote largely traditionalist viewpoints. Timberlake Reports relies on the news establishment for its news coverage, but it is selective. I would consider them a minor player. RHO has a small cadre of journalists on the payroll, but nowhere near the number of the media institutions. It seems, however, to be working, even without the tens of thousands of reporters."

"It would seem a need for a conservative viewpoint exists. Isn't it baffling the publishers don't see it?"

"Oh, but they do Tom. It's just that they're ideologues, primarily."

"They've got to be idiots. Victor could really be on to something here."

"No, Benjamin, they're not 'idiots.' The owners are aware that changing their rhetoric would be good for their bottom lines, but they will work to change the market rather than reshape themselves."

"How so?" asked Anne.

"The most recent illustration is best demonstrated by the push of the Democrat-controlled Congress to reinstate the 'Fairness Doctrine.'"

"Fairness Doctrine?"

"Yes, Anne, the Fairness Doctrine. It was legislation created just following World War II and enforced rules to provide equal time for countervailing ideas and created a form of censorship. Any stance on any issue aired by broadcasters was subject to rebuttal and as you might suspect, it created bedlam. The broadcasters responded by eliminating the public forum. There was one loophole the Democrats left in, an exemption for news reporting."

Pete laughed, "That was convenient."

Kate kept on, "The news moguls work through the Democrat Party to change the ground rules. You must understand, Weisser, Simon and Abraham get those politicians elected into office. The senate minority leader, Senator Rooney, is a prime example of the kind of politician the publishers secretly back and get into office. That guy, Jim Rooney, can scarcely string together two sentences, unless he's got cue cards to read laying around somewhere. It is Rooney's committee that is the one pushing to get the Fairness Doctrine reinstated."

"President Ronald Reagan got rid of the law. Today, people like Donald Abraham want the law put back in force to silence their growing opposition."

Jack paused for a moment before adding, "This is uncharted territory for us. Where do we stand with Senator Burton?"

Kate responded briskly, "He's still not returning my calls."

"Kate, I've met the Senator personally and I know he has the qualities we need up in Washington. We've got to get him, otherwise any move on our part, any sign of encroachment upon the existing establishment will be viewed and responded to as a direct threat by the Democrats. You are talking about powerful politicians who can and would do most anything to protect their allies in the press."

"Just how much in bed are the Democrats with the likes of old Donald?" asked Pete.

Kate responded, "Those three men, and their companies, dominate the industry, both for revenues and marketshare and they all support one political party. Those guys are in such harmony with the Democrat talking points that they really act as one. I'm confident as hell we will run into problems."

Benjamin Jordan now added, "This is a real problem and a hot topic among executives up on Wall Street and, frankly, many see the nation changing, largely under the influence of people like Abraham, Weisser and Simon."

Thomas Phillips confirmed, "I imagine the answer has got to be yes, we need someone in Washington. Not just anyone, but someone who is committed to MEI and our cause."

Anne added, "If we're going to get into the media business, I'd recommend the person have good inside connections, on both sides of the aisle."

Jack summed things up, "Okay, I agree and Senator Robert Burton is the man."

Pete shrugged, "Okay, we get it. That is Kate's area of specialty."

Kate smiled at the slight compliment.

"Kate, have you really tried everything?"

"No Jack, not at this moment. I've been juggling things a bit, what with the Chinese opportunities surfacing."

For a fraction of a second Kate's boss appeared displeased; too swift a facial tick for anyone else to pick up on save for Pete, and herself.

"Jack, I understand now, the Senator is a high priority."

"Good, Victor and I want to fast track this endeavor. When we enter this fray we need to make sure we're not totally blind-sided by the politicians in Washington."

Kate was one of those headstrong go-getters who nearly always got what she wanted, that is, if the female executive in point of fact wanted whatever it was. Her confidence was easily detected in the 'Freudian Slip' Kate meant to let slip.

"I'll start working on the lobbyist, I mean Senator, right away."

"Good, now let's move on to the enterprises themselves. What have we dug up?"
GRILLED ON THE HILL

The Senator was like many radicals now running the party: Rooney rose to power not so much by intelligence, or hard work, but in view of the fact he could set aside any scruples he may have once possessed. Uncharismatic and petulant, Rooney saw no problem with spending other people's money to make himself look magnanimous. The senator would do, or say almost anything to remain the Senate Leader. Ambitious to a fault, Rooney used his position to amass a fortune through backdoor deals; he believed he was secure in his illicit affairs as long as the press had his back. As long as the Senator kept those publishers happy they would collectively ensure he would never be exposed and held to account...not publicly, which is what in point of fact counted.

"Director Mitchum, yo' are not answerin' mah question. Have yo,' or have yo' not received orders fum the President autho'izin the use of torture...Yes, or No?"

This dumb shit can't even speak clearly.

Derrick replied looking squarely into the Senator's eyes, "Can you repeat that, Senator?"

"Ah said, have yo,' or have yo' not received orders fum the President autho'izin the use of torture...Yes, or No?"

"Are you asking if I received orders from the President authorizing torture, is that your question?"

"Yes, Director Mitchum, that is mah question!"

"Senator, the answer remains 'No!'"

The witch hunt had begun, but in as much as the Democrats were not yet in power, the closed door hearings had not taken on the air of a circus and would not get the traction the 'Alinksyites' needed. Missing were the droves of journalists and activists the media needed to stir up the headlines. Instead, Senator Rooney and his fellow Democrats would have to settle on leveling their propped up charges in less dramatic ways.

"Director, it is hard fo' me t'believe yer claim given th' kind of info'mashun yo' and yer o'ganizashun has uncovered. Just how is it that yo' came by info'mashun that you say puts th' Iranians two years ahaid of everybody else's predictions?"

"Senator, that information is classified as I..."

The ranking Democrat cut Derrick off. "Director Mitchum, I understand that!"

Derrick smiled at the former Washington D.C. security cop seated across from and looking down on him. The Director liked getting under this one politician's skin. Senator Rooney's face turned beet red at the sight of the SAD Director's smile.

"Do yo' think this is sumpin t'laugh about!"

The Senator hesitated for a moment, fuming and was about to go off on one more tangent when Derrick took the opportunity to tell the politician he was full of shit, in so many words.

"Senator, no this is not a laughing matter, nor are the Iranian mullas and thermonuclear weapons. Need I remind you that this region supplies eighty percent of the world's oil! What is laughable are your attempts to..."

Rooney shouts out, "Mr. Chairperson! Mr. Chairperson!"

Derrick managed to squeeze at the heart of the issue with the Senator. "...sidestep the real issue."

"Mr. Chairperson!" shouted the Democrat.

The committee chairperson's gavel started banging.

\----------

GREEN ZONE, BAGHDAD - Officer Marcus McQueen raised his eleventh mug of beer in his hand and shouted out with a slurring of words. "This one's for all those would-be fanatics now with the seventy-two virgins!"

"Here, here!" shouted his teammates to his toast, similarly incapacitated.

"Bottoms up!" McQueen shouted.

Everyone drained his mug, followed by several of the team belching.

Officer Karl Hagman then shouted out. "Bartender, one more round! Burrrrp!"

Marcus, swaying at the head of the table, peered to the other end making an effort, but failing to fix his gaze on the offending officer. "Thank you Karl! I believe I will have anotherrrr! Burrrrp!"

At this point, the bartender decided the mysterious group may have finally had enough. "Guys, I think it's time you called it a day."

"I'll have nothing of that!" shouted Sean as he half staggered to his feet and wobbled over to the bar to discuss the terms of surrender.

"Nowww see here you insolent man," Sean remarked with slurred speech. "Do you see that man over there." Sean turned in a wobbling motion and tried to point to the team leader; instead he was only able to approximate Marcus' position with his wobbling finger. "Damn it, man! Do you know who that is over there?"

"I have no idea?"

"Nor shall you ever!" Sean laughed. "One thing I can tell you about that man is...is he's retiring today, but that's not all!" Sean hesitated to let out a burp, "Diddd you know that man would be coming face to face with the President tomorrowww?"

\----------

LANGLEY, VA - Derrick had by now returned from the inquisition up on "The Hill" and was leafing through the list of missions his teams conducted under President McKinley. Too soon, the Democrats would be in control of Congress and both Senator Rooney and that stupid, airhead Representative Bocchino were already promising immediate investigations. It was again time for him to prepare for the public hearings that would soon follow. As long as McKinley was in office, the Director and his people would have little to worry about, but Derrick understood the winds of change were coming. The Democrats were on a roll.
THE CAMPAIGN BEGINS

COLORADO SPRINGS, CO - Marcus took in a deep breath of the crisp, cool, mountain air as he moved to and fro on the front porch rocker. Shivering slightly, the former SAD Officer took a sip of his steaming cup of coffee to warm himself; Marcus had not yet become acclimated to the change in temperature. The family ranch sat at the foot of the Rocky Mountain range, two-thousand acres of it. There were many fond memories associated with this place. It was quiet, peaceful and beautiful. Marcus hoped he would be able to make the adjustment to a life of ease and tranquility, but the 'old special forces' in him was already making him feel antsy.

\----------

DETROIT, MI - As Martinez's newly appointed political advisor, Nelson Frank would become one of the candidate's closest confidants and part of the group that was widely acknowledged as his "Inner Circle." Nelson was a masterful spinmeister; his specialty was elections involving politicians of color. Nelson Frank would be responsible for Martinez's branding and for his success in the run for President.

Nelson looked over the findings his private investigators had dug up on Martinez in silence. The document was over one inch thick, which was not good. Nelson now began the arduous task of separating the wheat from the chaff, highlighting pertinent areas from the candidate's past.

The political advisor recognized there was not in point of fact anything unusual concerning Martinez's dossier; Martinez was like most of the politicians running the Democrat Party, but that, of course, would need to be kept from the public.

\----------

Martinez sat paying attention as the white Michigan establishment, politicians and union bosses, argued over what needed to be added to the legislation Washington was calling TARP, Troubled Asset Relief Program. Martinez did not give a damn why or how the real estate market collapsed; all that interested him were the opportunities the debacle created for political insiders.

The figures being bantered around were staggering: five million dollars in financial aide to institutions controlled by the AFL-CIO, one-hundred million dollars to bail out the teachers' union, over three-hundred million dollars in payouts to companies owned by big Democrat contributors. The list went on and on. The newly appointed Senator would return with his more seasoned colleague to Washington with their demands. The only thing Martinez could conclude by what he saw was Washington was simply a bank, one that could be pilfered through political finesse.

Martinez was under no illusion; the only way he would share in the spoils would be by playing whatever part was asked of him, at least until he became President. Then he could come up with his own set of rules. He had after all learned quite a bit on his way up the ladder.

Things were shaping up in the primary quite well; the polls had him running neck-in-neck with Senator Margaret Evenson. Through his connections in the press, Martinez understood who was being secretly backed to win the Republican primary, some dimwitted hick with a dumbass southern drawl. No question about it, the media could tear apart the Republican Senator when the general election kicked off.

Martinez was starting to exhibit his natural tendencies toward cockiness and narcissism, while his handlers covered for him by calling his display self confidence. Martinez had every reason to be convinced he would win. Martinez had won every election he had entered, if not through the devices of the press, then by other devious means. What's more, Martinez recognized what the Mexican-American represented to the Democrat establishment. Someone who acted white, but was a person of color. The Presidential Candidate mirrored perfection in their eyes with his clean-cut appearance, gift of public speaking and academic credentials. What's more, Martinez had proven himself to be a cut of the same cloth. Some who knew the candidate better than most, Bill Nash for instance, would have said Martinez's beliefs were far more revolutionary than even most imagined.

Martinez understood one thing when it came to politics, the media would be the one factor he needed to win. Martinez had, by now, become quite adept at playing the game. It was the same kind of game the candidate was forced to play in academia where he became a pet project. People like him, people of color, were window dressing, props to be used to support the institution and its positions. Martinez understood what he represented to the 'white establishment.' The candidate would continue to play their game if only because, by now, Martinez knew of no other way of thinking. Conditioning had long ago dispensed with any moral scruples Martinez may have held as a youth, and what remained was someone who was a real believer, someone who could lie so straight-faced as to be persuading to even the most ardent of skeptics.

Martinez continued to listen as the numbers grew. TARP, thought Martinez, Ha, what a joke! This was just a shell game. It was nothing more than the haut-monde way of prying money from Washington...to line their own pockets.

Hell, Martinez did not care to revamp the system. He understood that it would be impossible to change the mainly white good-ole-boy network. No, Martinez was in this only for himself, to become rich, famous, to possess all the trappings of the presidency...and to change the country...into something he was convinced could exist.

\----------

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - Jack Newman peered out at the clear blue skies of the city skyline pondering Victor's vision for his transformative news company. Built around the emerging internet cloud technology it would for the first time enable subscribers to interact with a reporting service allowing them to control what, how, when and in what form of news they received. On top of that, the new company would give America something it had not seen in over a century, an orthodox alternative. The days where subscribers were force-fed what a handful of men believed would be over.

The president smiled slightly as he settled into his leather chair.

The MEI President had really caught the bug, becoming increasingly animated by the possibilities of his conservative news company. It was going to make a splash...a very, very big splash!

"This is Kate."

"Kate, this is Jack. Can you get your team moving on several high-priority items."

"Go ahead."

"First, we need an ordinary news company with printing operations. The newspaper has got to be able to handle up to two million, regular-sized dailies. It needs to be stable, no major layoffs, no unions if possible."

"I take it that your talks with the publishers did not go anywhere."

"They still may yet, but Victor and I don't want to wait."

"Okay, what kind of budget?"

"I need for you to fill in the blank, this is our first foray into this market."

"All right."

"If it helps, I'm not concerned about the location so much as the price tag."

"You mentioned a nonunion shop, that's going to be very difficult."

"I figured as much, any way we can address the high-labor costs?"

"Bankruptcy, it is the only way to break the unions."

"That's not an option, never mind."

"Okay, what else, Jack?"

"Have your people look into a technology firm out of Seattle, Argonaut Technologies? I want to acquire in total, so see what can be dug up, on the company, on the owner."

"Is there anything I need to know about our interests in the Argonaut?"

"No, not at this time. Let's move on to the subject of a senior editor."

Senior editors, in any other business, would be called Presidents, or CEOs. Their primary responsibility would be the profitability of the enterprise. In the news industry, however, senior editors had one more responsibility and differed radically from their counterparts in the business world. Senior editors were there to ensure profitability was maximized within the constraints of creating a product that promoted the publisher's ideology. This was always the biggest dilemma editors across the industry faced. It was every time a tricky balancing act.

"We're going to need a seasoned pro who's had experience running a news company for one of the 'Big Three.' It would be good if the person had connections up in Washington; it is likely that that will be where we put the headquarters."

"Jack, what are we going to call this news company?"

Jack, smiling on his end of the call, replied, "What do you make of Magnason Enterprise News, MEN?"

Kate could be heard laughing loudly over the receiver, "Sounds chauvinist to me."

"Oh well, I'll work on the name a bit. Any ideas on who we can get to run the company?"

"Yes, I do. Her name is Lucy Dietrich and she's the Washington Bureau Chief for World News Network."

"You've got to be kidding?"

"No, I'm not. Ms. Dietrich is the best in the business and if you want this news company to succeed, she is the one person that can make it happen. Besides, I understand Ms. Dietrich has an axe to grind."

"Oh."

"Yes, Ms. Dietrich was moved to Washington to shut her up."

The president remained silent.

"Word on the inside is Donald Abraham sexually assaulted Ms. Dietrich."

"Abraham?"

"None other. I hear if given the chance Ms. Dietrich would like nothing better than to clip Abraham's wings."

"Okay, see if you can make the arrangements...at the earliest opportunity."

\----------

SEATTLE, WA - Marlon Beechman got his start during the heydays of Microsoft, when even the software company's stock clerks became millionaires overnight. His software company had also ridden that wave. Being something of a visionary, his last five years were spent helping create a new industry: cloud computing where everything resided on the internet.

Marlon was sitting in his lounge chair, watching the light of the setting sun reflecting off the peaks of the Cascades when he heard his phone ringing. Moments later, his wife came to the open patio door. "Honey, you've got a call."

"Do you know who it is?"

"He says his name is Jack Newman with MEI."

"Jack Newman? Who is that and how did he get the unlisted number?"

"Thanks dear," as she handed him the phone.

"This is Beechman."

"Mr. Beechman, my name is Jack Newman. I am president of a venture capital company, MEI. I would like to discuss a business proposition with you and can be in Seattle later this week. Could we arrange to have lunch?"

"It depends. What's your call about, Mr. Newman?"

"I understand that you've had a hand in developing internet stores and I would like to hire you to do the same for a new company we're creating."

"Who are you with again?"

"You might better recognize Magnason Enterprise."

"Magnason Enterprise? Yes, I've heard of you, you're in the VC business."

"Yes, we are."

"What is it that you're looking to do on the internet?"

"Let's just say, sell and deliver digital services."

"Mr. Newman, there are dozens of companies out there that can create that for you, and besides, I have my hands full."

"You've come highly recommended and I can assure you, our meeting will be worthwhile."

"In what way?"

"I understand you're politically active, and a big backer of the Republican Party."

"Yes, that's well known in these parts."

"I, too, am a traditionalist and I am convinced that with your help, my company can develop something that would fill a void that has existed for our party for over a century."

"What would that be, Mr. Newman?"

"Okay, I'll tell you. We are creating a conservative news company and with your help our founder, Dr. Victor Magnason, believes it will bring an end to the cartel of American News, World News Network and World Tribune."

There was a long pause on the line.

"Mr. Beechman, are you there?"

"Call me Marlon, just a moment while I check the calendar." Beechman picked up his cellphone and brought up his week's schedule. "Lunch, you say?"

"Yes, lunch."

"Will this Friday at twelve o'clock work for you?"

"Yes, that would work."

"How about the Columbia Club?"

"That works for me, noon at the Columbia Club."

"Very good Mr. Newman, I will see you then."

"Jack, please call me Jack."

"Very good Jack, see you at noon, Friday."

\----------

MARTHA'S VINEYARD - Private get-togethers between the heads of the news industry, the political party leadership and the frontrunners for any approaching presidential election were a common practice dating back to the founding of the nation. The only difference today? The Democrats were the only party to receive any attention from the top brass, the publishers, "The Big Three." Today's private joy ride was no different save for one thing: the featured speaker was a dark-skinned man whose name was Nathan Martinez.

The private estate of a big party backer on Martha's Vineyard was the setting for the get together where brokers from both sides understood what Martinez represented.

Around the room news people and party bigwigs laughed and carried on as if they were longtime friends. On the news side, those attending included Publisher Donald Abraham, his Senior Editor, along with a cadre of his executive-level team from World News Network. The same was true for American News and World Tribune.

Party leadership included Jim Rooney, Senate Majority Leader; Patricia Bocchino, House Speaker; Ricardo Adduci, DNC Chairman and Nelson Frank, Martinez's Campaign Manager. The candidate, however, would become the center of most everyone's attention.

Nathan Martinez was an entertaining and charismatic personality at such events, much like the party's most successful president since John F. Kennedy: Gerald Evenson. Those present understood Martinez would appeal to nearly every demographic of the Democrats. Martinez was believed by some to represent a bridge between the two demographic factions, constantly at odds with one another over what programs needed to be pushed through when the Democrats took control of Washington. Everyone fully expected to win.

The Democrat Party looked at minorities as their key to success, control over which occurred through entitlement programs that maintained their substandard lifestyles. There were, of course, other programs, most of which were by design there to enrich associates of the institution. Martinez excited both groups in view of the fact he had an air of culture and refinement concerning him, and then there was the "Race Card" he could play...the most potent weapon in the Democrats' arsenal.

Martinez was the only person on the ticket who could use the power of those two words to get what both groups wanted! How could they be so confident? The press was easily on board with the idea and would make sure any racial accusations stuck. As for the Republican Party, they would respond the way they had always responded: they would run for cover, or roll over, or play dead. Yes, Martinez represented, in theory, someone who could get them everything they wanted once he was in the White House.

After an hour, or so of 'glad handing,' adult drinks and hors d'oeuvres the conversations got down to more consequential, one-on-one discussions. The topic was which candidate would the news publishers back in the primaries and national election.

Senator Margaret Evenson was absent from this event, as her chance to shine before the news aristocrats had come and gone the week before. The Senator was a known quantity after years in the public light. Everyone recognized the Senator rose to the top of the party's ticket not on her own merit, but by riding her husband's tailcoats to the top. Everyone knew the Senator expected to get the party's nomination; her years of playing the fool standing by her promiscuous spouse, keeping hidden a dozen or so other scandals during his administration all meant the Senator carried a big IOU with many inside her party. She had, after all, kept the Democrats in control over Washington when everything could have completely unraveled. The Senator would score high with women voters, but she carried little weight with any other demographic save for committed ultraists. Senator Margaret Evenson, however, expected the pay off now...it was her time!

"Mr. Martinez, I'd like to ask you a few questions in private if you don't mind?"

"No, not at all."

The two entered a side room, Donald closing the door behind him.

"It's good to see you again, Senator Martinez, I am Donald Abraham."

Martinez remained cool and confident; the candidate had already established he needed to win over this white guy to win the presidency.

The WNN owner motioned to Martinez with a wave of his hand. "Please Senator, take a seat." Donald pointed to a leather lounge chair, while he remained standing, drink in hand looking down on Martinez.

"Senator Martinez, I need for you to leave here today with a clear understanding of where news organizations like mine fit in the grand scheme of things."

"Certainly, Donald."

"It's Mr. Abraham! If you get into the White House, then you may call me Donald."

Martinez's face darkened with anger, but he remained quiet, collected. The Senator had had many run-ins with this sort of condescending white guy.

Donald continued, "First, let me say everyone is very impressed with you and if you succeed in winning the primary, it will be in some part due to your skill as an intelligent, well-spoken politician. I am afraid those fine qualities will, however, never be enough to win the presidency. Don't get me wrong, you appear well suited for the job, but those qualities are never enough on their own to secure the highest office in politics. Am I making myself clear?"

Martinez's fear of the Donald's power and influence were beginning to get the best of him. He answered nervously, "Yes, but why...?"

The publisher cut the politician off. Donald already knew what the candidate was going to ask, having heard the same question repeatedly from so many want-to-be presidential candidates.

"Because Senator, speeches are just so many words and like the air we breathe, are soon unremembered in a matter of hours, if not minutes. This is the reason you are here today. It is the reason every big-shot politician has come calling. It is why we are having this little talk. It is to make certain that you understand that your political career depends a great deal on what the two other owners and I decide."

"I say all of this to emphasize that without our services, the papers, personalities, writers, journalists, there will be no one there to repeat your words. By all estimates, we reach over one-hundred-fifty million voters every day. We can either decide to help you, or to ruin you. If you succeed in getting into the Oval Office, it will only be with our support. Are you beginning to understand my point?"

Candidate Martinez nodded his head in agreement.

"Good, one other thing you should understand. Your agenda as President will succeed only if we can convince enough of the average, ignorant citizenry to support it. Chairman Adduci has said he discussed your first term's agenda with you. What do you make of it?"

"It's straightforward."

"Do you see any problem with it?"

"Don...Mr. Abraham, you have to know something of my background."

The publisher smiled, "Yes, I do, Senator Martinez."

"Then you understand where I'm coming from and what I will do if I get the office."

Donald responded again with a smile, "I'm glad we had this conversation Senator. I look forward to seeing how you do in the primaries. We're done here, let's go join the others."
PLANS DISCOVERED

MANHATTAN, NY - The publisher returned to his penthouse following a tryst with his Manhattan mistress and unfortunately for her, Donald arrived in a sour, drunken mood. The fingernail scratches down one side of Donald's face were the reason the mistress was not battered any worse than she was. Donald would call his attorney first thing in the morning to take care of the legal consequences he recognized would follow. The publisher had, by now, become an expert in matters of assault and battery.

The reason for Donald's drunkenness was the midday meal with investors at the club; it did not go well. The demands that he seriously entertain an unsolicited buyout offer from an unrevealed investment company enraged him to no end, and for the better part of the afternoon Donald spent his time in the bar getting drunk.

The only thing positive to come of the luncheon, outside putting off the creditors, was the knowledge that there was now a potential threat who wanted to join the party and it had not taken him long to find out the son-of-a-bitch, Dr. Victor Magnason, possessed the resources to pull it off. Donald's conclusion like it or not, was he must come face to face with his rivals. Donald needed to be aware of how big a threat the man posed.

The three publishing families had been adversaries for nearly three quarters of a century, but the turf wars of old were now largely settled. That, however, did not stop each new generation from seeking to gain marketshare at the expense of the others. They remained, from a business perspective, competitors in the truest sense of the word. The only thing that prevented the news moguls from tearing each other's throats out when in the same room was their obligatory need to come to a consensus on which politicians they, and in turn their news businesses, would back in regional and national elections. Beyond elections, their ideology drove all other issues. Not in over half a century, since the appearance of the television set, had the families needed to fend off a threat to their monopoly.

It was the turn of the twentieth century, and there were two last remaining obstacles preventing today's news moguls from controlling the news industry. One of the impediments was a single remaining holdout, The Daily, and the other was their ideology, which did not lend itself to selling papers. The news barons reacted to the bigger issue, creating broader appeal, by founding schools like the Columbia School of Journalism, or the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern.

Graduates from these diploma mills were said by academia to prove journalists were no longer the biased ideologues of the past, no, they were said to be professionals guided by principles of the highest calling. Rigorous watchdogs of those in power, they were there to ferret out the truth from lies and to provide the American people with a wide range of informed positions on the important issues of the day. In reality, the schools were turning out highly trained propagandists, indoctrinated with one single set of beliefs. One only had to look at the agenda of the Democrats to understand what those beliefs were.

Today, the art of propaganda was very well developed and the publishers were in a real position to change the nature of the country. It was an industry dominated by dictators from whose lofty perches controlled not only 'what,' 'how,' 'when,' but 'if' information would be disseminated to the rubes of the American public. They picked society's winners, and losers.

The first response from Shmuel Weisser and Jason Simon was as Donald expected given the animosity each held for one another. Besides, a forum would take time away from the festivities of the forthcoming celebratory gala. Donald could be quite persuasive, however, and the gathering was arranged.

One week later, Donald found the two publishers sitting on opposite sides of the mahogany table in the reserved conference room of the Harvard Club. Jason Simon was seated reading the front page headlines of his paper, American News. Shmuel Weisser, Chairperson of World Tribune, sat across from him blowing smoke rings.

Donald suspected they both received the same offer and he needed to be confident they weren't planning to do something stupid. The face-to-face meeting with Magnason proved to him the man was a real threat, a real 'street fighter.'

Shmuel was the first to acknowledge Donald's arrival. "Good of you to make it. You're almost on time, Donald." Shmuel leaned back into his chair and took one more drag off his unfiltered cigarette.

Shmuel Weisser stood about five-foot six-inches and was a little taller than Donald Abraham, albeit he had a straighter appearing posture. Shmuel had a strong protruding, cleft chin hidden by a closely cropped beard. What gave him his most characteristic touch, however, was his head of thick, wavy, white hair, which sat upon his stocky body.

Shmuel, like Donald, grew up in the sixties. His family's legacy in the news business began with his grandfather who had been alive during the Progressive Era and who was instrumental in getting the socialist Jim Wilson into office. Shmuel's father had been a member of the Willingbee Society, Marxists by any other name. The present-day patriarch was a cut of the same cloth.

Donald walked over to the stocked bar and after pouring a single malt scotch over a couple of ice cubes and with a sigh added, "I must say it's good to see my old friends."

Jason sat quietly, intent on reading his headlines until the discussions began in earnest. Jason was handsome and appeared young for his age. At thirty-seven, he looked like a punk kid next to the other two men. Jason was trim, had straight golden hair, penetrating brown eyes, and was the most educated of the group; he held a master's degree in journalism and political science from Yale University; however, this accounted for little in his present company. Everyone in the room could be classified as geniuses. Each had an IQ of 170 or higher. Jason was not only the youngest of the group, he was a newbie to management. His elder brother's untimely death put Jason in charge of the family business.

Jason spoke up, "I was just reading the polling coming from the DNC." The Democratic National Committee (DNC) was the organization responsible for providing national coordination of the party agenda, election strategy and fundraising efforts. It also provided the means by which party leaders colluded behind the scenes with the media.

Donald answered while glancing briefly at Shmuel who had the same condescending look on his face. "Jason, we've already seen the numbers."

"Never mind then! So, what was so damn important?"

Donald took his seat and then a sip from his glass before shifting his gaze onto the two publishers. Slightly tilting his head the WNN owner responded, "I received a visit from a venture capital company, MEI. I was curious if the two of you received corresponding invitations?"

There were several moments of silence.

Jason replied first, "That's really none of your damn business, Donald."

"Okay, Jason, let me rephrase it this way, I hope you're not stupid enough to entertain their goddamn offer!"

"Fuck off, Donald."

"Look damn it, I know you both had the same meetings."

"Okay, so what?" responded Jason. "What if I did?"

Shmuel responded, "You'd be a damn fool to give their offer any serious consideration."

"When did you get the call, Jason?" asked the WNN publisher. Donald understood the newbie was not really the committed ideologue his sibling had been. He was nothing like his brother; Jason was a spoiled, rotten kid.

"Three, or four days ago," answered Jason with a sulking look.

The two men turned their gaze to Shmuel who briskly responded, "Four days ago? I received a visit one week ago, I'm sure from the same guy you two met: Dr. Victor Magnason."

Donald now asked, "So does anyone here have any idea why he would want to buy one of us out?"

Shmuel laughed, "I don't care, but I seriously question his sanity."

"I don't know, have you seen the financials of our companies lately? They're damn near rock bottom."

Shmuel smiled, "Yea, so they are, but I've heard some of us are in an even tighter fix with the creditors."

Donald responded angrily, "Look you fool, you're going to find yourself in the same boat soon enough, so just cut the bullshit."

"Why the hell couldn't we have just discussed this over the phone," Jason asked, getting tired already of the hostile banter.

"Because, Jason, Donald doesn't trust us," responded Shmuel. "So, what kind of offer did you get, Don?"

"Fair market value plus a ten percent kicker."

"It's a bit odd you're being so forthright with us Donald. Are you sure it wasn't a twenty-five percent bump?"

"You got twenty-five?" asked Donald in an unbelieving tone.

"Like I said, Donald, some of us have racked up a little too much debt."

"You goddamn asshole," Donald viciously responded.

Shmuel ignored the insult. "Just the same, my financial advisors are telling me I should really give his offer some consequential deliberation."

Jason responded, "Surely, you're not going to take that advice?"

Smiling, Shmuel answered, "No, probably not, but what about the two of you? What are you thinking about doing?"

Jason replied first, "Nothing, Magnason must be aware that my family would at no time entertain an offer to sell out, so what is the point? All I can come up with is the man might have been convinced it was a good time to score, but was too naive to consider we like what we're doing. I'm staying put right where I am."

Donald's face became more hardened as he stood from his chair and walked over to the window looking out on downtown Manhattan. "You know, something just occurred to me. Magnason's buyout offer to us was timed such that we had an offer in less than two weeks." Donald turned to face the other publishers.

"The misfortune is that things aren't going so well for us, but I don't imagine that's his reason for being interested. I think his interest is a sign that we are going to have a new competitor soon. Given our weakened state, it would be a great time for an aggressive player to enter into the fray and shake things up."

The World News Network publisher retook his seat as the two guys remained quiet. Donald kept going, "I am convinced Mr. Magnason's inquiry was simply a warning shot across the bow. Have the two of you looked into who and what he is?"

Jason answered, "Yes, he's nothing more than a low life that got lucky."

Shmuel now asked, "What's his political persuasion?"

Jason responded, "Far Right."

Donald now interjected, "Doesn't it strike either of you as odd that Magnason made the offers to us at nearly the same time, as if the man wasn't expecting anything to come of it, almost like he was testing the water?"

Jason replied, "So, what."

"Because you novice, conservatism sells. Just look at what that damn cable news network, RHO, is doing to us. It's kicking the shit out of our primetime programming, right?"

Shmuel spoke up, "Okay, so what if Magnason sees an opportunity in the market. Even with all his money, he would be risking everything if he were contemplating creating a news company. The investment would take years to recover. Am I missing something?"

Donald stirred the ice around the glass with his finger, "I think Mr. Magnason has something else in mind. That man, that CEO, that rogue might have wanted to make sure he didn't have to go through the effort if he didn't have to. That is my guess. No, I don't believe our little rebuff is going to stop Dr. Victor Magnason."
MOLE

LANGLEY, VA - The terms mole, spy, informant all have negative undertones, which was why the press started calling them "whistle blowers" about the time of Watergate, when it served their interests. Then like now, the target was a sitting president. Truth was, the leaks only showed up in the headlines, cable and network news when they bolstered the position of the Democrats. The media always sought to destroy someone on the right side of the aisle.

No one would be able to call to mind the last time something similar happened to a Democrat candidate. If the press were forced to acknowledge some scandal, it would only occur when the facts could not be covered up. Just the same, the story would have only warranted page-three coverage. It would run once, maybe twice, and never be seen again.

It was lunchtime and almost everyone was away from their desks while the thirty-year-old Democrat political plant sat alone in his corner office behind his terminal busily paging through subject lines of memos originating from the office of President McKinley. The informant moved from screen to classified screen in rapid succession. The mole knew he did not have much time, as the Director was returning from vacation soon.

The political zealot bore every mark of your normal Ivy-League-educated political appointee. The bureaucrat wore expensive clothes, had the big bank account, wore a different suit for each day of the week and came across as nothing but an empty suit, all talk.

This was the big break the Democrat had been looking for. The President's confidential directives were at his fingertips.

Subject: Operation Rugby, Update

Subject: Troubled Asset Relief Program, Presidential Position

Subject: Iranian Nuclear Weapons Development

One week earlier, while in a conference room forum, the mole had seen and memorized the keystrokes made by the Director to log in with Level 10 security access. What the man was doing could be considered treason and carried a life sentence, or at least that was what had been true ten years earlier. Today, this renegade was doing what many Democrats up on Capitol Hill believed was not only justified, but necessary to ensure they maintained their power.

A young woman knocked, opened the door and stuck her head in the doorway. "You really look like you're busy. What's the deal?"

The mole stopped typing. "The brass is all over me to get this report out before the end of the day."

"We're going out for drinks tonight, are you going to join us?"

"No, not tonight. I'll take a rain check though. Now, I need to get back to this work. If you don't mind, shut that door."

The pretty girl's feelings appeared a little hurt, too bad.

What the young bureaucrat found most interesting were memos sent to a department called the Special Activities Division. The mole heard about the group through the news during Evenson's administration. The media referred to it as an agency inside the CIA that supposedly carried out orders coming directly from the President. Nothing, however, was widely known about the missions this group had carried out; no one from his side of the ideological spectrum had ever gotten this far; no one had seen what the group had been up to under McKinley.

The bureaucrat kept on looking through the subject lines and came across one more referencing the group. The Democrat looked over the details of the memorandum.

Subject: After Action Report: Rescue Mission, SAD

To: The Office of the President

From: SAD Director, Derrick J. Mitchum

Mission a partial success. Flight crew discovered dead at crash site. Colonel Max Heston was rescued. Lieutenant Tim McFarland and Private Zach Stephens were found dead, alongside two Iraqi police.

Interrogation of surviving terrorist confirms Abu al-Zarqawi was present. Confirms Chinese Sang ground-to-air missiles were used to bring down the military transport and accompanying escort.

The informer sent the document to his printer, the one he had moved in and directly connected to his laptop. The mole would have much preferred doing this at home, but the collaborator did not have the clearance needed to get to Level-10 through the firewall.

The informant heard other people returning from lunch; his shirt showed signs of perspiration under the stress of getting nailed. Agency security discovered someone doing the same thing several years ago and that poor sap had not gathered enough dirt to make his career or life worth saving by the politicians.

The minutes ticked by, screens and screens of confidential information lay in the output tray of his printer. The mole needed something 'big' to get out of this shit hole!

The spoiled, rich kid peered at the next Presidential Order, the one that preceded an 'after action report.'

Subject: Rescue Attempt, SAD

From: The Office of the President

To: SAD Director Derrick J. Mitchum

The President hereby orders SAD to carry out a rescue attempt of the captured U.S. Army officers suspected of being held by Quds-backed insurgents.

You are hereby authorized to use whatever means necessary to bring about the success of this mission. Interrogation is sanctioned. Use own discretion of means.

Shit, thought the fifth columnist, it doesn't come right out and plainly state what I need. This is still not good enough! It only hints at the use of torture.

This was a major hot button for the Democrat leadership right now.

He typed "Shift + P" to print the record out just the same.

Who knows, the press can make something of nothing for most anything.

Finding evidence of torture would be like winning the lottery. Several of his college buddies had almost identical positions in federal bureaucracies with access to state secrets and they were doing much the same thing. "The hell with having to work hard to get ahead," summed up their motto. What the renegade was doing was the way to get ahead in the Democrat Party, to become noticed by the powers that be.

One more factor was also worth consideration and that was the big money the media was willing to payout for the sole rights to ball-busting stories that threatened the right, especially those involving a Republican president.

The preppy-looking, fast tracker nearly jumped out of his chair when his desk phone all of a sudden buzzed. The young man quickly glanced at the extension.

Shit, it's the Deputy Director! What the hell could he want?

The brat ignored the call; what he was doing was far more important, especially keeping in mind the memo that had just popped up.

Subject: Kill Order

From: The Office of the President

To: SAD Director, Derrick J. Mitchum

The President hereby authorizes SAD to carry out kill operations against terrorist strongholds operating inside the borders of known terrorist sponsoring countries. Acknowledged sponsors include Jordan, Syria and Iran. Top priority to be given to Quds-backed fanatics operating out of northern Iran.

Mission intended to reduce escalating attacks on civilian and military targets within Iraq.

All knowledge of any SAD members captured will be denied. You are authorized to use extreme force. Weapon systems will be made available from clandestine locations along Iranian border with Afghanistan.

You are hereby sanctioned to use whatever means necessary to bring about the success of this ongoing mission. Interrogation is approved. Use own discretion.

William W. McKinley

President of the United States

ORDER: AR-992Z
ELECTION APPROACHES

LANGLEY, VA - Derrick scanned the latest polling numbers for the candidates, mentally adjusting for the built-in bias he expected with anything coming from the press. The Director recognized who the contenders were, save one.

It became obvious to Derrick who the media was backing for the Republican candidate: Senator Daniel McRae. This was not all bad except the Republican had slim to no chance of winning the election. McRae was hawk when it came to Iraq but his problem among Republican voters was his history of siding with the Democrats on quite a few important issues.

Derrick looked at the numbers for the Democrat candidates and as expected, Senator Margaret Evenson held a comfortable lead. The Senator was a known quantity, a 'big time' Democrat believer who would create some genuine problems for his organization if voted into office. Easily controlled by the press, Derrick had found Senator Evenson like most Democrats, a coward when cornered and capable of lying on just about any pretense.

The candidate, Nathan Martinez, was running a close second. The Michigan Senator was a complete mystery. Derrick understood how to handle politicians like Evenson, but as for this Martinez character...he would need time to study him a bit more.

\----------

WASHINGTON, DC - The problem for Nathan Martinez's candidacy was keeping his secrets hidden from the public. It was like the time the Democrat candidate was caught on video speaking with a mechanic in Cleveland, where he mentioned there was a need to increase taxes, not something most voters wanted to hear during an election campaign. Then there was the time Martinez was caught on tape talking with a donor where he pontificated ad nauseam on the need for "government-run healthcare," a grandiose socialist idea. These various and sundry faux pas would send Martinez's handlers scrambling to cover up the gaffs. If it were not for the veil provided by the networks, Martinez's campaign could have been on the rocks. The real problem for Nelson was his candidate was a full-blown anarchist and not something most Americans could identify with.

The issues surrounding Martinez were something Nelson Frank had effectively masked. The campaign manager made up for the candidate's lack of real world experience and conditioning by permanently adding 'teleprompters' to his public speaking engagements. His campaign forced news personalities to stick to questions during interviews that were agreed upon beforehand and his political plants and their questions were imbedded in audiences where Q&A sessions were necessary.

There were also elements of his candidate that Nelson admired. For instance, Martinez could drone on for hours when answering questions, burning up the clock without saying anything. It was a technique used by lawyers and the Latino was a near expert at it. Most of the time the strategy worked, though sometimes it failed, causing one political handler to remark that, "If he didn't know better, he'd swear Martinez looked like someone who was stumbling around looking for a cogent thought." The person making the comment was, of course, fired when Nelson heard of it, but Nelson recognized the person's analysis was right.

It wasn't that Martinez was a bumbling fool; it was that the guy did not in point of fact believe in what he was having to say. Lying was not the issue; Martinez had proven repeatedly that he was one of the best. No, it was having to appear to be something he wasn't, someone who trusted in the greatness of the nation, someone who believed in capitalism and the free market system. All said and done, following the fine-tuning, the only real risk Martinez faced was his chief rival in the primaries, the female Senator, Margaret Evenson.

Political correctness in handling the 'Race Card' would play right into the hands of Martinez except for a very few occasions and Senator Margaret Evenson was one of those situations. For one, Evenson was not bound by the same restrictions that controlled the Republicans. The Senator also had her own card: feminism. The Senator could play, and had played, the feminism card expertly since time memoriam. Evenson's political handlers would probably be aware of, if they weren't already, Martinez's target-rich past. Evenson's camp might do something at any time to upset Martinez's chances unless they could be persuaded not to take the gloves off.

Nelson had just seen the New York Senator during a media interview clearly sending a shot across the bow of his candidate's campaign. Nelson picked up the phone and called the main Evenson's campaign office.

A secretary picked up the phone, "Margaret Evenson for president. Are you calling to make a political contribution?"

Anger in his voice, Nelson responded, "No, I'm not! I want to speak with the Campaign Manager, Lanny Morris."

"Who's calling?"

"Who is this?" Nelson said, seething with anger.

"Mary Johns."

"Well, pay attention to me Ms. Mary Jones."

"It's Johns."

"If you don't connect me with Lanny Morris' office right now, you're going to be out of a job in ten minutes."

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"No joke, Ms. Jones. If you don't pass me through to Morris' office right now, you're out. I can promise you that."

"But, but..."

"Just do it?"

"Can I tell him who's calling?"

"Nelson Frank!"

The line went silent only to be answered moments later by Evenson's campaign manager.

"Nelson, what the heck are you doing threatening one of my employees?"

"Shut up, Lanny. Do you really want to start slinging mud?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Senator Evenson's comments concerning American citizenship. That's what I'm talking about, Lanny!"

"Pete, you knew this was going to come up, if not by Senator Evenson, then by the Republican candidate."

"Yes, of course I understood it would come up! Now let me see...what about Senator Evenson's involvement in the murder-suicide of the staffer she was having an affair with during her husband's term in office. Is that fair game as well, Lanny?"

There was a long moment of silence on the line before Evenson's Campaign Manager spoke.

"I'll take care of it."

"You do that." Nelson slammed the phone down.

Nelson understood Martinez did not have the same problem with Republicans; broaching the question of his candidate's citizenship would have been political suicide in these times of 'political correctness.' Fear would keep the Republicans' mouths shut; his comrades in the media would see to that.
PUBLISHERS THREATENED

Nathan Martinez Wins Primary!

World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Today marks a historic day for the Democrat Party with the first person of color becoming the presidential contender knocking off his opponent, Senator Margaret Evenson, by an overwhelming majority. Last night, Senator Nathan Martinez, Jr. marked the occasion by throwing a celebratory gala at his campaign headquarters in Washington.

Lucy Dietrich sat with a smug look on her face as she pondered the publisher's reaction in the newly renovated office suite. The newly appointed Senior Editor had gotten everything she wanted: the car, the salary, the bonuses and carte blanche when it came to who she hired and how she ran the show as Senior Editor. The two stipulations were ones the Senior Editor could easily accommodate: one, Magnason Enterprise News Network was to promote a traditionalist agenda and two, she needed to duplicate the success of RHO on cable and make MENN the leading news company in the country. Ms. Dietrich knew she could do both.

\----------

BERMUDA - Lord of the Rings was tied up at the Royal Yacht Club, a frequent spot this time of year for the World News Network publisher.

"I don't give a shit if there are Right to Work Laws, I want that harlot prevented from working for Magnason!"

Donald was on the phone with an attorney making an effort to head things off at the pass. The publisher put together some of the pieces and was just beginning to grasp what Magnason was building.

He listened to his attorney a moment before responding. "Look, just tell me what it is you need. I'll have my people fabricate whatever it is you need to make the threat stick."

The attorney's clarification of the law only upset Donald.

"I said go ahead sue Lucy Dietrich anyway, damn it!" Donald slammed the receiver down.

"Is everything all right, Don?" asked the WNN news anchor, Deena Crawford. "Do you need something?"

This was the price of celebrity in this line of work, the occasional romp between the sheets. In the highest circles of elitism, the norms that governed most did not exist. Marriage, for instance, was something most elitists considered temporary arrangements, to be set aside on just about any pretense. The evidence included four failed marriages for the publisher and the three for the news anchor.

"Can I get you one more drink?" asked Deena, knowing full well she was playing with fire. The depressant was as much for her own safety as it was for calming down her boss. The anchor recognized firsthand how violent Donald could become following a night out on the town.

The publisher ignored the question and instead continued to stew in his deep-seated hostility, the thought of Magnason buzzing around in his head. It was naive for him to believe the issue would go away. Donald was, after all, the one man who originally said he was convinced the conservative nut would continue his efforts, not stopping with a simple rebuff. Donald, however, forgot his earlier prediction with time as his hedonistic lifestyle, again, became all-consuming.

"Get out of here, Deena!" Donald yelled, his anger swelling with each passing moment.

Recent revelations proved Donald was not the smartest guy in the room and this struck a massive blow to his ego. The competitive threat was not over; a Wall Street insider delivered word Dr. Magnason secretly acquired a daily, Charter News, but it was the acquisition of Argonaut Technologies that was the most telling.

The Seattle company was an innovator in the emerging industry, internet clouds. Donald's strategic advisor made the new threat clear. It would be entirely inside Magnason's capabilities to create a new kind of news company, one that would undermine the pricing model he needed to survive. It would also provide subscribers with many, alluring innovations he could not hope to provide subscribers in the short run. Then there was the likelihood that Magnason's company would appeal to both traditionalists and moderates leaving him only with the indigent, who could not afford to buy his papers, and the less than twenty percent of Americans who called themselves liberals.

If Magnason succeeded, it would force him to change, and his problem was the immense debt-load he was carrying on the books for his printing facilities, regional operations and high-rise real estate accumulated by his family over the years. Donald now understood if Magnason succeeded with his intentions, the days of his reign would likely be numbered.

More bad news had come just days later with the resignation of Washington Bureau Chief, Lucy Dietrich. Normally, Donald wouldn't have given a thought regarding someone like Ms. Dietrich leaving. There were dozens of Ms. Dietrich's waiting in the wings for just such a plum job. It was only when the publisher discovered that Lucy was heading up Magnason's new enterprise that he hit the roof.

The piece of the equation Donald recognized Magnason's new venture was missing was the people who would create the content for his news company. If he were going to have a news company with a right-wing spin, he was going to need reporters he could control. The National Press wouldn't work. They were all drones in the pockets of the media establishment. Magnason was going to need, at a minimum, moderate reporters and editors he could control, otherwise, his service would be no different from any other. That was the reason he hired Ms. Dietrich; Lucy could get him the one thing he needed to exploit the Internet...content.

It had become abundantly clear in discussing matters with his attorney, legal actions would not be enough. They would at best delay things and the threats had done nothing to dissuade Ms. Dietrich from making the move. What Lucy knew and her connections were going to be very damaging.

Donald shook with anger and only regained his composure after pouring, then draining a couple of tumblers of Scotch. The more Donald mulled it over, the more he understood he and his temporary buddies could not tackle this threat alone; it would take everyone's involvement.

The publisher picked up the phone and dialed the number for DNC Chairman, Ricardo Adduci.

Donald had decided to kick things off within the Democrats by approaching the bull in the china shop, the Neanderthal: Ricardo Adduci.

An obviously drunk woman with slurred speech answered. "Chairman Adduci's office, can I help you?"

"This is Donald Abraham, put the Chairperson on the line."

There was a momentary pause followed by, "I'm afraid the Chairman is not available right now. Can I take a message?"

"I know Adduci is there, I can hear him mumbling in the background! Tell him to get on the line!"

There was some muffled conversation followed by note of the phone being bobbled about. A man's groggy voice answered, "Don, what the hell is going on, it's Sunday?"

Adduci was a thug and former AFL-CIO President who understood he had reached a dead-end with the unions. The heydays had come and gone; the Global Economy had wrecked the labor racket, but his unions still served a purpose for the Democrat Party. It was the reason Adduci had been brought on as Chairperson; he was there to keep the hundreds of millions in membership dues coming in and to occasionally provide coordination between the party with the sign-toting demonstrators the media and party needed when a show of force was needed to cow those on the right.

\----------

MANHATTAN, NY - Donald's assistant walked in after knocking.

"Mr. Abraham, Mr. Weisser and Mr. Simon are on the line for you."

"About goddamn time."

He had flown back to New York the night before, the issue was too pressing to take the 'planned for' cruise back.

Picking up the receiver, Donald immediately began speaking, "Shmuel...Jason, Magnason's not going away."

Donald, at the outset, was convinced Dr. Victor Magnason was going to rely solely upon conservatism to succeed. The publisher had already had his senior editor discuss the situation with the union bosses who agreed to apply financial pressures and delay tactics during any labor negotiations. Every journalist was a card-carrying union member; they would see to it that Magnason's costs of doing business would keep him in the red for years. Besides that, the capital required to duplicate an almost identical operation was one more prohibitive barrier that would be extremely difficult to overcome.

The acquisition of Argonaut Technologies, however, was something of a shock and caught Donald utterly by surprise. Buying the Seattle-based company could only mean Magnason was planning to use the internet in his news company, something that was still a big mystery for the publisher.

Shmuel responded, "Look, I saw that Magnason acquired Charter News, but I don't see how that's a problem. It will take a decade before it becomes any kind of threat. That's a long time in this business." Shmuel chuckled. "Anything could happen."

Jason now asked, "Isn't Charter that regional news company out of Los Angeles?"

Donald decided to agree with their train of thought before turning the conversation around to the real issue at hand.

Shmuel replied, "Yes, it is."

Jason's responded, "Am I missing something here, isn't Charter just a big player on the west coast? It has absolutely no presence, or reporting on the national stage, so where does Magnason imagine he's going to come up with his news, the National Press? That's the only avenue of the news coverage Magnason has in the short term. If he decides to dismiss the National Press, Magnason will have one of the thinnest and shortest lived news companies in history."

The National Press was a cooperative created and maintained by the "Big Three." It used a 'fee for use' arrangement for news coming from freelance and unemployed reporters. It helped fill more than half the otherwise empty space of their tabloids.

Donald responded to Jason's supposition. "Look here Jason, Magnason will get his headlines by other means."

"How can you be so confident?"

"Because, he's just hired my Washington Bureau Chief, Lucy Dietrich!"

Shmuel's voice sounded a little surprised. "Lucy Dietrich!"

"Yes, none other than Ms. Lucy Dietrich!"

"That is a disturbing revelation."

Lucy Dietrich had worked for all three news concerns at one time or another. Lucy was dangerous in view of the fact she understood how the game was played. Lucy also carried a lot of credibility inside the industry. Many reporters, even some editors would jump at the chance to work for Lucy Dietrich.

Jason did not know what to think. Lucy had worked for American Tribune when his brother was alive. "What makes Ms. Dietrich a problem?"

Donald answered, "Jason, Lucy Dietrich is the one person who could give Magnason the two things he needs."

Shmuel now added, "Hire her back, throw some money at her. Shit, never mind, I'll hire her."

"Don't you think I've already tried doing that! She's turned my offers down, flat!"

"I don't give a crap. She always hated you Don. I'll make it impossible for Ms. Dietrich to refuse."

Jason still didn't understand Lucy's value to Magnason. "Fine, so let's say Ms. Dietrich does go to work for Magnason and suppose she hires some reporters. What makes you imagine his news people will be given access where it matters?"

Shmuel responded to Jason's question. "You clearly don't know Ms. Dietrich. She's been around a long time. Ms. Dietrich knows where most of the skeletons are buried up in Washington."

Donald added, "Jason, Ms. Dietrich will get her journalists the high-level access Magnason needs to succeed."

Jason was still not convinced Magnason presented any issues. "Okay, tell me how the million or so subscribers Charter caters to are going to present a problem for us?"

Donald was tiring of Jason's line of questioning. Jason was overlooking the main issues: the combination of what the internet and conservatism could do to their monopoly. It was time to cut to the chase.

"You may be right Jason, but what you're describing will change in time. I agree, Charter News poses no real threat; our problem is Magnason's acquisition of Argonaut Technologies."

Jason responded, "Argonaut Technologies?"

"Yes, Argonaut Technologies."

The line remained quiet.

"Don't bother looking them up; I can tell you exactly what they do. Argonaut is a cloud computing innovator and the only reason Magnason would seek to acquire them would be so he could develop his service around the internet."

The internet created a special problem for the media establishment. It presented no real barriers to entry. There were no laws to restrict its use and it required very little investment, as evidenced by the success of Timberlake Reports. If a conservative could start an internet aggregation service in a spare room of his home and succeed, it did not take much for Donald to picture what someone with billions behind him could accomplish.

"If I may be so bold, let me tell you two what I have found. Magnason's company is going to use the internet to keep his operating costs low, so low he will easily undercut our pricing. This guy has a history of using price to break into markets and with his billions, Magnason could practically give his service away until he secures the dominant position he needs."

Donald was met with silence, then kept talking, "He will get the journalists he needs and his right-wing news will sell; it will sell like wildfire, but I now know his one weakness. His acquisition of the internet company gave it away. We cannot fight fire with fire. We are going to have to shut this guy and his company down before he ever gets started. We're going to have to eliminate the one thing that's critical to his success, the internet."

Shmuel's voice came over the box. "You're right about your point on stopping him before he gets going. If the Republicans get wind of one more ROH-like company, they might arrive at the conclusion: their backs are covered. If the Republicans were to wake up, it would screw up everything!"

All three publishers now shared a similar understanding of the threat Magnason posed. The potential loss of control over the political arena, the politicians, Washington and the nation.

There were still two trump cards to be played, their puppets in Washington and the activist judiciary.

A slate of federal laws regulating the internet was just the thing needed to create the barriers they would need to stop MEI dead in its tracks. Some of those IOU's each publisher carried on both Democrat and Republican politicians were about to be called in.

After hanging up Donald began thinking about the endgame. Dr. Victor Magnason could not be that naïve. Magnason has to be aware I would throw the weight of the Democrat Party at him, he thought. What else is up his sleeve?

\----------

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Nelson Frank sat behind his desk after pouring himself one more cup of coffee. No cream, no sugar, just black. Seated in his office at Martinez' Campaign Headquarters, Nelson compared the latest internal polling results with those of the previous week. Internal poll numbers were not like the polling the public would see in the news. For one, the sampling and questions were not tampered with to attain a desired result. It was therefore, not a fabrication and represented the real-world situation.

He took his first sip of the hot drink while running over the numbers.

Yes, he thought, it is working.

The closed door meeting that occurred between members of the media and Martinez provided the coaching the candidate needed on how to run and win against the Republican. No one from the media would ever admit to attending.

Now, the results of that discussion were being felt, the trend favored the Democrat candidate. Nelson smiled; again, the avalanche of attacks against the opposition candidate was doing its work.

\----------

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - The presidential election seemed to be rapidly approaching. The publishers: Abraham, Weisser, Simon, had finally told the CEO and Jack to get lost, in so many words. Jack had not waited for the inevitable; progress from a technical standpoint was also moving along rapidly. The radical news company Victor envisioned could be as little as six months to a year away, before the presidential election. There were, however, problems that could potentially delay the kickoff. The government agencies IRS, Department of Justice and Department of Commerce had intervened with each, bringing legal suits in opposition to MEI, of course, at the behest of the Democrat leadership. This smelled to the president like the publisher's work. The lawsuits were not only coming from federal agencies; the attorney generals for California, New York and Washington State had also filed legal actions to halt MEI progress. That was not all; the problems did not just stop with judicial action.

Jack soon learned that heading up an orthodox threat to the liberal establishment carried with it a price much like having a bulls eye painted on one's backside. The president expected some harassment, first surfaced with some of the talk show hosts his public relations firm had pushed him into taking. Then, the media at large appeared with near slanderous hit pieces. Jack thought the matter would go away as it always had before with time, but he was wrong. The media reporting was detrimental to the point it incited more than a few dramatic incidents. More than once the executive had been assailed by ginned up agitators, both outside the main entrance to MEI headquarters, then at the front gate of his residence.

Toting signs, chanting idiotic slogans, shouting ludicrous accusations and behaving like radicals of the sixties, the unruly mobs appeared to be there to stay. Of course, Jack could always see so-called journalists on the periphery of such staged events doing their best to legitimize the aberrant behavior, inciting more to join the fray with the portrayal of events. At first, the demonstrators did in fact, look like longhaired sixties radicals, but over time the overall appearance of the mob changed, looking more like professional protestors. That is when the MEI president heard the unions were now behind the protestors, busing union thugs to the demonstrations. It came as no surprise that the unions would ultimately get involved; they were after all socialist institutions themselves and highly supportive of the most radical elements now running the Democrat Party. Union involvement said something else, that the union bosses had to be afraid, afraid that Magnason Enterprise News Network might succeed. Then there was presidential candidate, Nathan Martinez, who made no qualms with reference to restricting business use of the internet once he won the election. All told, the finances of MEI ultimately began to reflect the impact of the attacks, so much so, the issue had become problematic.

Siting at his usual place in the executive conference room, the MEI President did not appear his normal, energetic self. He was more sullen, more despondent and exhibiting his nervousness with his unconscious tick interlocking the fingers of his hands. The nervousness did not often happen, but was a sign of the tremendous pressure he now found himself under.

Jack remained silent as he listened to his council enumerate on the financial projections. The acquisition of Charter News had proven a bigger nut to swallow than expected. The price tag was a great deal more than expected what with the burden of sweetheart deals the unions layered upon the newspaper over the decades. Then, at the CEO's request, Jack had moved ahead with Magnason Enterprise News Network even though the kinks and lawsuits had not been worked out. As a result, Lucy Dietrich had already staffed up MENN operationally. MENN news copy was just now coming off the presses. The technical snafus could be worked out within a reasonable time. The market research indicated Jack could have a real winner on his hands. The stars seemed to have lined up for Victor, but only if MENN could avail subscribers with an internet-driven service. That was the problem; lawsuits were stymying access to the internet. The internet was the key and 'Achilles heal' for Victor's grand revolution.

Most of the suits appeared frivolous in nature, but each would require remediation in the courts before MEI could move forward with plans to use the internet. Unfortunately, even the courts where the lawsuits were being filed appeared to be in on conspiracy, never once accepting his attorneys' requests to expedite rulings on the most trivial of cases. Without the internet, MENN would not be able to compete on the national stage. Without the internet, Magnason Enterprise News Network would very likely remain a small fish in a very big ultraist pond.

What was now abundantly clear, the president may have moved ahead too rapidly, may have bitten off more than he could chew. The red ink reflected on his books was like blood and was stirring up the sharks.

Jack gazed out at the panorama of downtown Atlanta listening to more bad news. Several minutes passed when he reached the end of his tether...he had at long last heard enough.

"Kate, why the hell are most of the lawsuits surfacing in California?"

"It happens to have one of the most left-leaning judiciaries in the nation. Penalties for frivolous cases are some of the lowest in the country."

"What are you hearing about the new internet regulations?"

"The Democrats are continuing to rush the bill through committee."

"What about President McKinley? Does he still stand on the side of 'free market?'"

"Yes, word form Senator Burton is he will most certainly veto the legislation if he can. That's only if Senator Rooney can't pull together sixty votes."

"Well, it is pretty damn clear everything that's hitting us is designed to delay us up through the presidential election."

A thought all of a sudden occurred to the company president, Damn, if the publishers get Martinez into the White House, this game might be over.

"Kate, have you seen how the election looks to be shaping up?"

A soft knock came to the conference room door; Jack's secretary peeked inside the doorway. "Mr. Newman, Senator Burton is on the phone for you. He says he has some urgent news. Would you like for me to transfer the call?"

"Yes, Ingrid, certainly. Patch the Senator through."

A few moments later, the Senator's voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Newman, this is Senator Burton."

Jack's face darkened, becoming graver.

"Jack, the internet bill is coming up for vote in the senate at the end of this week. Senator Rooney has succeeded in rushing the legislation through committee."

"Senator, will Rooney have the votes to overcome McKinley's veto?"

"Right now I don't imagine so."

Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

"When Friday will we know the outcome of the vote."

"By ten that morning."
MARTINEZ WINS!

Nathan Martinez is President!

World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Today marks a historic day for the nation as the first person of color has been elected President of the United States. President-elect Nathan Martinez, Jr. marked the occasion by thanking the American people in a public address during which he promised, again, to bring prosperity back to the nation, by putting the country on a new path.

A Historic Day! Martinez Elected!

American News

WASHINGTON, D.C. - President-elect Nathan Martinez captured the hearts, minds and votes of a majority of the American people with his promises of hope and change.

Martinez Wins Election!

World Tribune

WASHINGTON, D.C. - On January 24, 2009, Nathan Martinez will become the official President of the United States after soundly defeating Republican candidate, Sen. Daniel McRae. Promising hope and change, President-elect Martinez will also become the first person of color to sit in the highest office of the land.

MANHATTAN, NY - Business baron, Henry B. Castiglione, III stood six-foot, two inches and was a full five inches taller than his father, Camilo Castiglione, once the wealthiest man in the United Kingdom. Today, the family fortune was a small fraction of what it had been and the industrial conglomerate left to Henry now operated in the United States. It was two decades ago when Henry's father was forced to face reality...if he remained in England, the government and the unions would eventually own the family business.

The Democrat takeover of Congress had been a rude awakening in 2006 and their success in securing the White House in 2008 was even more alarming. Many of the positions Nathan Martinez ran on were the same as those the socialists back home had run on several decades earlier.

Martinez advocated a universal government healthcare program; he was in support of legislation that would enact the rights of all workers to organize into labor unions and he had no qualms about increasing tax rates on every class of citizen outside those who paid nothing. Martinez's plans focused on increasing the size of welfare spending and the private sector would be the group he picked on to pay the tab.

Just following Martinez's accession to the presidency, Henry and other big industrialists met to secretly discuss the winds of change now sweeping in from Europe. Their only concern was that this last capitalist bastion might fall next. The consensus among Henry and his peers was that something needed to be done to reverse the trend to permanent Democrat Party control and liberalism, the first step toward socialism.

Henry had devoted a great deal of money during the last election cycle, an unsuccessful effort which also made him a target of the American media. He understood the nature of the problem; the news industry could outspend the Republican Party by a factor of ten or more, and do it in the guise of news reporting. To make things worse, the money conservatives like himself threw into advertising only lined the pockets of the news industry. It was a vicious and counterproductive cycle that arose every two years.

The enormity of the problem was caste in light of the numbers. During the election, the media had been able to move seventy-six percent of the "undecided" vote, more than thirty-five million voters, into the Democrat camp! Something needed to be done, but Henry and men like him were at a loss as to what.

People believing in 'Global Warming' were coming to power. Only recently had it become revamped as 'Climate Change' when a prolonged period of unusually cold weather blew holes in the theory. The response of the intelligencia was to step up their rhetoric, as the stakes were too high to lose the issue to the facts. When, not if, the Democrats took control of Washington, something like the "Kyoto Agreement" would be as good as signed. When enacted, it would eventually siphon off, not millions, not billions, but approximately 2.5 trillion in taxpayer dollars...all from the private sector, corporations and individuals, alike. It was a racket; much of those taxes would find the way back into the pockets of those party officials in power.

\----------

MANHATTAN, NY - Deena Crawford's personal secretary, Shirley Winters, sat quietly at her desk outside the news icon's office. Shirley was in her late twenties, attractive, petite, outgoing and held a business degree and had much bigger plans than to remain an administrative assistant for Ms. Deena Crawford. For a year, the secretary was with the Washington Bureau as an assistant for Lucy Dietrich who was open to her dream of becoming a reporter. With Lucy's support, Shirley began attending night courses to get the requisite journalism degree. Her dream was put on hold nine months earlier when her now-estranged spouse was forced to relocate to New York for a promotion. It seems the success had gotten to Shirley's husband's head, and the extramarital affair with her spouse's secretary soon became known.

Shirley had been Ms. Crawford's assistant for eight long months and she hated what the 'Prima Donna' was doing. Shirley found the news anchor both arrogant and condescending, but what she disliked most was the way Ms. Crawford treated her, like an indentured servant. The good-natured, warm personality Ms. Crawford portrayed to the viewing audience every night was nothing except a facade. What's more, Shirley recognized she was on borrowed time. Most of Crawford's assistants had not lasted a year.

Shirley answered.

"This is the operator. I have another one on the line who insists on speaking with Ms. Crawford."

The female anchor had become the face most her audience trusted for their perspectives of events. Ms. Crawford had also become one of the most outspoken critics of conservatism in all its forms. This was why many nuts showed up at Ms. Crawford's doorstep, so to speak.

"Put the call through, I'll take care of it. This is Ms. Crawford's office. Can I help you?"

The voice of a young man answered, "I want to speak to Ms. Crawford. Tell Ms. Crawford I have something on the President. Tell Ms. Crawford I know she'll be interested."

What a pompous ass, thought Shirley. "Whom am I speaking with, please?" with sarcasm in her voice.

"Mr. Smith."

"Look Mr. Smith, Ms. Crawford is very busy. She gets calls like yours at least twice a day so you're going to have to give me something to work with if you want to get Ms. Crawford's attention."

Normally, this as far as the caller would get. Stumped at the need to prove that what they are saying was true.

"Tell Ms. Crawford I have proof that President McKinley has been breaking the law, international laws...and no one, including anyone in the media knows about it."

Abu Ghraib resulted from leaks to the media who ran with the human rights violations story for four long years. One of the narratives that surfaced tied the actions of the eleven convicted military personnel to secret orders said to come directly from the White House. The ludicrousness of this concoction seemed at first so far fetched no intellectual on the right had taken it consequentially. Several years later, the Abu Ghraib story had played a large part in putting the Democrats back in control of Congress. The orthodox intelligencia was again proven wrong.

"Mr. Smith, that all sounds good, but I'm afraid that's not going to get you anywhere. Is there some kind of physical proof that your claim is true? Something you can fax, mail, or deliver?"

Shirley made the mistake of sending a fruit cake through once before. If it happened again, it would mean the unemployment lines for her.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"I'll fax you a portion of a document, what is the number?"

Shirley looked and found the company phone directory and gave the caller the number for a fax machine in an unoccupied office. There was a fax sitting next to Shirley, but Mr. Smith sounded legitimate. The other "Mr. Smiths" would never have committed to sending evidence to back up their wild claims. This guy apparently would.

"Look for it within the next couple of minutes. I expect to speak with Ms. Crawford once you get it, and I don't want to have to go through the operator again."

"Wait one minute Mr. Smith. What is it that you're after?"

"That will be between Ms. Crawford and me."

"Mr. Smith, I'm afraid you don't understand Ms. Crawford very well. It would help your position immensely if I could give Ms. Crawford some idea of what you're looking to get in exchange."

"Money and immunity."

"How much money?"

"$5 million."

"Immunity from what?"

"I leave it up to you to figure that out."

"Okay, here is my direct line." Shirley gave Mr. Smith her personal extension.

Mr. Smith responded, "I will call you back within the hour," and hung up abruptly.

Sounded like he got a little mad.

Shirley set the phone down and walked to Ms. Crawford's door, which was every time closed. Shirley gave it a brisk knock. "Ms. Crawford. I have to run down to the supply room. We've run out of ink for the printer."

Ms. Crawford's muffled voice came through the solid wood door. "Fine, just don't take too long."

"I won't Ms. Crawford." Shirley smiled smugly as she walked off to find the facsimile machine that was on the same floor, but on the other side of the building.

Shirley was shocked to find a coworker picking the fax out of the hopper when she arrived. "Oh, that's mine. Ms. Crawford was expecting it." Shirley snatched the page from the woman's hands. "Thanks."

She was at long last beginning to behave like every other New Yorker, every time on the borderline of rude. Shirley did not take the time to look at the fax until she arrived back at her desk. What Shirley saw was a page that had everything blacked out except for one paragraph. It read:

The President hereby authorizes SAD to carry out kill operations against terrorist strongholds operating inside the borders of known insurgent sponsoring countries. Notable sponsors include Jordan, Syria and Iran.

\----------

Senior Editor, Lucy Dietrich and her top reporter, Telly Abernathy, were in her office discussing the progress being made with political connections up on Capitol Hill when her secretary buzzed her.

"Ms. Dietrich, you have a call on line one. She says it is Shirley Winters."

"Janice, I'm in the middle of something right now. Can you take a message?"

"She said it was urgent."

Lucy peered across her desk at Telly. "This will take just a moment."

Lucy picked up the call, "Hello Shirley. What is so urgent?"

"Yes...okay..." Telly Abernathy noticed Lucy's expression changing to one of both surprise and shock.

"Shirley, do you mind if I put you on the speakerphone? Okay, hold on a second." Lucy pressed the hold button.

"You need to hear this. This is my former assistant, Shirley Winters."

Telly said with interest etched on his face, "Okay?"

She pressed the speaker button. "Shirley?"

Telly heard a young woman's voice come over the speaker, "Yes, Ms. Dietrich."

"Shirley, can you repeat what you just told me?"

As Telly listened, his interest grew.

"Shirley, are you still working for Ms. Crawford? Was that how this came across your desk?"

"Yes, to both."

"Do you still have hopes of becoming a reporter? Because this story could be your big break."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Ms. Dietrich?"

Telly Abernathy signaled his boss with his hands; he wanted to talk privately for a moment.

"Shirley, I'm going to put you on hold for a moment. Just hang on the line."

"Okay."

"Good, don't go anywhere," and put Shirley on hold.

Lucy peered at Telly, "Are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"Yes, I am, but first, have you ever heard of a government agency called the Special Activities Division?"

Lucy shook her head, "No, but we both are aware of who can find out. I have two thoughts. I say we badge Shirley as one of our own, have her work for us. Let's see if she can make something of this?"

"I would say go for it, except I want to be included in this one."

"That's fine, just keep me in the loop."

"Shirley...Shirley, are you there?"

"Yes, Ms. Dietrich."

"What do you think of the idea of becoming one of our people?"

"That sounds wonderful. Will I get to run with this story?"

"Yes, you need to stay right where you are for the time being. See what you can find on Mr. Smith. If Crawford arranges a meeting with the 'whistle blower' find out where it is. I'll have a tail put on him. I am also going to assign one of my top people to help you. His name is Telly Abernathy. I will have him contact you this afternoon. What number should Telly call?"

Shirley gave Lucy both her cellphone and office extension.

"I'll have Telly give you a call this afternoon. If I know Ms. Crawford and Donald Abraham, they will jump all over those leaked documents. Shirley, I will begin processing your paperwork today."

Lucy hesitated before continuing, "Shirley, you're in a unique situation. You have come across something that usually only happens once in a journalist's lifetime. Are you ready for the challenge?"

"Yes, Ms. Dietrich, I am."

"Oh, and by the way, from now on you can call me Lucy."

"Thanks, Lucy."

Lucy hung up.

Telly commented, "You know, this could turn very dangerous for her?"

"Yes, I know, that's why I want you on this, too. See what you can dig up on this agency and fill me in with what you uncover."

"Will do, boss."
MCKINLEY'S LAST ORDER

WASHINGTON, D.C. - January 21, outgoing President McKinley had just days before turning over his office to President-elect Nathan Martinez when the Secretary of Defense, Donald Taggert, entered his office unannounced.

"Mr. President."

McKinley glanced up, then at his watch. "Not for much longer, Don."

"Intelligence has spotted Abu al-Zarqawi."

"Well, where is he?"

"Intelligence has him near the Iran-Iraq border at an Iranian military compound. They are convinced the location is being used as a terrorist training center. Heavy traffic has been picked up by overhead surveillance and could only mean Al-Qaeda is planning a new wave of attacks against Iraqi targets."

Both men understood open aggression across the Iranian border could not be carried out by conventional forces, not without Congressional approval. McKinley had met the incoming President on a few occasions, and the Republican believed the cocky Senator would not have the stomach to call out the dogs, and yet, there was still time to do something. A fast, in-and-out mission by SAD would fall inside his authority.

There was no longer a buffer between Iran and the United States and there was little doubt the simmering hostility would flare up into a new conflict that could envelop the entire region. The U.S. Military tried for years to get close enough to assassinate this most powerful ringleader within Al-Qaeda, someone who was directly involved in the planning of September 11, 2001. This might be the last time anyone got a shot at the son-of-a-bitch.

\----------

"This is Mitchum."

"Director Mitchum, this is President McKinley."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Is there time to get one last mission before I leave office, end of the week?"

"Three days. Yes, it is possible. Where to?"

"Al-Zarqawi has been spotted near the Iran-Iraq border, in Ilam Province."

Derrick was familiar with that part of Iran, long a breeding ground for terrorist insurgents and an area where several hit-and-run missions had been carried out.

"Are you confident you can do it? I don't want to leave you and your men out on a limb."

"I can always pull them out if they don't make it, sir."

"True. Okay, I'm sending you my authorization for the mission. Derrick, I want you to pull the plug on the mission if your men can't get things done inside three days."

"I understand, Karl Hagman's team is in the area and can begin the operation within the hour."

"Derrick, I would not be asking you to take such a gamble unless I thought the mission would be worth the risk. I just can't sit around on my hands when that maniac is within arms reach."

"I understand completely, sir."

"Three days Derrick; no longer, understood."

"Three days, Mr. President."

\----------

DETROIT, MI - President-elect, Nathan Martinez, was tying up some loose ends back in Detroit before the leap to Washington. He had just finished shaking hands with the new Michigan Senator who will be taking his old Senate seat. Martinez lit up one more 'Kool' cigarette and leaned back in his chair. It turned out the vacancy was worth $4.5 million dollars, not bad for an afternoon's work.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," answered Martinez who was now in the best of moods.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President, DNC Chairperson Ricardo Adduci is on the line for you, he says it's urgent."

"Well, pass him through, Mary."

Martinez answered the call on the second ring. "Yes, Ricardo, what's up?"

"Are we on the speaker, Mr. President?"

"No."

"Something just came in from one of our people at Langley. McKinley is sending a military team into Iran."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"It could be a big mistake and play right into our hands, Mr. President."

"Hold on, I want to get Nelson in on this." Martinez covered up the receiver with his hand, then shouted, "Mary, get me the Chief of Staff, I need him right now!"

"Yes, Mr. President," the secretary replied, her voice barely noticeable through the closed door.

Martinez put Adduci on the speaker. "Ricardo, do you have any idea why McKinley's sending a special ops into Iran?"

Nelson Frank, newly appointed White House Chief of Staff, spoke from the doorway, "It's got to be a black-ops team called Special Activities Division. Sorry, I could not help but overhear the two of you. You'd better send the secretary off on an errand, unless you want one more eavesdropper involved."

"Mary," Martinez shouted.

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Go get three coffees, Starbucks."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"She talks like a parrot," remarked Nelson.

"Yea, close that damn door. You know, I'll be f....ing glad when I'm out of here." Martinez took a long pull on his menthol nicotine stick.

Nelson now clarified things for the two politicians, "Okay, just so the two of you are aware, McKinley is entirely within his rights in sending the Special Activities Division on that sort of mission, so, why is this so important?"

"Because, you idiot. He's only got three days in office!" exclaimed the DNC Chairman over the speaker.

"If they don't get back, or better yet, if they're captured by the Iranians, I see that as a perfect way to start off your presidency."

"I hate to admit it, but Ricardo could be right about this," remarked Nelson who was a very bright guy and a quick study.

Adduci's voice came back over the speaker, "I can just see the headlines now, 'McKinley Goes On Trial.'"

"Look guys, I'm just a law professor, so fill me in. What would be the charge?"

Nelson answered with confidence. "War crimes, we could charge McKinley with war crimes, violating the sovereignty of foreign nations."

\----------

ALGODONES, MEXICO - The former Spetsnaz Colonel turned mercenary was humping his brains out on one of the latest arrivals when his cellphone began buzzing on the nightstand. The big man rolled off the American teen, the one who recently went missing in the streets of Tijuana. The Russian looked like a grizzly beast, perspiration matted down both his hairy chest and back to his muscled torso. Picking up the intrusion, the Russian answered in a deep, husky voice, sweat dripping from his nose from his exertions, "This is Boris."

The voice of Nelson Frank came over the receiver, "This is Mr. White. How good are your connections with the Iranians?"

"I still have friends there, why?"

"I need you to alert the Iranians to the presence of an American team operating within their borders. It is a six-man team headed to the Azerbaijan Province."

"That is big country. What is the American's mission?"

"Assassinate al-Zarqawi."

"The terrorist leader, that make things easier to track down."

"Boris, I need you to make certain those men do not get out of Iran."

"Who are these men, Rangers, Delta?"

"That is of no concern of yours."

"Yes, it is my concern Mr. White."

Nelson paused for a moment before responding agitatedly; he did not like answering questions. "Fine, the group is from SAD, Special Activities Division."

"Special Activities Division, part of CIA?"

"Yes Boris, six men from the CIA."

"I want half now. Half upon delivery."

"Shit, okay fine!"

"You know Mr. White, the Iranians will not be very kind to those Americans."

"Hell, that does not matter, just so long as they end up in the Iranian's hands."

"I will have my best men on the mission. No way it will fail."

Click! The connection went dead.

The Russian looked back at the hapless, senselessly drugged-out teen, someone's daughter who would never be seen again, at least not by her family and friends. This was the youth's so-called "break-in" period before being shipped overseas by her new owners. This was part of the job Colonel Boris Demetree enjoyed most. Taking a quick look at his watch he mumbled with a sordid smile, "Now then, there is still time for a little more fun."
LAST MISSION AS AMERICANS

AZERBAIJAN PROVINCE, IRAN - DAY ONE; Officer Karl Hagman peered out from the perch on the edge of a natural rock escarpment, staring at the wrinkled rolling terrain. Long shadows across the landscape slowly disappeared as the sun began to rise on the eastern horizon. The team was airlifted to the west of the terrorist training camp the night before and made its way to the current position before daybreak. They now waited for dusk to carry out the attack using the man-portable, antipersonnel rocket system, the Shark. The total system weighed just twenty-five pounds, including the launcher with two missiles.

Karl and his team almost had this guy once before in Qsar Shirin, but had lacked the time to find the coward's spider hole. Days prior to today, the CIA received word from an informant that the Al-Qaeda leader, Abu al-Zarqawi was in the camp below. The terrorist was a high-value target and until days ago, his whereabouts had been unresolved.

The Black Angel leader studied the patterns of one man throughout the day. The man wore one of the black robes associated with Al-Qaeda leadership and was seen addressing new arrivals as they came off Iranian military trucks throughout the day. More than three dozen men arrived inside an eight-hour period, Karl could only wonder if Middle East Command had any idea what was coming their way.

Sean was in charge of the portable missile system, which had a range of twelve-hundred meters and carried a thermobaric warhead which most techies described as a fuel-air bomb. It was useful in taking out soft targets like buildings and vehicles and it was decided it was going to be used against the single brick building in the otherwise tented community. It was approaching sixteen-hundred hours (4:00 P.M.) when Karl noticed a man being dragged kicking and screaming into the brick building.

Karl began to wonder if somewhere out there, the mullahs were not planning something bigger. Intelligence said the Iranians were fast-tracking their nuclear weapons program with the help of Russia. Terrorists with nuclear weapons was not a pleasant thought. Karl instantly let the notion pass when he spotted at first one, then two trucks loading up with armed men. The team leader thought to himself, This doesn't look good. There was no fear, just anticipation.

Half a dozen robed terrorists carried the infamous RPG, rocket propelled grenade. Less than a kilometer of desert floor was all that separated them from the team's position. A cool breeze began to come up the escarpment and gave the helmeted warrior a brief respite from the day's heat.

Karl peered through his binoculars when he thought he heard the screams of a man, carried on the same wind. The temperature was beginning to drop and the descending sun began to cast shadows across the landscape.

It was dusk when Karl saw something taking place in the courtyard. The militants began to muster out onto the field and the officer saw a man being dragged out of a building, thought to be the command center. The prisoner's hands were bound behind him and stripped naked. Karl took a long hard look through his binoculars.

Was that the informant?

He heard a footfall that caused him to quickly turn around with weapon raised. It was Sean who approached him through a narrow rock opening that led up to the ledge.

"Are you seeing that?" asked Sean pointing in the direction of the camp. "That isn't the informant, is it?"

Karl replied, "You read my mind."

He then touched his earpiece to send word to the team. "Everyone, pack up your gear. We're leaving pronto. Hunter, contact Mother. Let her know we're on our way to the extraction point."

A deep voice came back, "Roger that, Sean."

Karl got his gear together and turned for one last look through his field glasses. The prisoner was in a kneeling position, the executioner let swing a large sword. The poor unfortunate was decapitated only after several multiple slashes of the blade.

Those bastards!

An hour later, the Black Angel team was making good time, heading west toward the extraction point when Hunter's voice came over the net, "Karl, we have bad guys coming at us from the south?" Karl who was bringing up the rear jogged up to Hunter's position. Hunter pointed in the direction of their approach. In the distance, Karl now saw the headlights of vehicles. They appeared to be thirty minutes, or less, away.

"That's going to hamper things a bit. We have six hours before pick up. You see that outcrop just to the left of their approach." Karl pointed to a rock formation that rose from the rugged mountainside.

"Elijah get up there with your Steyr and if this becomes a firefight, light them up."

Karl checked his watch. "We're still on schedule if we can escape detection."

"Our extraction point remains three kilometers to the west of here."

Sean's voice came over the net, "This is Sean. Have you seen those torches coming from our rear?"

The small convoy of trucks they watched approaching unexpectedly detoured taking a near ninety-degree turn to the west. Karl examined his GPS for the reason and found the terrorists were following a rough dirt track. Karl identified the transports as wheeled vehicles, incapable of traversing rugged terrain. They were limited to the dirt road. Further examination showed the track began to run south where it met one more range of mountains. The move had to be an attempt to put themselves between his suspected location and the border, some twenty kilometers away.

The troops on those transports would have to disembark; that would put up to sixty men in the team's path. Karl considered the options and decided the team should also make a ninety-degree pivot and run parallel to the track taken by the enemy. Given their current location and the location of the dirt track, that would put one click between them and the enemy.

Karl watched the enemy transports disappear behind low hills through his field glasses. Karl noticed at the same time fog beginning to form to the west. Karl turned to see what kind of distance separated them from the enemy who were approaching on foot from behind. It looked like two kilometers, plenty of distance and plenty of time. Karl stopped counting the torches after reaching twenty-five. Without saying a word, Officer Hagman motioned to the team to begin its advance.

\----------

Joe raised his right hand above his head in a tight fist and everyone froze in place. Karl drew up next to him, "What is it?"

The officer nodded in the direction they were headed. "I saw something, just ahead of us. I think it was a man." Officer Bogart said in a whisper.

Just at that moment, Karl and Joe heard rocks sliding down the slope to their front. Everyone instantly hit the ground. A freak breeze blew a portion of the fog away giving everyone a faint glance of men wearing ghillie suits. These were not the amateurs Karl was watching that afternoon. These were Iranian Special Forces.

"Everyone, defensive positions," whispered Karl over the squad's communications net and his team began to fan out on either side of his position. The night-vision goggles they wore did not penetrate the thick veil of fog that now obscured everything ten meters out. The team had taken up firing positions across the track the enemy would take, with their firearms up and pointed in the direction of the hostiles. Behind them, some two-hundred meters down the path they had just come was a rock ledge that offered a better defensible position.

In that brief moment, Karl caught sight of half a dozen men, most carrying AK-47s. One, however, carried what appeared to be a large-caliber sniper rifle. That was very bad news. If caught in the open, Karl and his team could be picked off one by one if it was in the hands of a professional.

Everyone stared into the growing mist before them, straining to see any movement. The figures disappeared into the fog and so far, no one else had seen any further signs of the enemy. All that appeared were dark areas of stunted, desert shrubbery and boulders. Karl wanted to avoid detection if possible.

He forced his muscles to relax; the strain of a lengthy operation could cause one's reflexes to slow. Suddenly, communications came alive. "We've got movement to the right." Karl tensed up again.

He pressed the communication contact and whispered, "Everyone, prepare to engage hostiles, but let them pass if possible."

The mist cleared for a moment and Karl saw them again, just for an instant and grumbled to himself, "That was at least a dozen men."

All of a sudden Karl began to hear the faint metallic ring of silenced assault guns going off to his right, a note unmistakable to anyone who served in Special Forces. An instant later there were some muffled shouts ten degrees to his front, and then nothing. Karl felt the blood chill in his veins when he realized they were discovered.

Breathing hard and now perspiring in an icy sweat, Karl crawled backward and rolled to a position next to where Sean was hugging the earth. "We have got to get back to that plateau."

Sean nodded in agreement and said, "I saw at least one sniper."

Karl pressed his earpiece. "Everyone backtrack to the rock ledge. Repeat, head to the rock ledge behind us."

He was about to begin working his way backwards in a crouched position when figures began to emerge from the fog to his front. Karl hit the ground, placed his finger on the trigger, peered down the telescopic sight at the first ghillie-clad figure he saw just long enough to hit him in the midsection. The Iranian folded like a jackknife. Figures could be seen falling to the ground when they heard their comrade scream in pain. One or two fell backwards as if hit by a fastball. The team's silenced weapons hammered away at the few spots where they'd seen the enemy drop. At the same time, someone to Karl's right tossed a grenade down among the enemy positions, followed by one more, then another.

Friendly gunfire fell silent. A fast check over the com-link had shown everyone escaped injury. No one understood what, if any, casualties the enemy sustained other than the three they had seen go down in their sights. The enemy wasn't looking to overrun the position, yet. It was time to make tracks.

"Everyone reverse track one-eighty, go!" The SAD officers faced the equivalent of two platoons of special forces. Of the dozen enemy combatants Karl had seen, only three were down, another nine, or more still unaccounted for.

An alert came over his earpiece. "Sir, the mist is beginning to clear to our left." Karl looked in the direction. He was right. They didn't have any time to waste. The one thing Karl noticed was his adversaries did not appear to be wearing any special kind of headgear and were likely at a technical disadvantage. Karl drew some comfort from the fog beginning to lift, which would provide a tactical advantage. They had to try to avoid further contact with the enemy. Karl slowly lowered the weapon. "Let's get moving."

The communiqué was received down the line by those officers still hidden in the hazy conditions.

Karl picked himself up and then began stepping backward, steadily making his way over the broken ground. The slope of the ground began to give way to rocky highlands. The officer kept his eyes focused to his front with narrowed eyes, looking for any sign of movement. Then Karl saw them, a half-dozen figures emerging from the fog. Their outlines resolved themselves into sharp detail.

The booming of what could have been a small cannon came across from the right! Karl turned to see one of his men, his head involuntarily snapped backward before he collapsed to the stony ground where he remained, unmoving. A sniper's bullet found its mark.

Karl had a sick feeling in the pit of the stomach when he realized there was nothing he could do for the fallen comrade. Everyone was as good as dead unless he did something. All Karl could think of at the moment was it had been an honor serving with Officer Joe Bogart, the newest member of Black Angel. What happened today was not supposed to have occurred. Either the enemy was tipped off, or the informant gave them up, or both.

Dim shapes burst through the veil of the fog as several men ran up closing on Karl's team from the direction where Joe had fallen. Several of them tumbled to the ground, while one more doubled over and tried to stay on his feet with a bullet hole in his thigh. Those who may have been following the fallen never appeared. The team made tracks up the path, the one defensible position from the enemy troops who were arrayed in front of him. Probably fifty more were now heading for the team's rear.

A small rocket whistled by, followed by the echo of a tremendous explosion somewhere behind them as the enemy tried to strike at the invisible quarry with an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade). To the right, a brief flash of a silenced weapon stabbed out into the darkness answered by the cry of agony.

Almost at the same time, Karl heard more automatic gunfire as the enemy came at them from the other flank. "Keep moving" Karl shouted out, "They're firing blind." Yet more automatic fire could be heard now from the front, and Karl shouted, "Run, boys!"

The small group reached the foot of the cliff and the narrow goat path that led up to their objective.

"This way," Karl bellowed, "Follow me."

The order of the team dissolved into a group of running men. The bullets could be heard whizzing about as the enemy fired at the sounds of the men running. There was no letup; the AK-47s kept going off.

The team leader stepped to the side to let everyone pass. "Keep going. I'll see you at the top."

He wrestled his pack from his back and took out two Russian PFM-3G's, and laid them on the path the enemy would have to take. "This should slow those guys down a bit."

The so-called "butterfly mines" were pressure-sensitive and carried thirty-seven grams of C-4 high explosives, more than enough to kill, or maim anyone within a five-meter blast radius. Karl raced up the path following his team when he placed the charges several meters apart.

When he reached the summit, Karl surveyed the positions of his men; they were all in optimal firing positions. This location was, however, no good. If attacked from the rear, the enemy would come from an elevated position, a distinct disadvantage. The team leader now recalled that this range of mountains ran parallel to the Iran-Iraq border, eventually becoming hilly countryside the further south one traveled. There was no choice, they were going to have to give up on the current extraction point, as there was no way to bypass the fast encircling Iranians. They were going in-country for a while. How long? Karl did not know, as it depended entirely on the reaction of the enemy.

By the racket of gunfire still going off below, the enemy believed the team was trapped up against the side of the cliff. Karl took a grenade from his belt and tossed it over the ledge for good measure. Moments later everyone heard the deafening explosion echo about the mountain surroundings.

Karl steeled his heart. He and his team had been in tight fixes before, but this was proving one of the most dangerous. The only shelter for his team was the safety of distance and yes, it would have been better to head north along the mountain ridge before turning again toward Iraq, but that route was at the moment cut off. The rock formations to the south would offer some concealment from attack helicopters that were sure to arrive at daylight, if not before.

Karl whispered out once he decided on the course of action, "Every one, close up on me." The squad fell into a column behind him as they made double-time along the mountain track.

Five minutes passed and Karl heard the echoing explosion of one of his mines. The first to explode was buried under sand in the middle of the footpath. The team leader fell out of line, motioning the team to continue moving ahead. Karl pulled the remote detonator from his pocket, disabled the safety switch, got a green light and pressed the lighted button firmly. The sharp note of a second explosion was immediately heard echoing through the mountains. Karl had placed the second mine in a small crevice in one of the walls of the dirt track and activated the remote detonation toggle switch. It was quite likely it caught a good number of the enemies in its blast. It was placed first along the path and would catch those who were following the poor guys who went up first.

The sun would be up in a few hours as Officer Hunter Jefferies tapped into his encrypted satellite link with SAD headquarters to inform them of their current situation. One more pickup point had to be designated; the team had not been able to reach the original extraction point before daylight. Their rescue would have to wait until the next evening.

At the higher altitude of the rugged mountains, the wind became more noticeable as the veil of the fog disappeared. Two hours into their march, the men, weighed down by their Kevlar armor, were becoming exhausted from their labors. Karl hit some loose rocks and tumbled to the ground; his comrades paused as he picked himself up. An hour later, gasping for breath, the team leader licked his lips as he forced himself to straighten up to get a better look at what was following, chest heaving.

Elijah, also gasping for air, said, "It looks like we lost them."

"I'm not so confident of that, but I hope you're right."

Karl had to tell himself, I have got to keep going, as his oxygen-starved muscles continued to ache. Comradeship, discipline, and self-sacrifice were still in evidence, but the physical demands were extreme and they would soon run out of water. The team was very lucky to come face to face with the enemy in the fog. The heavy mist could at the moment be seen below, obscuring the lower elevation. Karl studied his men to see how they were holding up...everyone was exhausted.

Elijah, who was walking just ahead of Karl, turned and glanced over the team leader's shoulder and his expression hardened. "Here they come, sir."

Everyone turned around to see the faint glow of torches emerge from the fog below. First one, then another, torches held by scouts of a growing contingent of the enemy. It must be the second group the team had seen coming from the north. The last thing the team could afford to do was to get into one more firefight with ammunition now running critically low. To further complicate things, it would soon be light out; the last thing they needed was to be caught out in the open when the Iranian Air Force turned up.

Karl yelled out, "They're following our tracks! We need to throw them off our trail by making for those rocks along the ridge line. Leave as little evidence as you can. We will be able to better lose them once we've gotten into rocky terrain."

The team nodded in agreement.

Karl took the GPS out of his thigh pocket and took a look at what lay ahead. The officer glanced at his wristwatch: zero four hundred hours. It would be dawn soon.

\----------

DAY TWO - Karl and his team were bivouacked on the rocky mountainside during the day, waiting for night to fall. It was still winter in this part of the world; however, the temperatures would climb into the nineties as the sun rose into the sky. Karl looked out on the rocky, arid landscape, giving him cause to unconsciously recall memories of Afghanistan. As often happened, it was memories of the successful missions that helped him keep the danger of the situation from overloading the primordial part of the mind. Kept him in balance. Kept him in control of himself.

In the middle of these thoughts, Karl turned his head to catch a glimpse of the four remaining team members. The thought of any one of them being captured alive was too much to imagine. Karl knew what awaited anyone who fell captive to the Quds Forces. The interrogation techniques of Iranian Intelligence were well known to the western world for its barbarity. The poor man Karl had seen the previous evening was evidence of what awaited a captive's fate.

Several times during the day, Karl had seen Russian-built attack helicopters, the MI-24 Hind. Karl could tell by the lazy circles they made during their search routine the enemy had no idea of his team's position.

The officer at that moment spotted a Hind attack helicopter approaching from the south. Its flight path would put it almost on top of the SAD officers in a couple of minutes. With those things flying about, they wouldn't make the distance they need to before dawn. Karl forced himself to the ground as he watched the approaching war-bird. Something was not quite right about the path of the MI-24 Hind. For one, it was not circling; it was following a straight course, one that paralleled the border. Karl thought he saw small objects falling from it, but the shimmering heat made it difficult to make out anything clearly. The Russian attack copter kept on moving off.

He had served in the region long enough to be aware of the nature of this enemy. They would not give up so easily. Their pride was at stake.

\----------

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The Junior Senator, and President-elect had nothing but well wishers and fawning media people enter and exit his Washington office throughout the day. God, he was feeling good! Martinez just loved the attention and the adoration. The reverence his colleagues showed him made him feel like something more than a man, and for those that did not darken his doorway, the new President was taking note.

"Mary, no more visitors," Martinez shouted from his desk.

"Yes, Mr. President."

Damn if Nelson isn't right, the secretary does sound like a damn parrot, the President thought as he lit up one more cigarette, throwing the still burning match into the trash can.

There was a resolute knock at the door.

"Damn it, I said no more visitors!" shouted Martinez.

"Not even from your biggest fans," came the response as the door swung open and in walked Jason Simon, Shmuel Weisser and Donald Abraham.

\----------

Karl glanced at his watch and then at the enemy force as it made its way across the rubble-strewn ground, heading in their direction. Another half-hour and the Iranians would be on top of them. Darkness had just fallen as the men of Black Angel waited in their ambush positions, night-vision gear in place. Karl watched as Sean went through a series of tests to make sure the Shark was functional from behind some rock cover. Once Sean ensured everything was a go, he gave Karl the thumbs-up.

Operating on the principle of a range laser, the missiles, when launched, would follow the path of the unseen beam and detonate on target. Karl hoped this would stop his pursuers, conclusively.

Every officer pulled his camouflage netting over himself to minimize their heat signatures in case the enemy below had night-vision equipment. Each man adjusted his telescopic sights to the proper settings and waited for the word from Karl to engage. Except for Sean, everyone then remained as motionless as a pride of lions lying in wait for their prey. Their current position was chosen in as much as it offered the advantage of height and fields of fire on a point where the pursuers were forced to bunch up. The natural bottleneck was thirty meters wide with a sheer rock face. On the other side there was a twenty-foot drop. The SAD officers were positioned on a boulder-strewn mountainside looking down at their approach.

Karl eyed the cautious way the enemy approached the pass, their attempts to become less of a target by dispersing being defeated by the confined area. The team leader understood his counterpart down below suspected a trap; however, the Iranian Commander must have been convinced the odds of ten to one worked heavily in his favor. The thing the enemy leader did not count on was the pair of thermobaric-warheads.

Karl popped his head up above the boulder for a moment to check on the enemy's progress. They were making good time, remaining erect as they approached. The main body closed to half the distance and the scouts already made their way through the choke point.

The minutes passed by slowly.

The thermobaric warhead had a killing radius that would envelop anything caught inside the confines of the rock-strewn pass. The blast, if it didn't kill the enemy, would permanently maim the survivors, preventing them from continuing with their pursuit. His snipers would then pick off the scouts who made it through the gap unscathed.

The timing had to be perfect.

Karl just lowered his head behind his hide when the sniper round ricocheted off the large rock not inches from where his head was. The shock wave of the impact shattered the rock into dozens of pieces. It was something the officer experienced once before in Albania. Karl could just make out the report of the sniper's rifle five seconds later. That was a fifty-caliber. The trigger man was a little over one kilometer away. The sniper was also a very good shot.

The last time Karl been taken under fire by a fifty-caliber weapon was in Kosovo where his team wasted time on what amounted to a United Nations security detail. The shooter in that instance was using a Russian OSV-96, fifty-caliber sniper rifle. That sniper paid for his mistake with his life.

"We've got a least one sniper down there. He's using a fifty. Elijah, can you take him under fire?"

Elijah and Karl were not carrying the customary Russian SV-98 in as much as the mission called for light-kit. Instead they had with them the Austrian Steyr-Mannlicher SSG 04. It had half the range and hitting power of the guy on the other side. It was an unfair fight until the distance closed. It was not likely this enemy sniper would cooperate.

Karl could see Elijah brace himself before rolling to a more advantageous position. Peering through his rifle scope, Karl heard him come over the com-link. "They're still too far off to hit anything with this peashooter."

"Let go with a few rounds. We want those guys to remain stationary."

Elijah rolled on his back behind some boulders and took a moment to remove the silencer. Silencers worked on the principle of slowing the bullet speed down to subsonic levels, but it was too slow to be effective at these kind of ranges. Elijah adjusted his sight; when he was ready the officer rolled into a new position to keep the opposing sniper off balance. Predictability was a soldier's enemy when up against a good sharp shooter. Not heeding the advice of instructors back at "The Farm" on the topic was akin to getting oneself shot, usually in the head.

Karl rolled to a new location and took the briefest of looks to determine if the Quds Forces were still moving. Karl knew he had less than five seconds to make the assessment, the time it took the one-and-a-half ounce projectile to travel the distance. Karl counted to himself as he studied the terrain. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand.... Karl pulled his head back behind the rock cover. Four one-thousand, five one-thousand, six.... Karl was watching the mountainside behind him when he heard the whizzing bullet pass within inches followed by the explosion of a block of rock that took a direct hit.

This guy was good. Too bad that sniper was on the wrong side and soon to meet his maker, Karl thought.

The past quarter hour, Elijah played the deadly game of cat and mouse with the opposition. The SAD sniper accomplished what Karl needed by keeping the enemies' heads down, forcing them to slowly crawl through the choke-point. Karl's hand signaled to Sean and caught his attention. Now was the time to let it go!

Sean followed his instructions to the letter; only the officer took one too many seconds to sight in the target. That had given the enemy sniper time to take his shot. The impact of the large bullet missed, but managed to kick up enough material to temporarily blind Sean who was at the moment holding his face in both hands.

Karl was going to have to act fast, or the opportunity would be missed. The missile launcher was still intact. Karl rolled to Sean's position, grabbed it and rolled back to his previous spot. The officer took it and rolled to a crevice between two rocks. Karl was going to have to hope the sharp shooter didn't spot him and paint the target himself. The officer counted off to himself while aiming at the approximate location of the fifty men. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand... Karl dropped below the opening until he heard the bullet whiz by before he repeated the process.

Cold sweat dripped from his nose as Karl repainted the place where he hoped the thermobaric warhead would have the greatest effect. The missile would travel at just over one-hundred meters per second. This was going to be close.

There was the sharp roar of the solid-fuel missile-engine when Karl pressed the trigger as he began counting off the seconds. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand...his sight picture lit up, and the missile struck home.

Karl dropped quickly below the crevice, again shutting his eyes tight...five one-thousand...he thought he heard the crack of the fifty-caliber-bullet striking rock just before the deafening explosion, which was instantly followed by a heat wave. Karl hesitated for a few moments before yanking his binoculars up to his face after rolling to a new location to eye the area of the blast. The officer ducked at three one-thousand, four one-thousand...nothing happened, five one-thousand...still nothing.

Karl could make out half-a-dozen figures who must have been bringing up the back of the pack, frantically running away in a zigzag pattern. As Karl scanned the charred, black landscape with binoculars in the area of the blast, nothing was moving. Karl felt his spirits rise as the fight began to go their way for the first time.

"Karl, do you see anything?"

"I don't see anything moving. Marvelous," Karl growled with pleasure as he motioned his team to continue their flight. "Keep your heads down, the sniper may still be out there," stated Karl motioning his team to continue on as he stepped aside.

"Sean, are you okay?"

Sean paused and nodded. "Yes, just a few scratches. Boy, I thought I had bought the farm that time."

Karl, with a bit of gallows humor, laughed. "Sean, you would have never known what hit you. Now, let's get going."
D-DAY+

AZERBAIJAN PROVINCE, IRAN - DAY THREE

As the sun rose it cast long shadows from every pebble and rock. Karl sat down with the team in a slight depression of the desert surroundings where nothing was said. Each mechanically took up a position for perimeter defense. They tried to catch some sleep. Unnecessary contact with the locals was avoided. Water was running short. They only moved at night. In the daytime they bivouacked, and remained hidden again until nightfall.

Tonight, Karl's team would be forced to leave the protection of the mountains and make a mad dash toward the Iraqi border.

Sean crouched down next to Karl.

"What now?"

Karl shrugged. "We'll find out soon enough. When it gets dark we'll make tracks for as long as we can to the west."

"That's it?"

Karl laughed. "Yes, that's the plan, either we make it out of here alive, or we die trying. We are on our own."

Sean replied with the devil of a smile. "I can guarantee you this, if we do go down, it won't be before we send a few more of those Quds guys on to paradise."

\----------

WASHINGTON, D.C. - President Nathan Martinez stood in front of the fireplace in the Oval Office as the fawning media snapped away with their cameras. On either side of the President stood the Senate Leader Jim Rooney and House Majority Leader Patricia Bocchino. It was a historic time for the country, the first member of a minority to be elected to the highest office in the land. The "Martinez Era" had officially begun.

National elections offered a glimpse into how the news moguls influenced the make up of both political parties. During the primaries, the publishers threw weight behind the Republican candidate with a history of voting in opposition to his party on key issues. The most recent illustration was the news industries backing of a longtime Arizona Republican senator who also happened to openly support legislation that would have forever changed the political landscape, legalizing aliens. If the news barons' ultimate candidate were to lose his, or her bid for President, the moderate would have been the lesser evil.

During the primaries there was little the other Republican candidates could do to offset the hundreds of millions of dollars the publishers threw behind the moderate in the guise of journalism. Once the opposition for the Republican Senator had been dispatched, and their selection of candidates won his or her primary, the publishers quite naturally turned their news businesses on them, conducting themselves in much the same way they had with any Republican.

In over a century, the media had never once been able to find anything closely resembling an "October Surprise" on a Democrat Presidential candidate. The coup de grâce for a politician's campaign, it would surface magically in October, usually two to three weeks before the election for the biggest effect. Martinez had also magically escaped being tarnished. If the publishers and their armies of reporters ever uncovered something damaging on their candidates, any Democrat candidate, as a normal course of conducting business, they would naturally bury those discoveries.

The last Republican to experience an "October Surprise" was President William W. McKinley and to show the lengths the publishers would go, a month before his reelection a World News Network reporter dug up a letter purported to come from McKinley's past. The 70's era typewritten document was put forth as the evidence. The entire news industry ran with the story and the plan nearly worked. Referred to as "Memogate," the letter showed the President had escaped a tour in Vietnam due to family connections. McKinley's poll numbers began to fall precipitously and if it were not for the efforts of ordinary citizens, a typology expert and the internet, who exposed the document as a fake, his political career would have been finished.

When the last traditionalist news agency, The Daily, disappeared a century earlier, there was nothing to hold the publishers accountable. As the news industry's propaganda grew in audaciousness and deceit, there was nothing except ordinary citizens left to discover the truth. Without the internet, however, even that would not have mattered.

The stakes for national elections were every time high, but particularly so when ALL Washington was up for grabs, as was the case this year. With Democrats in charge, the results were always further encroachments on the traditions of American life. The Democrats would have free reign in the appointment of federal judges, activists who would legislate from the bench. The federal government would invariably grow, and regulation would increase, as would taxes to pay new, grandiose programs.

The election, however, had not proven to be a mandate for significant change. Even with the cards stacked entirely in the Democrat's favor, Martinez only managed to carry fifty-three percent of the popular vote. It was a sign to the political handlers that the Democrat had to continue with the charade of a moderate, and the cue cards would continue to be necessary. The extreme ideologue that lurked just below the surface had to remain hidden from public view, even as Martinez rushed to implement an agenda that would force the nation to a point of no return, hopefully before the next presidential election.

A President's aide stepped in front of the 'Press Pool' and announced, "Okay, that's it for now. Thank you." The aide ushered the reporters toward the door with his arms like he was herding goats to pasture as the President and his Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank, and the Congressional leaders, Sen. Jim Rooney and Rep. Patricia Bocchino departed out a side door.

"Jim, Pat, thanks for making an appearance."

"The pleasure was ours, Mr. President," replied Rep. Bocchino with her bright teeth-filled smile. Sen. Rooney nodded in agreement.

"Well, I'm confident you two have business to take care of up on The Hill. I will see the two of you again tonight at the celebratory dinner."

"Very good, Mr. President," replied Sen. Rooney with his somber looking grimace that was his version of a smile.

Martinez at the moment looked sternly at his Chief of Staff. "Nelson, you and I need to talk."

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"Let's talk in private." The Chief of Staff followed the President and his long lanky strides. Nelson, shutting the door behind him, took a seat after Martinez had taken his.

"Nelson, why are you insisting we meet with Mitchum? He's going to be gone in a matter of days, if not hours, if your plan works."

"Mr. President, it is simply a formality. A simple meeting, so we won't raise any red flags."

Martinez, again glanced critically at Nelson. "How quick?"

"Ten minutes."

"All right, ten minutes. I want you there as well."

"I understand, I'll make the arrangements."

\----------

Derrick noticed the new President looking at his watch every minute, or so, a clear sign that Martinez considered this meeting a complete waste. That struck Derrick as fine, as he did not want to be there either; he had better things to do. It was odd, however, that Martinez insisted he meet him on this, the first week of his presidency, especially taking into account this treatment.

Most past Presidents understood the value his group brought to the table, a unique kind of power, their own private little army. Most past presidents, even the Democrats, had been somewhat interested in the operational aspects of SAD, but Martinez was exhibiting signs of no such interest. It was as if the President were simply going through the formalities dictated by his position.

Martinez had said hello and gone into what amounted to a two-minute elevator pitch on why the public loved him and why the new president was such a great man. The President must have used "I" at least two-dozen instances within that short time.

Sitting next to the President was his Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank, who did most of the talking, no questions just talking. It would have been okay except the Chief of Staff was not saying anything of significance. All Derrick could do was sit quietly and try to stay awake.

Kosovo, then Somalia were Derrick's first taste of a Democrat in office. At the time, it was obvious to everyone, except the media, that those missions served no American interests. No, the only thing those missions did was to elevate President Evenson in the eyes of non-Americans. Derrick would never forget those good men who had fallen just to prop-up that Democrat's international magnanimity.

Nine minutes into the forum an aide knocked on the door, stepped in and ended Derrick's misery.

Derrick was just picking up his briefcase when Nelson spoke up one last time. "Director Mitchum, one more thing. I almost forgot to ask, are any of your teams currently on missions abroad?"

That is a hell-of-an-odd question, thought Derrick.

The Director was convinced he spotted a momentary look of glee in the eyes of the Chief of Staff as he waited for the answer.

What the hell is going on here?

Derrick addressed the question by looking at Martinez, dressing down the Chief of Staff. "Mr. President, written directives from your office are carried out without question."

The President all of a sudden appeared upset. "Director Mitchum, are you saying you are carrying out missions without my knowledge?"

Mitchum's first thought, I need to avoid answering that question.

"Mr. President, all missions ordered by President McKinley are coming to closure. I know you must realize my organization falls under the jurisdiction of the CIA."

Derrick could easily tell this guy had no idea what he was talking about; both President Martinez and Nelson Frank were completely off base and uninformed. Now was time to muddy up the waters a bit.

"Under CIA Charter A009J-32, written directives are carried out up to the point when those combat soldiers on mission are out of harm's way."

Martinez peered at Derrick with a cold, harsh look that said he was not used to hearing the word "No," in so many words, very often.

The President saw he was not intimidating the Director with his glaring eyes and turned to his Chief of Staff. "Haven't you got something to say?"

Nelson responded in the only way he could, as the Chief of Staff recognized Derrick was likely right. "Director Mitchum is correct, Mr. President. The Charter Director Mitchum mentioned is there to protect the lives and safety of covert operatives in the field."

The President's look was one of anger. Martinez could not accept the fact that they had been had, that he could not play the game he was trying to pull, whatever it was. Derrick sat quietly as Martinez turned his gaze back to him and with anger in his voice, the other shoe dropped.

"All I've got to say to you Director is you're treading on very thin ice. You may be used to doing things a certain way..."

"Mr. President!" Nelson raced to cut Martinez off before the President said anything damaging. "Mr. President, we're already late..."

The President, without shifting his gaze from Derrick raised his voice. "Shut up, Nelson! Director Mitchum, you may have been used to doing things a certain way, but that's all going to change under me. If you can't overcome some bureaucratic red-tape then I'll find someone who can."

"Mr. President, if I may," interjected the Chief of Staff.

Martinez did not respond to the Chief of Staff. "Do you understand me, Director?"

"I understand you perfectly, Mr. President."

One could hear a pin drop with the silence that descended in the room as Derrick waited to see what Martinez would do or say next. It appeared Martinez was finished with his tirade.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. President?"

There was no response, just seething anger from someone who had not gotten their way.

Derrick needed to get the Black Angel team back, and quick. This staged event of the President's was going somewhere. This new administration could not have had anything to do with the Iranians being tipped off, could it?

Derrick at that moment understood, under Martinez, his days were now numbered. The Director understood: anyone in his position, anyone worth their salt, would have responded in the same exact manner. The fallout that just occurred was not just due to a conflict of personalities. For some undisclosed reason, this President wanted him to put himself on record for a mission that was sensitive and at the moment compromised.

Derrick at that moment stood up from his chair, grabbing his briefcase in the process and stood fixing his eyes the President's. The Director was the more intimidating of the two for the politician nervously averted his eyes. Derrick understood the reaction; this bully became the real coward he was when called out.

"I look forward to working with you and your office, Mr. President, Mr. Chief of Staff. Good day."

Derrick turned about quickly and walked out.

There was something going on here that the SAD Director could not yet put his finger on. It was a bad start, but one that would have happened anyway, given the circumstances. Derrick had served under a Democrat President once before; the Director recognized how easily they could throw away the lives of his men. His only priority right now was to get Black Angel back, and then he would take his lumps, later.

\----------

MANHATTAN, NY - The opportunity the young assistant had been looking for arrived when her "bitch-of-a-boss" forgot to lock her office door when off at a luncheon engagement. The voice-activated audio recorder was tacked to the underside of the news celeb's desk. Shirley could not wait to find out what the Prima Dona had been up to. So far, nothing about McKinley and the war crime charges had surfaced at WNN, or the other news companies.

Shirley quickly and quietly entered the executive's office, locked the door and walked around to the back of the desk. Shirley stooped to her hands and knees.

Good, the thing is completely out of sight.

Shirley had to lie down to see the recorder.

Jesus Christ! The Velcro is holding only by a thread!

Shirley had wanted to send the audio recordings on with "Mr. Smith's" contraband she had been surreptitiously copying, but things had just at the moment worked out where the secretary could get to them.

The cleaning crew must have knocked it loose. I've got to try someplace different.

\----------

Derrick half heard his Operations Officer, Ronald Timm, tell the extraction team of the change in plans as he read through the latest communications.

"How far are they away from the border?" Derrick asked without diverting his eyes from the document.

"They're still heading along the Taurus Mountain range. The transponders put them here." Derrick looked up at the area being highlighted on the big screen.

"Last communications with Black Angel indicated they were forced to make a course change to the east due to enemy pursuit. Just before dawn, they made one more course correction and were again heading south. This chain of mountains is slowing their progress down considerably."

"When can we expect them to be close enough to send in the Black Birds?" asked Derrick while yawning.

"If they succeed in avoiding any further detection they will travel a five kilometers further from their current positions to bypass the town of Genehdar. It is a notorious strongpoint for terrorist activity. Officer Hagman indicated he expected they will turn toward the border somewhere in this area," the officer highlighted one more position on the digital map, "and cross this large wadi somewhere in this area, before hitting flatland up to the border."

"What's your guess on when they will be at a safe enough point for an extraction?"

"I believe it's going to take them at least two nights of hard trekking before they are close enough to be safely airlifted out. Our aerial reconnaissance shows the areas crawling with Iranian military."

Derrick replied, "Yes, it's like someone knew they were coming. What's your guess on how many are on the team's tail?"

"I'd say it is at least several companies, sir."

"Keep me apprised of any changes," responded Derrick with a yawn. It had been twenty-four hours since the Director slept and his mind was losing its mental sharpness. There was not anything Derrick could do for Black Angel at the moment, as they would soon be in hiding and unable to move during the daylight hours.

For the greater part of the day the Director scanned through various communiqués trying to put the pieces together only to come up with zero. Derrick took one last look at the transcript of the conversation with Officer Karl Hagman, "Mission has been compromised. Observed suspected informant captured and eliminated. Terrorists and Iranian military now in pursuit."

He needed to be fresh and alert when darkness descended in the Middle East...his one objective at the moment was to get his team back, out of harm's way.

"I'm going to go and catch up on some sleep. Keep me posted if there are any changes; I'll have my phone with me."

"Very good, Director."

\----------

Derrick's cellphone began to dance across the reading table of the hotel room waking him from a deep sleep. When a team of his was in dire straights, the Director made a habit of staying close to the operation center, so instead of taking the one-hour drive to his suburban home, Derrick would stay at a hotel within minutes of CIA Headquarters. Sure, the CIA complex had sleeping accommodations, but Derrick needed to get away from that environment to get his thoughts off work and some real rest.

Half asleep, Derrick snapped up the cellphone and squinted to see who was calling, "Unknown Number."

"Director Mitchum," he answered groggily.

A man responded, "Director Mitchum?"

"This is Derrick. Who is this?"

"My name is not important for the moment. What is important are the classified Presidential memos being leaked to the news media and their plans to expose them to the public."

Derrick was now wide awake. "Who is this!"

"In good time," came the answer.

Derrick responded with a more level head. "You do realize that what you're talking about is a treasonous offense, punishable by a prison sentence of not less than twenty-five years, and how do you know who I am!"

"Director Mitchum, the evidence I have shows that you are clearly being setup. It so happens it is not in my interests to see that occur. We have a mutual acquaintance, someone who tells me you're not the type of person who likes to play the part of a fool."

"Am I supposed to believe that a compliment?"

"No, of course not, I'm simply trying to make a point. You have very little time to react to their plot. I will fill you in on the details, but not over the phone."

Derrick demanded again, "I think it's time you told me who you were."

"My name is Dr. Magnason...Dr. Victor Magnason."
FUTURE PARTNERS MEET

The black sedan pulled up within moments of Derrick's arrival, parking just outside the runway security fence. The two darkly dressed men watched as the SAD Director entered the open doorway to the private jet, closing it behind him.

The man in the passenger seat picked up and pointed a small satellite-dish-looking sound amplifier out the car window in the direction of the aircraft. The agent wore headphones that helped him make adjustments while his partner also listened with ear buds connected to the recording device, which sat between the two men.

\----------

Victor half rose from his seat and gave a bob of his head in greeting. "Thank you for accepting my invitation, Director Mitchum."

Derrick studied Magnason with a quick keen glance from his piercing blue eyes

The businessperson shifted back into the chair, "Please take a seat," motioning with his hand to one of two leather chairs on the opposite side of a desk.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"No, I'm fine," replied Derrick as he visually studied the man while asking himself, What was his motivation in this?

Victor grinned inwardly as he watched the Director attempt to size him up. "So, Director Mitchum, do I need to explain who I am, or do you already know?"

"I recognize enough, Dr. Magnason. Someone in your position doesn't strike me as the type to play around with state secrets."

"Nor, make unwarranted claims," added the MEI CEO.

"True, now that I'm here, you need to explain what you said over the phone."

Victor's phone call to Senator Robert Burton had been fortuitous; much of the Senator's time in Congress was spent on the National Security Committee where the Senator had on several occasions spoken one-on-one with Director Mitchum. Senator Burton had been clear with the executive on one point: Director Mitchum was not the kind of person to take things lying down. Victor recognized, however, that would only be true if the Director knew what was headed his way.

"What is this all about, Dr. Magnason?"

The executive picked up a folder in the seat next to him and handed it to Derrick. "Take a look at these."

It was a plain manila folder with a stack of photocopies inside. Derrick glanced at the first copy on the top, instantly recognizing the Presidential Seal and the words "Classified" emblazoned on it. The Director took only a summary look at the first few copies.

Concern was etched on Derrick's face. "Where did you get these?"

"There is someone going by the name of Mr. Smith who's selling those secret documents to the media."

"The media?" Why the hell would they be involved in this?

"I only know that World News Network has them in their possession, for the moment."

Derrick peered at the first photocopy, again. That document carried a 'Level-10' security classification, as did all direct orders from the President. No one save a Deputy Director, or higher would have access to those classified documents.

"How are you coming across this intelligence?"

"I can't disclose my source just at the moment, but let me just say it is not all that has been uncovered."

"Where do you fit in all this?" asked Derrick, trying to put the pieces together.

"Before I answer your question, there's something else that might shed light on what you're up against."

Victor pulled the article from his sweater pocket and flattened it out on his knee before handing it to Derrick.

"My source also gave me this."

Derrick looked: it was from WNN, and the headline read, "McKinley Commits War Crimes."

As Derrick scanned the contents of the article his jaw dropped. It had his name and that of his organization sprinkled throughout, and complete details of some of the SAD missions. It was proof WNN would be running the article within the next several days.

"Director, it appears you and your organization are being set up."

For Derrick, the pieces had all come together! The interview with the President, the odd behavior and line of questioning: the President and Nelson Frank were a part of this. The two were in bed with one another, the media, the President and his administration, and at that moment, Derrick and his people were in their crosshairs.

The CEO seemed to be aware, and by his expression a light bulb had gone off.

"What is it you want out of this, Dr. Magnason?"

"Have you heard about my new media company, MENN?"

"Yes, a little."

"Well, I'd like to publish your side of the story."

"My side?"

"Yes, expose Mr. Smith and get your side of the story out, before it's too late. Preferably before that WNN headline hits the newsstands."

Derrick's mind began to race, from what he just read in the WNN article. It did not mention missions carried out under previous administrations, only McKinley's. That fact alone should blow the lid off the whole farce.

"Look Dr. Magnason, I appreciate what you're saying, but I have an oath of secrecy I must uphold."

The CEO was unshaken by the response.

"Director Mitchum, I have just two questions that I think will make my point."

"Go ahead."

"Have previous US Presidents conducted themselves in much the same way that McKinley is being portrayed in that WNN news story?"

"Yes," replied Derrick, "what's your point?"

"Do you really imagine that's going to make any difference with the party now running the show in Washington? My guess is they won't give a damn, one way, or another. This is a 'witch hunt' and you and the former President will be center stage, if they get their way."

"Okay, I understand your point. What's the second question?"

Victor smiled a cold smile when he responded. "Is the media going to tell the public the truth about you, or will they support those behind the charade?"

\----------

AZERBAIJAN PROVINCE, IRAN - Sweating profusely despite the still cool morning air, the SAD officers approached the closing escape route as dawn approached. Karl toggled off the LED display of the GPS to concentrate on the rough ground underfoot. As the Black Angel leader plodded on, Karl became conscious of a sort of rage followed by the strange emotion of fear. Karl was able to resist the emotion thanks to the hard shell he developed during years of combat.

He thought of the officer that died for his country. The same thing could happen to the entire team. The circling buzzards they had seen two days before had given away the location of the firefight and Officer Joe Bogart's body.

Hunter was in the lead, following the path of a gully strewn with rocks when the officer stumbled. His fall sent some rocks falling, which set off an antipersonnel mine. Everyone had seen the officer fall, followed shortly by an explosion that sent shrapnel flying in all directions.

Karl swallowed and told himself to relax. "Everyone check your footing. They've mined our approach."

Upon self-examination, the dazed officer discovered he only suffered bruises and a few lacerations.

Unfortunately, mines had become quite sophisticated. Along with killing, or maiming victims, some of the newer models had seismic sensors. Made to pick up on the vibration of a man's footsteps, some models were spring-loaded and would jump into the air before exploding. Nearly all modern mines could be air-dropped, remotely armed, and set off at the touch of a button.

Karl commented, "Hunter, you are one lucky guy. Are you sure you're okay?"

Hunter replied, "Just a little bruised is all, Karl."

"Okay everyone, take five. I'm going to scout the area to see how bad a position we're in."

It did not take long before Karl spotted a mine, then one more and another. Karl knew the enemy could remotely set off some, or all, of this class of mines he was seeing. His hunch was that they walked into a minefield laid by Hind helicopters he had seen over the past few days. This was bad news in view of the fact it suggested the Quds Force might be aware of where he and his team were. The racket of the explosion would have given their position away!

Karl felt the blood chill in his veins as he returned to the team speaking quietly "Everyone form up in single file order. We need to get out of here as quickly as we can. Do it quietly."

Reversing track and detouring a kilometer further out of the way cost them valuable time. The landscape also opened up into a flat, barren desert floor.

\----------

"Okay, he's coming out," said the FBI Agent as he pulled the amplifier back into the car. The driver pulled a high-resolution camera from the seat and focused on the cabin door. A tall, dark silhouette of a man darkened the lit doorway for a moment, then made his way down the stairs to a parked car.

Click...click...click.

"Okay, I've got him," said the other agent. "Let the White House know, Director Mitchum is planning to talk."

\----------

Driving back to the SAD operations, Derrick's cellphone began to vibrate in his coat pocket.

What now, Derrick thought.

"Director Mitchum."

A whispering man's voice responded, "Director, this is Officer Timm."

"Timm, I can barely hear you...speak up, man!"

"I can't...I'm calling to give you a heads up, we are being shut down."

Derrick was not sure he heard Timm right. "Did you say shut down?"

"Yes, Director."

"By who?"

"Department of Justice, sir. Justice Agents showed up minutes ago and started escorting everyone out under armed guard."

Derrick could hear someone in the background banging on what could have been a stall door of the lavatory followed by, "Officer Timm, it's time to go."

"They're looking for you, sir. What should I tell them?"

Derrick replied matter of factly, "Tell them the truth, Officer Timm, I'm out of the office."

He added, "Thanks for the alert son."

Magnason had been right: the plot involved both the media and the new administration. Nothing else could explain the facts.

The SAD Director disconnected the call and glanced at his watch: 8:31 A.M., 2:12 P.M. Baghdad time. Karl's team would still be in hiding, waiting for the veil of darkness. Derrick understood only one thing for sure, he was not going to go back to the Operations Center just to be handcuffed on some trumped up charges, not while he had a team in danger.

So be it. The decision has been made. First thing, get Karl and his team back into Iraq safely. Second, go on record and expose their plot before it picked up steam. Be damned with the job, I'm not going to let one more politician kill my boys.

Derrick pulled over into a rest area. The backdoor number to the CIA was one the Director had memorized. Derrick keyed in the phone number and a male operator's voice came on the line, "Officer Peter Galleon, your authorization?"

"Derrick, authorization Alpha, Alpha, One-Niner, Bravo, Zulu."

"Authorization confirmed, how can I help you, Director Mitchum?"

"Patch me through to Deputy Assistant, Spencer Douglas."

"One moment, sir."

There was a momentary pause before the operator came back on the line. "Director Mitchum, I'm sending you to Deputy Assistant Douglas' assistant."

"Very good, son."

"This is Special Assistant, Derrick Cellon. You're trying to reach Deputy Assistant Douglas? Director Mitchum, can I give him some idea what this is regarding."

"No, just tell him it's me and it's urgent."

Spencer (Spence) R. Douglas was CIA Deputy Director for the Middle East. Derrick had known Spence since his days in Delta Force when they both served together during the First Gulf War. That was now a long time past, but the bond between the two men had at no time broken; each silently recognized they could count on the other to cover his back.

"Hold on one second, sir." There was a momentary pause.

Derrick recognized Spence Douglas' voice immediately and it had a note of concern in it.

"What is going on? I just found out you're being shut down by Justice!"

"Spence, it's best if you didn't know anything for the moment. I need a favor. I need to get into Iraq...undercover."

"Can you give me some idea of why I'm going to jeopardize my career?"

"I've got a team in harm's way, the Martinez administration is the reason."

Nothing else needed to be said; Spence understood what that meant and what had to be done.

"Let me place a call. What number can I reach you at?"

"772-882-2211."

"Okay, I'll be back with you shortly."

Derrick sat quietly for a couple of minutes, thinking over recent events and making an effort to put together the pieces, when his cellphone began to vibrate.

"Yes, this is Mitchum."

"There's a transport waiting for you up at JBA (Joint Base Andrews). My man will be at Service Gate B3. He'll take you in from there. Do you need anything else?"

"Yes, I've got a man in Baghdad, Allen Sinatra. I need him to know I'm coming and where I will be arriving."

"Consider it done. What else?"

"I don't suppose your man could scrounge me up some desert fatigues?"

"Yes, of course. I'll have some hot chow waiting for you as well. Derrick, there's one other thing you should be aware of."

"What's that?'

"Justice has issued an arrest warrant for you."

"Well, doesn't that just beat the band." There was heavy sarcasm in his reply.

"Do you want to know the charge?"

"It wouldn't be war crimes would it?"

"How did you find out?"

"Just a lucky guess."

"How deep in kimchee are you, Derrick?"

"I don't have any idea, yet."

"What else do you need?"

"Just make sure Officer Sinatra knows I'm coming. I'll take care of everything else."

"Okay, Director Mitchum, you've got my personal cellphone number if you need me."

"I hope I won't have to use it."

"Good luck, Derrick."

"Thanks, Spence." The connection went dead.

Derrick thought for a moment, Things are going a bit too smoothly so far, as he looked around the parking lot. Everyone appears harmless, so far.

Well, one thing is working in my favor, whoever was running the show for Justice does not appear to be from the intelligence business; otherwise I'd already be in custody.

The Director took one more quick look around and that's when Derrick noticed a dark sedan had arrived and was parked within sight of his automobile. Inside were two men in business suits.

So, I do have a tail, after all.

\----------

The direct line to the President was answered by another man's voice.

"This is Director Mitchum, I need to speak with the President. It's urgent."

"Director Mitchum, this is Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank. How is it that you've evaded the Justice Agents? You are to turn yourself in to security this instance."

"In good time Nelson, I need to have a word with the President."

"Mr. Mitchum, the President has relieved you of your command, I'm afraid you're in no position to make any demands."

Relieved of command! Derrick noticed a bit of sarcasm in the Chief of Staff's voice.

"On what charge?"

"I repeat, you're not in any position to ask questions, Mr. Mitchum!"

"Look Nelson, that's all fine and good, but I've got men in harm's way. Shutting down my operations in the middle of a dangerous mission will jeopardize their lives. I must insist on speaking with the President; these orders of his need rescinding, at least temporarily."

"What do you mean, the President's orders?"

Derrick detected a bit of the unexpected in the Chief of Staff's tone. Now was the time to confirm his suspicions.

"Nelson, you don't have to play dumb with me! I'm aware that you, the President and the media are working on this together, now I suggest you put the President on the line."

There was a long pause from the Chief of Staff. "Okay, where can you be reached?"

"He has my number. Tell him to call or..."

Nelson snapped, "Or else what!"

Derrick had heard enough; Nelson unwittingly confirmed his suspicions. "I will be waiting for the President's phone call."

Derrick disconnected the connection, and hesitated a moment in thought. Several minutes later, the familiar voice of President McKinley answered on the fourth ring.

"President McKinley, this is Derrick Mitchum."

"Derrick, did you get your men out of harm's way?"

"No Mr. President, not yet, but there is something else."

The former President listened in silence as Derrick explained recent events. When the SAD Director finished, the line remained silent.

"Derrick, if what you are saying is true, this administration has crossed the line."

"Unfortunately, it is all true."

"Well, I'm certain of one thing, with Martinez's control over Justice, things could get ugly no matter what facts you have." The President's tone became more serious, "Derrick, I got you into this fix, I should have never sent your men on that mission...there was not enough time. Now that Martinez is running things, well, I'm not confident of what help I can send your way. This evidence you say you're getting could prove to be the card you need to get out of the jam."

"I'm not so confident, Mr. President. We both know I can't go to the media, they're in this affair up to their eyeballs."

"Yes, I realize that. Do you have any ideas?"

"Yes, Mr. President, this is likely the last time we will speak until this whole thing is cleared up. Don't be surprised by what you read in the papers. Likewise, don't believe what they say."

"Derrick, I am aware of your resourcefulness in tight spots. You have some very good connections in Washington and I'd recommend you avail yourself of them. I'll see what I can do on my end. Is there a number where you can be reached?"

Derrick gave President McKinley the number to the overseas shell company.

"Thank you for the heads up, Derrick."

"Good luck, Mr. President."

"Good luck, Director Mitchum."
SAVING HIS TEAM

BAGHDAD, IRAQ - Derrick arrived at the Prince Sultan Air Base in Iraq after traveling nonstop from the States aboard a C-141 Starlifter. Before leaving, the Director alerted the Internal Security that there was a mole accessing top-secret documents. Derrick referenced Presidential Order AR-992Z and left it up to them to track the traitor down. When Derrick landed he was wearing tan combat fatigues and a nine-millimeter sidearm strapped to his side. Because of the secrecy surrounding his trip, the Director arrived without paperwork, so he needed to skirt security.

Derrick stepped down the rear elevator ramp and heard the faint drone of an approaching diesel engine. The sand-colored Humvee slid to a stop just off the runway, sending a cloud of fine sand and dust in every direction. Derrick approached the vehicle, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight reflected off its windscreen. The driver door swung open and a man bounded to the ground.

The SAD officer was also dressed in tan combat fatigues and wore military-issue desert boots. Allen Sinatra was tall, about six-foot four, and was athletically built with close-cropped brown hair under a sweat stained Navy baseball cap. A fifty-caliber Desert Eagle was slung under his left arm, held in place by a horizontal, shoulder holster. Allen was carrying a half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola, and wore no identifying markings. As the two men approached one another, the younger officer removed his sunglasses while finishing off the drink. His cool, dark eyes were centered on the SAD Director as Allen threw the empty bottle over into some desert scrub brush.

"Director, it is good to see you."

Officer Allen Sinatra was the Field Officer who managed teams and assets in the field. SAD Field Officers specialized in operations that were more cerebral and for the past several years, Allen had been involved in creating and maintaining a network of informants and indigenous killers behind Iranian lines. Recent operations included the assassination of several clerics involved in thwarted terrorist attacks inside the United States. They thought the sanctuary offered by the Iranians enough to protect them from reprisals and they had been wrong. Allen's operative was also the one who turned up the intelligence on al-Zarqawi's and his location in the Iranian terrorist training camp.

Derrick smiled and replied, "Good to see you as well, Allen."

Derrick's pale, white skin stood out in stark contrast to the sun tanned Field Operations officer.

"How long has it been, Director?"

"Going on two years," Derrick responded with a slight grin. "What have you heard is going on back in the States?"

"Nothing but what the CIA man told me. Have they really shut us down?"

"Yes," Derrick began walking over to the Humvee. "Have you seen any new faces?"

"No, not yet."

"Well, Allen, they'll show up soon, it's just a matter of time. My latest information showed Black Angel ten kilometers inside Iranian lines." Derrick pulled a map from his thigh pocket and started to spread the map out on the hood of the vehicle.

"Damn-it to shit! That's hot!"

Allen chuckled, "It's been a while, huh sir?"

"Hell yes! Wow, that is hot." Derrick took the map and folded it into a small square of the area where the Black Angel team was held up. "They were heading in the direction of Gerd Basak along a path east of Genehdar," the Director pointed out the location of the village with his index finger. "So you and I will make our way to Bikows, just this side of the border. If my hunch is right, they're going to attempt to cross tonight."

Allen countered, "I'm familiar with that area and there is a natural obstacle obstructing their path. It's the Tem-Tar Wadi and it's got twenty to thirty-foot cliff-like walls they will have to overcome before that last four kilometers of open ground. They'll never cover the distance before dawn if the Iranians are in the way."

"What kind of hardware do we have?"

Allen nodded in the direction of the Humvee. "I am carrying two fifty-caliber semiautomatics and enough ammo to reduce a platoon. There's an armored vehicle park some fifty-clicks from here. We'll pay it a visit and see if we can't find something that looks Iranian to get us in and out with some protection."

"Did you locate a safe house?"

"Yes, there's an abandoned Iraqi airfield we can use, not too far from where Karl's team will be crossing."

Derrick responded, "Good, we have very little time to waste."

"Well, let's get going, sir."

Having crossed several time zones, the Director knew he needed to get some sleep. Both men jumped into the wheeled transport with Allen continuing to act as driver. During a bit of small talk between the two, Derrick noticed the Field Operations officer had that distant gaze in his eyes, something he had seen many times in other men who served in difficult theaters of war. Derrick understood Sinatra's condition came from countless missions that could never be spoken of, all classified, and until recently, under the radar.

Derrick knew from personal experience it was difficult to remove oneself from the violence one saw in combat. They desensitized a man like nothing else could and in some cases they could cause him to snap. Derrick hoped Allen could contend with difficulties of his inner monsters, just as he had; however, the Director knew from experience, they never went completely away.

Derrick and men like Allen all had a homogeneous, natural bond in as much for that shared experience. That was why they were both here; that was why Derrick was now considered a fugitive by the Department of Justice, that's why he had to save his men, no matter what.

Derrick fell into a deep sleep as the wheeled transport rumbled toward the Iranian border.

\----------

SOHO DISTRICT, NYC - The single-room window of the two-star hotel was pushed open, letting in the sounds of city, which mixed with the audio coming from the color television set. The taller of the two men was half propped up against the headboard on one of two queen-sized beds; the other sat slouched in the one-fabric armchair. The two men watched the rerun of Gilligan's Island, occasionally laughing when the Skipper batted his second mate on the head with his captain's hat.

The two mercenaries were trained to look, act and speak like Americans, which is why they were in country, to take care of any loose ends.

"Can you believe that fool," the taller man commented with a laugh when Gilligan just stood in place as the Skipper pummeled him for what must have been the third time in this one episode.

The man pulled the buzzing cellphone from his pocket.

"Yes," he answered.

The voice of Colonel Alexi Rosacova came over the line.

"У нас є проблема. Її звуть Ширлі Winters, вона живе в Бронксі. У неї є аудіозапис. Знайти записи і припинити всі вільні кінці."

(We have a problem. The name is Shirley Winters. She lives in the Bronx. The target has an audio recording. Find the recordings and eliminate her.)

The line went dead.

\----------

The SAD team, with difficulty, avoided contact with the enemy several times during the night. The team had come up against the last natural obstacle between themselves and the Iraqi border. As the team lay prone atop the eastern escarpment, each man had their binoculars out scanning the western ridge line.

"See, anything?" asked Sean.

On the far side, Karl could make out a smattering of soldiers holding the far cliff of the wadi. Karl could see their occasional movement and was trying to get an idea of the number of the enemy they were facing.

Karl answered, "Yes, looks like they have men scattered along that cliff acting as sentries."

The team leader looked along the opposite plateau to see if there might be a gap and to gauge the distance between each outpost. From this distance, Karl could not clearly see any one soldier in detail.

The hours passed by slowly as the men of the Black Angel team waited for the concealment of nightfall. The one thing working in Karl's favor in this unspoken war was the effect the trade embargo was having on Iranian military technology. Struggling to come face to face with the basic and essential needs of the citizens, the mullahs' insistence that nuclear weapons development continued to isolate the Iranians from all but two countries, Russia and China. The result, most of their hardware was being provided by those two totalitarian states and was both antiquated and largely ineffective by US Military standards.

Karl began to hear the intermittent sound of blades chopping through the air. Flying at night, that has to mean night-sighting is installed.

There was little place to hide on this barren plateau Karl and his team found themselves on. Karl snapped, "Everybody, it's time to disappear."

Each SOG officer carried a heat-diffusing cover sheet that would prevent all but third and fourth-generation equipment from picking them up at a distance of a kilometer, or more. The team quickly removed their desert camouflage tarpaulins from their packs and covered themselves. The problem was the direction the helicopter was traveling would put it just overhead long enough to enable an alert crew to see through the hides.

Karl's heart rate quickened as the Hind MI-24 approached, the noise of the rotors growing in intensity. It was a good two kilometers away when the Iranians on the far side of the wadi began firing off star shells to ward off any possibility of mistaking them as enemy. First one, and then another. This was an illustration of what set Karl's team off from opponents. Black Angel would have never exposed its location to prevent being taken under fire by friendlies. They would have accepted the risks.

Karl drew a sigh of relief as the Hind MI-24 passed by their location and continued on. Looking at his watch and then toward the horizon the faint glow of dawn could be seen coming up. The sun would work to their favor blinding the enemy just long enough. Karl had also spotted the gap in the posted sentries less than a half-a-click away. Since the firefight, his team stopped any electronic communications to prevent the enemy from triangulating their location. In a whispered tone, "On me."

His teammates closed up. Karl continued whispering, "There is a gap to the south."
ASSASSINATIONS

THE BRONX, NY - Shirley Winters sat watching her favorite weekly series, Survivor, an empty bottle of Perrier and half eaten bowl of popcorn on the reading table next to her on the couch.

She heard a knock at her door and looked at her watch, 10:46 P.M.

It's too late to be Alice, Shirley thought. It's probably that guy down the hall who's always staring at me in the elevators.

Before Shirley could decide to ignore the pest, a second series of more forceful knocking came to the door.

That damn idiot is drunk again! I'm going to tell that guy I'm calling the police this time!

Shirley was celebrating, proud in the knowledge both Telly and Lucy Dietrich would be ecstatic at what she had uncovered. The audio recordings were overnighted to Telly's Washington office address just after work; Shirley was surprised, however, she had not heard from the senior reporter after leaving him several voicemail messages.

Shirley was too naive to understand the kind of ruthless people she had unwittingly aroused; instead, her only thoughts were of the promising career in journalism that would at the moment be hers, guaranteed.

She got up from the couch and went over to look through the peep hole of the front door and surprised to see two uniformed police officers in the hallway.

What the hell? The young woman thought, then opened the door.

"Ms. Shirley Winters?" said the taller of the two men dressed as NYPD officers.

"Can I help you?"

"Sorry to disturb you Ms. Winters, but are you alone?"

"Yes, why..."

Shirley was all of a sudden knocked to the floor of her apartment. She could not move! She could not cry out! Everything went dark when the second blast of 250,000 electrical volts were sent reeling through her body.

\----------

WASHINGTON, D.C. - MENN reporter, Telly Abernathy, continued to get Shirley's voicemail at home. Her email had read as follows:

9:30 P.M.

Telly,

I've tried to reach you by phone to alert you to a package I sent, overnight express. It should arrive before 9:00 A.M. tomorrow. It contains audio recordings of conference calls. I think you're going to be impressed.

I am at home. Call me when you get this email.

Shirley

Shirley's email remained unread until early that morning because Telly and his wife were out the night before celebrating their fifteenth anniversary. The senior reporter had now waited for the overnight parcel, thinking Shirley might have sent it to his home address. When the parcel did not arrive by 10:00 A.M. he concluded Shirley must have sent it to his office. It was half-past ten and Telly was at that moment driving in on the interstate on his way into the MENN Washington bureau.

Telly pressed the button to start the voice-command phone system.

Beep!

"Connect me to the operator."

The automated, female voice responded, "Connecting you to Navistar operator."

Ring...ring...ring

"This is Navistar, may I help you?"

"Yes," responded Telly in an impatient tone, "connect me to the main switchboard for World News Network, the headquarters in Manhattan."

The operator replied, "Connecting you now. Have a nice day Mr. Abernathy."

Telly admired Shirley's drive and ingenuity, but never imagined she would succeed in bugging the news anchor, Deena Crawford's office. The young woman could also be in real trouble.

Ring...ring...ring

"World News Network, how may I help you?"

"I'm trying to reach Shirley Winters."

"Just one moment, please." There was a momentary pause on the line. "I'm not seeing anyone here by that name, what department is Ms. Winters in?"

"She's only Deena Crawford's assistant!"

"One moment, please."

Telly was put on hold.

"Just one moment; I'm connecting you."

Whew! That was a little scary.

A man answered the phone, "You are calling for Shirley Winters? Who is calling?"

Telly thought for a moment before giving a response. "This is her dentist's office calling to confirm her appointment for tomorrow at twelve noon."

There is something peculiar about the man's accent, Russian?

"Shirley is out sick today. Do you want to leave a message?"

"No, thank you, she was left a message at her home number."

Telly pressed the phone-icon and disconnected the call then quickly glanced into his rearview mirror...nothing suspicious looking. Now, his side view mirrors...again, nothing. The reporters' hands were trembling. With a quivering finger, Telly pressed the phone icon again.

When he heard the beep, he commanded, "Call Lucy Dietrich."

The automated voice responded, "Which number would you like..."

"Direct number!" yelled the panic stricken reporter. Cold beads of sweat collected on his brow.

"Connecting you to Lucy Dietrich...direct phone number," came the automated female voice.

The reporter yelled out loud in fear. "Telly, what the hell have you gotten yourself into!"

Telly had put the pieces together...he was in mortal danger as confirmed by Shirley's sudden disappearance. He had been in Washington long enough to know when people vanished, it was forever!

Ring...ring

"Come on Lucy, pick up! Pick up!"

Ring...ring

"Damn it, pick up!"

"Hello, this is Lucy Dietrich..."

"Damn!" he shouted.

"Hurry up...HURRY UP!"

"...leave a message at the tone."

Beep!

"Lucy, this is Telly! Something is wrong! I mean, really wrong! I'm on my way into the office...I'll be there in five minutes. There's a package that's..." The call went suddenly dead.

\----------

The senior editor was sitting at her desk, her back to a third-story window overlooking the busy interstate when Lucy Dietrich was startled by a thunderous explosion closely followed by a percussion wave that rebounded off the plate glass window.

"Holy shit! What the hell was that!"

Lucy quickly turned and looked out her corner office windows at the cloudless, sunny day.

Roger, her assistant came running in. "Ms. Dietrich, did you feel that?"

"Yes, of course I heard it. Sounded like someone just broke the sound barrier."

"I think it was an explosion, Ms. Dietrich, very close by."

Lucy peered out her office window again and saw the traffic on the southbound side coming to a complete standstill. Seconds later, traffic in the northbound lanes completely disappeared.

"Whatever it is, Roger, it happened on the interstate. I'm expecting a pressing call, quick go take a look."

"Yes, Ms. Dietrich."

Minutes later, Roger was standing in the parking lot facing the interstate where dozens of employees were likewise trying to find out what happened. The sounds of fire department and patrol cars at that moment began to fill the air. Helicopters were now overhead, circling a rising pall of grey smoke to the south. Drivers on the interstate were now standing outside their cars looking in the direction of the now billowing smoke.

"There, look at that," exclaimed one of the employees at flames that began to lick the horizon.

One more onlooker shouted, "Let's take a look from the roof."

Roger and ten or so onlookers quickly returned to the lobby and were headed for the bank of elevators when a young man came running through the doorway of the opposite side of the building shouting.

"It's on the TV at Gino's! It's a car, or SUV that exploded!"

Roger rushed along with the crowd to the local diner, Gino's Sandwiches, just on the other side of the main parking lot. The assistant found the eatery crowded with everyone gathered around the wall-mounted televisions.

One of the onlookers was a coworker who recognized Roger, "You've got to see this!"

What Roger saw was a live aerial view from one of the circling news choppers of an SUV, or what remained of one in a tangled wreck on I-495.

"That's our exit!" Someone exclaimed out loud.

A mortified look descended upon Roger as someone shouted, "Hey, turn the volume up!"

The reporter in the air was talking about the scene, "...and we're now being told by eye witnesses the wreckage is of a Range Rover traveling northbound on I-495."

\----------

Lucy picked up the phone and with trembling hands called the direct line for Jack's Atlanta office. Telly and Shirley's recent discovery arrived in a manila envelope by overnight courier. The package contained further evidence of the collusion between the publisher and editors at WNN...and the White House!

Four and a half decades earlier, the political scandal known as Watergate resulted in the resignation of a sitting President and was the high watermark of journalism. The stigma that accompanied the media coverage of that burglary would taint the Republican Party for more than two decades and secure control of all Washington for the Democrats. For the establishment, those were their heydays.

Shirley and Telly had discovered what was the beginning of the latest attempt to orchestrate something similar. Lucy knew World News Network would not be the only news company running the coverage; everyone would be jumping on the bandwagon. The best strategy for her to take would be to get out in front of their campaign, before the coverage hit the presses, and expose the charges for what they were, to throw cold water on the fuse before the bomb exploded. However, this was too big a call for her to make on her own. This decision could have far reaching consequences, some positive, most negative.

"Mr. Newman's office, may I help you?"

"Ingrid, this is Lucy Dietrich, I need to speak with Mr. Newman. This is urgent!"

"Ms. Dietrich, Mr. Newman's on his way to Indonesia."

"Indonesia! When is Jack scheduled to get back?"

The strained tone in the Senior Editor's voice was picked up on by the seasoned secretary. "Is everything all right, Ms. Dietrich?"

"Yes, Ingrid, it's just that I've got something urgent I must discuss with him and it really can't wait."

Lucy looked at her watch; it was coming up on 7:00 P.M. EST. "Ingrid, when is Jack scheduled to arrive in Indonesia?"

"Mr. Newman departed at noon today. I would expect Mr. Newman would arrive about 3:00 A.M. our time."

"Do you know if we've got encrypted internet connections to the Indonesian facilities?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer, but Marlon Beechman would know. I understand Mr. Beechman is already on site. Would you like for me to connect you?"

Lucy thought it over for a moment. "No, Ingrid, that's okay."

Lucy looked at the contents of the overnight package and at the scribbled note from her novice reporter.

"Is Kate in?"

"I am convinced she is. Do you want me to transfer you?"

"Yes, of course."

Katherine Tate's voice answered, "What's up Lucy?"

"Something else big has come in and I mean Big! I needed to talk with Jack before deciding on next steps, but he's overseas and unavailable."

"What sort of 'Big' are you talking about?"

"An audio recording. You won't believe who is on it."

There was a moment of silence on the line.

"Lucy, why can't you run the story and expose the charade?"

"Kate, the President and his party are in on this...they control Washington."

"What do you have to lose, Lucy?"

"I've been around the Capitol long enough to know the progress MENN is making could be slowed down dramatically if it becomes a target."

"What's the worse that could happen?'

"Everything from investigations by the Department of Justice to IRS audits, to legislation."

"Yet, you are persuaded something needs to be done."

"Exactly right, Kate! This story is just too big to drop."

"Okay, hold on."

"No, wait...shit!"

Moments later, Dr. Magnason's voice came over the line.

"Kate, this is Dr. Magnason. You say you've uncovered something else?"

\----------

Lucy had broken out into a cold sweat; she knew what kind of power the people in the conversations wielded and what they were capable of doing, what they might have already done! Telly was not answering her calls, which was not like him...at all!

"Did it come through, Dr. Magnason?"

His voice came back over the speaker phone, "Hold on a second, here comes the file."

Lucy watched as she attempted to transfer the audio files a third time.

10% Complete...

20% Complete...

30% Complete...

40% Complete...

50% Complete...

60% Complete...

70% Complete...Error

File Transfer Incomplete...

"Incomplete?" Lucy remarked out loud.

"What?"

"The file transfer was incomplete, again! This is BULL SHIT! The file is not corrupt, you and I just listened to it! Let me try sending it again."

"Were the conversations recorded in the news anchor's office?"

"Yes, one of my reporters managed to bug the World News Network anchor's office; Deena Crawford was the only female on the call."

"Ms. Crawford had the heavy Boston accent, right?"

"Yes, she's the one who made it clear she was expecting the lion's share of the credit for uncovering the story."

Lucy clicked the file transfer icon again.

10% Complete...

20% Complete...

"Anything yet?"

30% Complete...

40% Complete...

"Nothing yet."

"Damn, the internet is never this slow."

"This is not normal?"

"No...how much have you received, so far?"

"It looks like seventy megabytes."

Lucy looked at the file size, "One-hundred, five megabytes."

"Give it one more minute," responded Victor over the connection. "Sometimes large files take a little longer."

50% Complete...

60% Complete...

"Let me ask you a couple questions while we're waiting. I jotted a few of the names down. Let me run them by you."

"Go ahead."

"Who is the person referred to as Donald?"

"Donald has got to be the World News Network publisher, Donald Abraham."

"...and Jim?"

"Jim is most certainly Jim Rooney, Senate Majority Leader."

"Lucy, what was your read on the Senator's demeanor in the conversations?"

Lucy nervously laughed, "Yes, he was nothing like the hard-nosed character we see on the news networks was he?"

70% Complete...

"What about Nelson?"

"My guess it would have to be Nelson Frank, Martinez's Chief of Staff."

80% Complete...

Victor remained silent for a moment, and then continued, "Then Adduci has to be the DNC Chair."

"Yes, no doubt about it."

90% Complete...

Any objective person listening to the conversations would be under no illusion what the participants were up to. The "war crime charges" were merely a smoke screen the administration needed to implement its agenda, whatever that was. The trumped up charge would merely create the front-page headlines to keep the public's eye off what the Democrats were doing; Nelson and Adduci had said so much in the audio clips.

100% Complete...File Transfer Complete

"Thank God, one-hundred percent up..."

Lucy's assistant came barging into her office. "Ms. Dietrich, it was Telly! Telly's SUV was what exploded on the expressway!"

"Telly?" asked Lucy, puzzled for the moment.

"Yes, it was Telly!"

"Lucy, who is Telly?" asked Victor.

\----------

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Senator Robert Burton was sitting behind his desk in his townhouse when he heard the remote buzzer for his security gate. The Senator looked at the security camera to see a Federal Express deliveryman, and ten put the thumb-drive away in a drawer and locked it.

He pressed the two-way audio button. "Yes, can I help you?"

The deliveryman responded, "Special delivery for Senator Robert Burton—it requires a signature."

"Okay, just a moment. Let me get my glasses."

Senator Burton received one more overnight package just a half-hour earlier from the same courier. That delivery showed the sender's address from Lucy Dietrich. When he opened the small shipping box he discovered it contained a small, USB thumb-drive and a small note.

Senator Burton,

The audio recordings on this device are evidence that President McKinley is being set up. Please use your connections and influence to help put a stop to this travesty.

Lucy

(Code is fJ57y23)

The Senator took the storage device out and plugged it into his laptop. The icon for the external storage device instantly popped up on his computer screen, and when he double-clicked it to take a look at the contents, he was prompted to enter a password. He was just about to enter the passcode from Lucy's note when the second courier arrived.

The Senator opened the front door and was asked to sign for the parcel.

"Where do I sign?"

The courier handed him a clipboard while maintaining his hold of the package.

"Sign right here, sir," the courier pointed to a signature box on a standard looking Federal Express document.

The Senator then heard several muffled sounds...

Pop!...Pop!...Pop!

...quickly followed by a stabbing pain in his abdomen as his body uncontrollably reeled backwards. He involuntarily let out a scream of pain and collapsed to the entryway floor, his bloody hands clutching his midsection.

The man in a courier suit walked through the doorway and stood over him with his silenced pistol in hand. He heard his wife's voice in the distance. He filled his lungs to yell for her to run while the assassin took aim at his face. Time seemed to be going by in slow motion as the pain was replaced with numbness. With his last breath he shouted out,

"Run, Agnes!...Ru..."

Pop!
GOING ROGUE

The sound at first arrived occasionally on the wind. It wasn't long before the entire team heard the distinct sound of a diesel engine approaching.

Shit! thought Karl, What now?

"Take up positions!"

Unfortunately, they were on an open desert floor and the armored vehicle, at the moment visible in the distance, appeared to be making a beeline for their position.

Karl shouted, "Sean, get the last warhead ready!"

Karl took out his binoculars to get a better look. The special film coating would prevent reflected light from giving away their position. It was a standard Iranian-army issue BTR-82. There was very little chance what Karl's team was carrying would be able to defeat the vehicle's armor. Their only chance was to remain undiscovered, but this vehicle seemed on a path that would lead it directly to their hiding place. The APC was lost from sight for a few moments when it drove into a shallow basin only to emerge again from behind a slight rise in the terrain.

How in the hell does this guy know where we are? Karl questioned himself, feeling his heart rate quicken.

The APC halted some 150 meters out from the team's position. The driver's hatch opened. Karl took aim at the figure through his telescopic sight before yelling, "Wait, don't shoot. It's Sinatra! Don't shoot!"

Everyone broke out into near hysterical laughter when they saw Derrick's head also pop out of one of the hatches.

They made it!

Even before the celebratory mood of the Black Angel team had a chance to get started, the sound of an approaching helicopter could be heard approaching from the east. The men heard Derrick shout out to take cover as he and Allen closed up their lids.

Damn! Karl thought as he hid, attempting to blend into the landscape under one of the few scrub brushes that dotted the area. Here it comes. Oh great! It's the anti-armor version!

That was not all that was coming their way. Off in the distance Karl could see dust being kicked up by something moving at high speed. Given the terrain, he figured they were tracked or multi-tire vehicles. It was all over for them if they were tanks.

Once the Russian-built MI-24 Hind spotted the buttoned up Iranian APC, it began circling it like a vulture while the gunner trained its 12.7-millimeter Gatling-gun at the thin, upper deck armor. The angle of the circling attack-copter prevented the APC from engaging it with its primary weapon, a 14.5-millimeter heavy machine gun mounted in a revolving turret.

Karl's thoughts quickly raced through his head, The Hind is waiting for the other vehicles to make an appearance. Good thing Derrick thought to emblazon that BTR with the Iranian insignia; we have some time.

He broke radio silence by flipping the power on to his communications gear and endeavored to contact the SAD officers in the closed down APC.

"This is Mr. Black (Karl's call sign as team leader), this is Mr. Black...Mother respond."

Karl paused for a moment and repeated his message.

"This is Mr. Black, this is Mr. Black...respond, Mother."

"Mr. Black, this is Mother."

Thank God, thought Karl.

"Mr. Black, we've got 'SA 97s' (codename for Singer Missiles) on board. Distraction needed."

Karl quickly gauged the direction of a slight breeze by watching how a handful of sand fell from his gloved hand. "Mother, will deploy smoke for cover. Repeat, will deploy smoke for cover. Be ready!"

"Roger that, Mr. Black."

Sean's voice came over the com-link, "Number One, I've got the second Shark ready."

Crap, what an idiot, I completely forgot about Sean! Karl looked in the officer's direction, "Sean, let that thing go on my mark."

Karl could make out Sean nodding he understood.

"Copy that, Mother?"

"Copy that Mr. Black, on your mark."

Karl looked in Sean's direction who gave the team leader a thumbs up, before putting the missile launcher on his shoulder. Sean was now taking aim in the direction of the circling helicopter. Given the distance and motion of the flying tank, the best that could be hoped for was distracting the pilot long enough for someone in the APC to get off one of the purpose-built, ground-to-air missiles. Chances of getting a lucky hit with the Shark were at least one-hundred to one. This was it.

Karl tapped his earpiece, "Mr. Black to Mother."

"Go ahead Mr. Black."

"Scrap smoke. Launching the Shark on my mark."

"Roger that Mr. Black, launch on your mark."

Karl looked at Sean, then at the APC, then the Hind and began counting down from five when he made an estimation on a time when the chopper would be closest to Sean and his launcher. "Five, four, three, two, mark!"

There was the thunderous sound from the launcher as the missile whooshed up in the direction of the enemy craft. It would take less than a...

There was a deafening explosion!

Karl looked up to see Sean had done the impossible.

Officer Hagman then quickly looked in the direction of the growing clouds of dust.

We might still make this!

\----------

Lucy hung up the call from the pay phone inside the airport lobby, a necessary precaution, but her boyfriend's attempt to calm her down had done little to help. Lucy feared for her life.

The Senior Editor picked up her small brown-leather travel bag and walked briskly in the direction of the airport security checkpoint while taking a quick look at her watch.

One hour, Lucy thought, one more hour.

In a normal, sane world the evidence her reporters uncovered would have resulted in one of the biggest news stories to ever hit front page headlines; it was Watergate on steroids. Instead, one of her people was dead and the other was still missing, all in as much for what they uncovered.

"Shoes, change, watches need to be placed in the plastic receptacles," the screener announced, as Lucy made her way to the front of the line.

Lucy placed her purse on to the conveyor belt followed by her suitcase. She then removed her shoes and watch and placed them in the plastic tray.

"Next," said a second screener as the businessman in front of her took his turn in the walkthrough scanner. No bells, no buzzers no flashing lights. "Okay, you're good to go."

"Next."

No bells, no buzzers no flashing lights. "Okay, you're good to go."

She walked to the end of the conveyor belt, put everything back in place, picked up her purse and suitcase, and walked at a quick pace through the sliding doors and into the concourse. Lucy looked at her ticket: Gate C, and up at the marquee. To the right.

It was a small public airport, out of the way and hard to get to. The seating area was at the end of the concourse. Lucy cautiously looked at the one businessperson seated in the waiting area as she approached.

He's the same guy who preceded me through security, she thought.

She walked into a small, gift shop and was half greeted by a young retail clerk, standing behind the counter with a look of disinterest.

"Good morning," said the clerk. "Can I help you find something?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks just the same."

Lucy walked over to the paper stand, her back to the store entrance and waiting area and picked up a copy of World News Network. The main headline featured a story touting the President's triumphal trip abroad. Lucy scanned the story and put the newspaper back in its original spot, then picked up a copy of American News.

Different headline, different words, different reporter, same exact story, no surprise.

She set the paper down and took a moment to look at her watch.

Still half an hour!

She picked up a copy of the World Tribune and turned to take the waiting area into view. Another man was at that moment seated, facing in her direction. Lucy studied him a second while pretending to be reading. For some reason, there was something odd about him. For one, this was the terminal for private flights, so she expected to see nothing but business executives in this area. This man wore a leather jacket.

Lucy's cellphone began to vibrate and she took a moment to take it from her purse.

Unknown Number?

She declined the call with a tap of her index finger and looked up to see the strange man walking back down the concourse, toward the security entrance.

Had she just been identified? Lucy began to panic. A feeling of nausea came over her.

No, I can't go the restroom, too dangerous.

She placed the tabloid back in place and walked over to the seating area, taking a quick look down the concourse to find the man had disappeared.

The best place is out in the open, she thought and walked over to one of the chairs with a clear view down the concourse. Lucy pretended to be looking at email on her cellphone as she kept an eye on the now vacant concourse.

"What time's your flight?" the lone businessperson asked as he sat looking at her with a pleasant smile.

"I'm not sure," Lucy replied wanting to evade the question.

"The way you were looking at your watch, I would have thought it was quite soon."

Lucy gave him a quick smile. "I'm sorry, I've got some email to catch up on."

"I apologize," he said with one more smile. "I completely understand."

Lucy studied the man for a moment. Good looking, but of no interest.

Her cellphone began vibrating, again. Lucy looked to see who it was coming from...Dr. Magnason!

"Dr. Magnason?" she asked in a quiet voice.

The executive's calm, reassuring voice responded, "Lucy, the pilot is fifteen minutes out. Are you doing all right?"

Lucy took a quick look around, saw the businessperson with an attaché case on his lap with a cell phone to his ear. The retail clerk had put on a pair of ear buds and was oblivious to his surroundings.

"Yes, so far."

"Hang in there..."

"Wait a second!" Lucy whispered. "That airline pilot! There is something strange about that airline pilot...his boots, he's wearing boots!"

Victor could hear the fear in her voice! Suddenly, Lucy shrieked, "God, no! Please, don't...!"

The next sound he heard was Lucy's cellphone as it dropped to the tiled floor...then people screaming...someone, a man shouted, "Get'd out of here'd! Get'd out!"

Victor kept on listening as the background noise turned to silence. He began to hear heavy footsteps approach...then stop. There was one more brief moment of silence. Heavy breathing. A man's voice with a heavy Eastern European accent then said, "Whoever you are, you bedder hide."

The line went dead.

\----------

INDONESIA - Jack snatched up his office phone on the first ring.

"This is Newman."

Victor's voice came over the line, "Jack, I've got bad news, Lucy Dietrich is dead."

Jack listened quietly as Victor explained his last words with the Senior Editor. He could feel the anger well up in him at the thought of what amounted to an execution.

"Who the hell did this, and why?"

There was muffled silence.

"Victor, give me the truth! What had Lucy uncovered?"

The president's question was met with stony silence. Victor could not lie to his friend. Jack's grief-stricken thoughts cleared for a moment. His friend was protecting him from something. Victor knew why Lucy Dietrich had been murdered and that meant anyone with the same knowledge was unsafe.

Met with only stoney silence Jack disconnected the call as tears came to his eyes.

Victor hung up the phone angered by his helplessness. He sat quietly in thought. Minutes passed by and a sudden change was coming over his face. The CEO had one card yet to play. Victor pulled the SAD Director's business card from his shirt pocket, looked at the backside, at the handwritten phone number...the number for a shell company.

\----------

KURDISTAN REGION, IRAQ - Six silent, sunburnt, battle-hardened sentinels sat around a largely unscathed conference room table in one of the many looted rooms of the now deserted Iraqi air base. Derrick's original purpose, to save these men's lives, had been accomplished. Now, all that remained was the matter of what to do next? Whatever the call, it was not going to be pleasant. Derrick knew what the options were. He would leave the call up to these officers on a final decision.

The director remained standing, looking at one of the shattered windows out onto the abandoned airfield pondering their next move. Derrick turned slowly looking into the tired faces of his men still recovering from their long ordeal. The director could easily understand their puzzled looks, each asking themselves why they were still in this less than hospitable place. The combat team would now know why, but first, he needed to get some things out into the open; Derrick needed to confirm his suspicions: that the mission had been purposely compromised.

Derrick took a look at each man seated around the table,

"Gentlemen, I know you're asking yourselves 'why are we here in this God forsaken place' and the answer is because we're in hiding."

The dazed look of some of the officers immediately disappeared at those words. Derrick began walking around the oblong table as he spoke, taking a hard look at each of the killing specialists, gauging their reactions to the facts as they became known.

"Let me lay out what I know. For one, Martinez's Attorney General has issued arrest warrants for our capture and incarceration...the charge, International War Crimes."

Each officer watched Derrick in silence, even though each stirred slightly in their seats at the revelation.

"The Department of Justice shut down SAD Operations at exactly the same time using as its justification missions now considered illegal by the current administration. Justice is citing Article 39 of the United Nations Charter as the basis for the charges."

"Article 39 refers to any military action violating international borders in undeclared wars. The evidence being cited by the Attorney General are classified orders from former President McKinley. Records that were leaked to the press by someone inside the CIA."

Derrick pulled the proof Victor had given him.

"Each of you should take a look at this. This is partial evidence that the media is already aware of Justice's actions and its plans to railroad SAD. As you can see, the front-page story dovetails perfectly with Justice's charge of sedition."

Elijah was first to respond, "Sir, would you mind repeating that? I'm not sure I heard you correctly?"

"You heard me right, Eli. Everyone in this room has warrants issued for their arrest and the charge is for International War Crimes."

"You've got to be kidding!"

Sean quickly interjected, "Are you joking, surely you're joking?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm not," replied Derrick.

Karl responded, "Arrest warrants for war crimes, why haven't you been nabbed?"

"Yes, Karl, you're right. I have become a fugitive, as well. I managed to get a heads up call before the shit hit the fan."

Hunter responded, "This doesn't make any sense? Fugitives?"

Officers Karl Hagman and Allen Sinatra remained quiet, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

Elijah, in an exasperated tone, asks, "Why in the hell is Justice pursuing legal action for something that's been common practice for, how many Presidents? Five I imagine. What's the reason?"

"I can only speculate, Eli, but here's what I know. A mole inside 'the Agency' apparently got hold of McKinley's Orders and sold them to one of the major news services." Derrick pulled the folded photocopies from his pocket and handed them to Karl.

"These came to my attention an hour before I got the call that Justice Agents were shutting down our operation. I contacted one of my connections inside Intelligence and discovered arrest warrants were being issued for all SAD personnel not caught in the first sweep."

The two photocopies made their way around the table.

"World News Network! That name keeps coming up in all the wrong places!" remarked Hunter upon seeing the headline.

"Wasn't it the news network Colonel Heston mentioned Abu al-Zarqawi and his terrorists were watching while butchering Americans?"

Karl answered, "The same one."

Derrick added, "You can see by the news headlines, at least one of the leading news companies is going to be running with the coverage against the former President; the timing is just too close to Justice's actions to be a coincidence."

"There is something going on here I can't yet explain; those documents and the actions of Justice are proof some kind of collusion exists and their plans involve members of our organization in some way." Derrick paused for a moment.

"Before we go waltzing back in and giving ourselves up to Justice, I for one want one more chance to discover who is really behind all this." Derrick looked in the PAG officer's direction, "Allen, you and I will be flying out to rendezvous with someone who may have the answers, tomorrow."

"Flying out, sir?" asked Karl.

Derrick smiled, "Yes, our boy here, Officer Sinatra, managed to get his hands on a Russian transport. It's sitting out there in one of the hangers. Anyway, we will be flying out tomorrow to get some answers."

"What kind of answers, Director?" asked Hunter.

"Hunter, we will be meeting with the same man who tipped me off. Our informer friend says he has further evidence of who is behind our predicament. He would not discuss what he's got by phone, someone was likely listening."

Karl at that moment spoke up, "Director, someone is sure to be looking for us. If we're discovered, what are your orders?"

"Karl, with the lapse in intelligence gathering I've seen so far I would expect we won't have to worry about Justice Agents for some time."

\----------

Allen turned to Derrick after looking through the doorway. "This looks like the officer's quarters," he remarked as both men kept on with their search of the complex.

The two officers carried their un-holstered sidearms at the ready as they stepped through the doorway and into the officer's lounge. They were met by the sight of what resulted from the shock wave of a man-made earthquake, overturned furniture and card table, a wall-mounted television set that lay wrecked on the floor.

"By the appearances of things, whoever was here came off very lucky," Allen remarked as he saw no evidence of human injury.

Derrick continued down the hallway toward the back of the underground complex with Allen splitting off to the right when they came to the first intersection. Derrick looked into the individual sleeping accommodations, simple and spartan, most with photos of the men's families in broken picture frames scattered about the floor. The one thing that struck home, however, were the oversized portraits of Saddam Hussein, which once festooned a wall of each officer's quarters. Derrick understood the reason was not from adoration or devotion. The officers put them there for an altogether different reason - fear.

Derrick began thinking how different things must have been for these Iraqi Soldiers, forced as they were to serve under a psychopath who controlled a country through fear, terror and would eventually lead them to complete ruin. Unfortunately, Saddam was not unique and only a recent case in point of where totalitarian ideologies every time led.

Derrick was one of a generation who understood why and how madmen like Saddam Hussein could come to power, and once there, maintain control over a people. The circumstances leading to such ends invariably began as high-minded experiments in social engineering, but would eventually evolve into an animal of a completely different sort. The transition from a Democracy to totalitarian police-state could take less than a generation (thirty years). These were societies where power was vested in a dictator, or a small ruling class.

Without exception, men like Saddam Hussein, Joseph Stalin, Mao Zedong, Adolph Hitler, Fidel Castro and Kim Jong-il would find it necessary to crush individual freedom and liberty to maintain their power. These dictators, socialists and communists would invariably find it necessary to resort to the genocide of nonbelievers, as hundreds of millions of men, women and children would sadly discover under their rule.

That men like Saddam maintained their power through fear was not unknown throughout history. His portrait hanging in every officer's quarters was just a reminder that tyrants always existed; they would come and go. In many ways the Director felt a little sorry for the poor bastards. Given their circumstances they would never know what it was like to be an American.

Derrick was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of something crashing to the floor in the direction of his Field Officer. The war was over, but they were close enough to the Iranian border to see insurgents. Derrick checked to make sure the safety to his pistol was off before heading in Allen's direction, sliding with his backside down the right-side of the hallway with his right arm extended and pistol at the ready.

Derrick came to the doorway where he straightaway heard something crashing to the cement floor. He glanced quickly around the corner to see Sinatra standing at a distance, trying to close a set of pantry doors.

Allen noticed Derrick as he came around the corner. "Some of the shelves must have broken free. There's a mop in that corner that will help things here, if you don't mind sir."

Derrick looked in the direction the officer motioned his head toward, saw the mop, walked over and picked it up and made his way over to the pair of pantry doors. Allen braced the doors shut with the weight of his body, as Derrick threaded the mop handle through the pantry-door handles. The door secure, Allen slowly released the pressure to the doors.

Derrick stooped over and picked up several of the cans and began reading the Arabic labels. "Hummus, corned beef, pickled beets." The Director looked about the kitchen for something to carry the canned goods in while remarking, "Looks as if we've hit a small jackpot."

That's when both men froze in place following the sudden, distant echo of heavy metal doors being pried open.

Karl was just about to doze off when Derrick's voice suddenly burst over his headset.

"Karl, check to see if your men are all accounted for?"

Karl propped himself up on one elbow and surveyed his small group lying about on the hard concrete, so drained it did not matter where they sprawled out.

"Everyone accounted for."

There was a momentary pause before Derrick's responded, "Karl, I think we've got visitors."

The officer was up in a flash, his weapon trained in the direction of the open doorway. In a crouched position Karl shook Hunter next to him awake, "Hunter, we've got bogies."

Hunter was up in an instant.

"Get Sean and Elijah up," whispered the team lead.

Derrick continued, "Bogies approaching from the blast doors. Karl, can you see anything outside from your vantage point?"

Sean, Elijah, Hunter quickly moved to defensible positions as Karl crept over to one of the broken windows. Looking to the south, in the direction of the bombed out hangers, nothing was moving. Repositioning himself so he could look off in another direction, Karl caught a glimpse of a camouflaged figure just as it disappeared from sight. "We've got one desert fatigue to the west."

A man's voice broke in on the communications network at that very moment.

"This is Special Agent, Alexander Rostov. I am here on behalf of the United States Government. You are ordered to drop your weapons and turn yourselves in. If you do not comply in fifteen minutes we will use force. You have fifteen minutes."

"How the hell did he break into the encrypted communications channel?" asked Allen.

"The only way they could," replied Derrick. "They have broken into our custom com-link."

The man's voice carried with it a heavy Ukrainian accent. Derrick now recalled Dr. Magnason mentioning the assassin had a decidedly Eastern European accent. This was too much of a coincidence. Derrick's thoughts began to race.

Derrick whispered to Sinatra, "We need to get back to the observation deck before I can make a call on this. No shooting unless they start first. Are you ready?"

Allen nodded, "Yes, let's go."

Several minutes later, the two SAD men ascended the last section of stairwell and could make out the doorway to the observation deck. That was when Rostov's voice came back over the communications link.

"You have ten minutes to comply."

Derrick pressed the contact in his headgear, "Karl, Allen and I are coming in."

Karl's voice responded, "You're clear."

Derrick did not take the time to reconnoiter the placement of the SOG officers and instead raced over and grabbed his backpack then made tracks into an adjoining room offering more cover from direct fire. The Director quickly pulled a satellite phone from his pack and began dialing the cellphone number for Deputy Director, Spencer Douglas. Derrick removed his helmet to better put phone to his ear.

This was a long shot but Derrick knew, given the current circumstances, there was no chance he would get through the backdoor operator at Langley.

The Black Angel officers were for the moment formed up in a defensive perimeter with their weapons at the ready. While waiting for the call to go through, Derrick noticed his men no longer showed signs of fatigue. Given what they had been through, it was a sign of their training and resilience.

Derrick listened as Spence's mobile phone began to ring. "Come on Spence," mumbled Derrick. "Pick up, pick up."

"You have reached 221-132-4990, please leave a message and number at the tone."

Beep...

"Spence, this is Derrick. I need for you to see if there is an Alexander Rostov on any government payroll. My number is 115-92-8802-221, repeat my number is 115-92-8802-221. This is urgent."

Derrick disconnected the call and looked at his watch: seven minutes remained...he needed to stall for time.

He placed his headgear back in place and waved Karl over from the protection of one of the adjacent concrete walls. Shoving the satellite phone into his leg pocket, Derrick grabbed an assault rifle leaning against the wall.

Karl rolled past the exposed doorway and quickly rose into a crouched firing position when he reached the Director's side.

"Any idea who they are?" asked Karl.

"I'm in the process of finding out. We're going to need some time." Derrick pulled the phone from his pocket and handed it to Sinatra. "I'm expecting a call from Deputy Assistant, Spencer Douglas. Let me know the moment he tells you if the unknowns are good, or bad guys."

Allen now asked, "How well were they armed?"

"Light arms."

"Traveling light, that's good," Derrick said with a slight grin. "Karl, we need to get the upper hand over the fellows. Can you get some of your men down behind them?"

"We should be able to do it, Director."

"Okay, do it just as soon I give you the word. Those guys are to be considered the enemy until proved otherwise, understood?"

"Understood."

"There is something that isn't right about Mr. Rostov. If my suspicions are proven correct, he and that team of his are nothing more than mercenaries."

"Who could they be working for?"

"Someone in the President's administration would be my guess, Allen."

A look of surprise came to both Sinatra and Karl's faces.

Derrick pulled a small pencil and pad from his right thigh pocket and scribbled down a phone number. "Allen, call this number if I don't make it back. It's Deputy Director Spencer Douglas' personal number. Tell him you and the team need safe passage back to the States."

"Sounds like you're not planning on getting out of this, Director."

"No, Karl, but I always have at least one backup plan."

"What are you going to do?" asked Allen.

"I'm going to go buy us some time and hope Spence returns my call."

Derrick looked both men directly in the eyes, "Gentlemen, we're in some deep shit and we may have to fight our way out of this. If someone inside the administration believes we've got damning evidence on the new President and his administration our lives won't be worth a plug nickel."

Derrick at that moment wrote down two more phone numbers on a sheet, tore it out and pushed it into Karl's hand. "I called McQueen and he's prepared to help. He's the top number."

"What about the second number?"

"That's the number for the informant."

"Why do we need it?"

"Our informer says he's got further proof, audio clips of phone conversations with Martinez's plan."

The voice of Alexander Rostov came over the network again. "You have five minutes before we take action."

"One more thing, Karl, I want you to get that evidence. What the informer has could be what we need to get out of this fix. Okay, it is time to go."

Karl looked in Sean's direction and gave the signal to accompany the Director. Nodding he understood, Sean and the Director disappeared down the doorway to make their way down to the lower level.

The minutes passed; Karl and Allen had worked their way down to ground level and taken up positions with open fields of fire, while Elijah and Hunter remained as top cover looking out from shattered, second-story windows. Everyone now waited for the report of gunfire, or Derrick's next order.

If a firefight ensued, the plan called for Derrick and Sean to work their way back to platform, drawing the hostiles into the complex. Karl and Allen were to make their way behind the hostiles, with Elijah and Hunter providing covering fire. The trap was set, ready to be sprung, and if it worked, would turn the demand for surrender around 180 degrees.

Karl could feel the tension in the air as he and Allen waited for word from Derrick. The calm before the storm was always a soldier's worst enemy; it gave time for emotions to take over one's thoughts. Karl looked at his watch. It was approaching five minutes past the deadline. Derrick's charm seemed to be working.

The deathly stillness was broken by two figures darting to cover near the main entryway. Karl turned from his prone position and motioned to Hunter the location of the two adversaries. Hunter nodded that he had picked them up then motioned to the snipers posted on second floor the direction of the hostiles.

\----------

Derrick was in a crouched position behind some fallen masonry with his assault rifle trained in the direction of the potential threat; two fragmentation grenades lay at his feet. The Director was running out of time, and his demand for proof that Rostov was who he said he was were, for the moment, falling on deaf ears. Derrick could tell by the movement of Rostov's men each was jockeying for a better firing positions in the confined corridor. This was not going to be a piece of cake, and he recognized Rostov's men were equipped with some of the latest combat gear and at least one was carrying a man-portable rocket, an RPG. Things could get very hot very soon.

Derrick understood the tactical situation; the Director had been in nearly identical situations before. The hallway was like a tunnel with thick concrete walls that would channel the energy of an RPG in both directions, injuring both parties. No, Derrick did not imagine it likely Rostov's man would use the RPG in such a confined space, at least as long as the Russians, Derrick knew they had to be Russians, were in their current forward position. There was no room for maneuver, a frontal assault was Rostov's only option. His men would start by tossing their percussion grenades first followed by small arms fire. Derrick knew whoever got off the mark first would likely come out the winner.

Elijah's excited voice immediately came over the communications net. "Rostov's former Spetsnaz!"

Derrick dropped his assault rifle, grabbed a grenade, stripped the pin out in one action and heaved it in the direction of the confirmed mercenaries. At nearly the same time, Sean's grenade landed in about the same area.

The twin explosions were deafening! Derrick may have suffered eardrum damage, but he could worry about that later. The Director grabbed the second grenade just as Sean carried out the same action and the second pair of grenades disappeared in a cloud of dust and debris.

Outside the complex, the silence was suddenly broken by muffled explosions and small arms fire coming from the direction of the main entrance. Just as suddenly, the distinct, sharp crack of two high-powered sniper rifles snapped from above.

Moments later, Karl moved off quickly in the direction of the gunfire, throwing himself down alongside one of the enemy mercenaries quivering in his final death throws.

\----------

Sean, bruised and covered in a fine chalk-like dust kept his automatic weapon trained on the wounded Russian survivor wearing Army Ranger combat gear. The man calling himself Alexander Rostov had not made it. He was killed and by the look of things, in the initial blasts from Derrick and Sean's grenades.

Karl walked up to Sean. "Derrick wants to see the survivor."

Karl looked at the Spetsnaz mercenary and in perfect Russian said, "Ты пойдешь со мной. Встать!" ("You're coming with me. On your feet!")

Karl and Sean grabbed the mercenary by his arms and lifted him to his feet. The prisoner yelled out in pain; his side had been pierced by a 7.62mm round; he was bandaged up, but still bleeding. Following a little ruff handling, the prisoner was taken to the rear of the Russian armored vehicle.

Karl chuckled, "Эта вещь должна выглядеть знакомой" ("This thing ought to look familiar.")

Derrick looked up from his study of the coded communiqué he found in the dead Russian officer's pocket and pointed to the bench opposite him. Once the mercenary was seated Derrick closed the distance, less than a couple of inches face to face.

For Derrick, something did not add up. Why send Mercs? Why not send in U.S. Special Forces?

The Director looked straight into the eyes of the Russian. "Вы говорите по-английски?" ("Do you speak English?")

To which the Russian answered, "Yes, a little."

"Good. What's your name?'

"Ivan Schotzki."

"Now pay attention to me very carefully, Ivan Schotzki. I can either get you medical attention, or have you bleed out..." Derrick paused to let those words sink in. "You need to tell me what I want to know to get out of this alive."

"I pay attention carefully," the mercenary replied as he struggled against the pain.

"Who sent you?"

"Someone in Washington."

"Someone at the Department of Justice?"

The Russian hesitated, a clear sign the line of questioning could mean his death, not by Derrick's hand but by someone else.

"No, not Justice."

"The Pentagon?"

"No." There was a long pause. "Someone in Washington."

"Who?"

"Don't know, only Colonel knows man's name."

A Colonel? "Karl, did Spence give Rostov's rank?"

"Yes, Kapitán Rostov," replied Karl.

Derrick looked back at the Russian. "Ivan, who is the Colonel?"

The mercenary hesitated.

"You don't have much time."

"His name is Colonel Boris Demetree."

"And what was your mission, Ivan?"

"To hand you over to the Iranians."

Karl exclaimed, "Holy shit! Who are these guys?"

"Alive, or dead?" asked Derrick.

There was a momentary pause before the Russian replied, "Alive, or dead. Did not matter."

Derrick turned and looked at Karl, "See what you can do for him."

"He's not going to make it, Director, he needs a hospital."

"No! No! I don't want to die!" cried out the mercenary.

Derrick responded harshly, "I'm afraid you've made your own bed, Ivan. Karl, do what you can for him, we owe him that."

"No! No, please. Don't want to die!"

\----------

COLORADO SPRINGS, CO - Marcus had been riding his favorite palomino out to a section of fence that needed repair when the call came in from Director Mitchum. Derrick had simply said, "The team is in trouble, I'm going to need your help." That was all the Director said and that was all it took for Marcus to begin getting ready for a new mission.

Why hadn't Derrick elaborated on what the trouble was? He had to be under surveillance.

Marcus turned his horse around and would be back in his ranch home within the hour. The former SOG officer knew he could be called to action at a seconds notice; his ranch hands would cover for him while he was gone.

There was not a lot for Marcus to pack, all his hardware had remained with the Special Activities Division. He took a moment to look at news coming out of Washington using an internet search engine. There was nothing to give him any idea what kind of misfortune the Director, or the Black Angel team were in. He did notice when doing a search on the "Iraq War" the coverage had all of a sudden gone dark and when he looked at the dates of the last featured stories, they roughly coincided with President Martinez's inauguration. The only thing remotely close to being the plausible issue were the torture allegations against the former President featuring evidence coming from the ACLU.

Marcus suspected Black Angel must have been on mission, probably behind enemy lines, but that alone would not explain why the Director was breaking protocol...not unless there was something wrong in Washington.

Everything was set to go. Marcus sat quietly on his front porch his phone in his pocket cleaning the one thing he had carried with him into private life, the fifty-caliber Desert Eagle given to him by President William W. McKinley, a going away present for his service to the country.

\----------

The detective had to cover his face with his handkerchief when the coroner pulled back the zipper of the body bag. This was the part of his job he hated the most, but it came with the territory.

"Jesus Christ!" He had to turn his head away as he gagged uncontrollably. Even with the strong scent of formaldehyde wafting about the putrefying smell of decay was still too overpowering for his senses. "How long was she in the water?"

"Two to three days by the looks of it," replied the coroner. "Any missing reports for a white, female in her twenties?"

"No, nothing yet," the detective answered, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. "You can zip that up now."

"Here, put this under you nose," said the coroner as he handed the detective a vial of jell to cover up the strong smell of decay.

"Thanks, what have you discovered?"

"Jane Doe shows signs of being both raped and tortured."

"Tortured?"

"Yes, there were lacerations up and down the length of her body. It looks like they used a razor on her."

"Why the hell torture her?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Detective."

"Sadistic bastards, and the cause of death?"

"Gunshot to the back of the neck."

"Russian Mafia," commented the detective. "How in the hell could Ms. Doe have gotten caught up with that element? Any signs of drug addiction."

"No, bloods tests have come back clean."

"Anything else?'

"She was once an irresistible, blue-eyed blonde. I hope you get the bastards who did this," responded the coroner while pushing the corpse back into the wall, storage chamber.

\----------

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - Ingrid stepped into the president's office after knocking at the doorway.

"Mr. Newman, we have some gentlemen here from the Department of Justice who want to see you."

"From Washington?"

"Yes, they want to ask you some questions about Dr. Magnason."

"Victor?"

"Yes, sir."

What the hell is going on? Jack asked himself.

"Fine, okay Ingrid, send them in."

"Yes, Mr. Newman."

An hour into what appeared to be a fishing expedition by the Justice Department attorneys Jack's phone began to buzz. He looked to see it was his secretary calling.

"Just one moment while I take this call."

"Yes, Ingrid."

"I'm sorry to disturb you Mr. Newman, but you have a call from a D.C. Police Detective."

"Washington?" What the hell! He thought.

"Yes, a Detective Andrews. She says she needs a minute of your time to answer a few questions."

"Questions about what?"

"Senator Robert Burton."

"Bob?"

"Yes, Mr. Newman."

"Okay Ingrid, put her through."

Jack covered the mouthpiece and looked at the three justice attorneys saying, "Excuse me for a few minutes while I take this call."

The attorney's said nothing, just nodded.

"Ingrid, please take our guests to the executive break room, I'll come get them when I'm finished with this call. Send the call through."

"Yes, Mr. Newman."

Jack heard some audible tones letting him know the D.C. detective was on the line.

"This is Jack Newman."

"Mr. Newman, this is Detective Alice Andrews with the Washington Metro Police Department."

"Yes, Detective Marshall, how can I help you?"

"Mr. Newman, I understand that Senator Robert Burton was employed by your company. We've checked with the Senator's bank, recent deposits show your company is making direct deposits to his account."

"Yes, Senator Burton was a consultant of ours. Why do you ask?"

"In cases of homicide, Mr. Newman, we look at all angles."

"Homicide, what's happened to the Senator?"

"The Senator was murdered."

Gasp "When?"

"Sometime this morning."

Jack could not believe his ears. What the hell is going on?

\----------

The facts quickly rolled through Victor's thoughts as he retraced recent events.

The audio recordings are incriminating, so much so, the President has unleashed a team of assassins who've killed two of my reporters, Lucy Dietrich and I'm confident I'm next. I only hope Lucy's error in judgment has not endangered the Senator's life (Burton) as well. He's not picking up my calls, so I fear the worse has already happened. It is to be hoped that the police will get to him before anything happens.

Exposing those bastards is the best course of action, but I'm not sure what good that will do given the state of my news organization...it's simply not big enough yet. Abraham and his lot will use their influence to diffuse the issue; the fallout would result in the end of MENN.

The bastards hold all the cards and I know too much.

Victor had already begun taking what prudent steps he could, the accountants were moving his American-based assets overseas; Jack would not yet know it, but his attorney's had already begun the process of removing him from the board at both MEI and Magnason Enterprise News Network...Jack would soon be running both enterprises and he could not know anything. The attorney's had recommended he seek asylum in one of several foreign countries, but living out one's life in fear in a former Russian Province, or Banana Republic carried no weight.

Victor's phone began to vibrate, and he looked to see the call was from his partner.

"Yes, Jack."

Victor listened, not saying a word as he payed attention to the company president and his anger intensified the more he heard. The thought of his hopelessness outraged him as the revelations of the situation came more, and more to light.

Those bastards did not waste any time, the CEO thought to himself.

"Jack, I don't know what to say."

Victor paused, letting Jack continue.

"I know. I know."

Another pause.

"No, no I can't attend. Look, I'm sorry, but I can't tell you anything. Just know that I'm looking out for your best interests, okay."

Pause.

"Yes, yes, okay. I'll talk to you soon. Yes, okay. Goodbye Jack."

Victor disconnected the call. I've got to keep Jack in the dark, the recordings must remain a secret. Every goddamn thing is falling apart.

Could Director Mitchum provide an answer? Would the recordings be the ticket to add a new twist to an otherwise crumbling world? Was Derrick's position just as untenable as his own, or would his connections in Washington turn the tide?
UNLIKELY ALLIES

ANATOLIA, TURKEY - The Russian-built Antonov-26 appeared on the horizon flying low above the arid, mountain landscape to avoid detection. As it approached the small airfield, it climbed briefly and began lowering its landing gear.

Victor understood nothing of Director Mitchum's current situation only that he insisted that if they were to meet it had to be in this remote region of the Middle East. Victor knew he was involved in a new and dangerous game, one he did not understand, one that operated beyond the boundaries of ordinary business...and politics. People he knew, those close to him, were being murdered and it did not take a genius to size up he would be next.

The CEO turned to his bodyguard seated across the aisle from him, a former FBI Agent dressed in business casual attire.

"John, I will need some privacy, can you see what the pilots are up to?"

The bodyguard rose from his seat replying, "Okay, Dr. Magnason, you're sure?"

"Yes, I will be fine."

The bodyguard departed through the open cabin door, his light footwear resonating slightly off the aluminum stairs as he descended. Victor briefly looked through the Plexiglas porthole watching him walk to the small, airport terminal where he knew his two pilots were probably drinking the strong Turkish coffee.

Victor was not often caught off balance by events. The armed bodyguard, the security measures the CEO would have to take in an attempt to prolong his life. Victor would become a prisoner of his own fears, all in view of the fact he could not expose the corruption, all because of the news monopoly. Without the media, the miscarriages of justice being carried out by this tainted political party could never exist.

Victor's thoughts moved to the police reports his lawyer provided him, a single nine-millimeter caliber bullet through the right temporal bone had instantly killed his Senior Editor. Eyewitnesses heard no gunshot, a silencer was used, the trademark of a professional assassin.

The body of the young reporter, Shirley Winters, was found floating in the Brooklyn River. The forensics report showed disturbing evidence the young woman was tortured before her death. Death was caused by a small caliber gunshot to the back of the neck, ballistics showed it was from the same gun. The comments section stated the position of the gunshot was something of clue in itself, the Russian Mafia were know for this type of execution.

The MENN reporter, Telly Abernathy, died in a fiery explosion on the Washington beltway. Investigators found evidence of the explosive and was one more clue. The C-4 had been a military-grade compound, something that could not be obtained on the open market. Now, Senator Burton and his wife had been found murdered in their Washington home and the Department of Justice was snooping around.

Those assholes!

Victor heard the high-pitched whine of turboprop engines grow in intensity as the military transport drew closer. He heard the power to the twin turboprop engines cut and the noise of the turbines replaced by the sound of large-bladed propellers slicing through the dry, arid air. It soon became quiet as the rotating blades came to a sudden halt. There was a period of silence replaced a minute later by the approach of a pair of quickstepping, hard-sole boots. The executive heard the metallic note of each heavy step as two men made their way up the metal stairs.

Victor was convinced the Director might have a solution, it was either that or... He pulled the small audio-player from his coat and placed it on the table in front of him.

The executive looked up to see Derrick, sunburned, dressed in desert camouflage with little happiness etched on his face. Mitchum appeared to be someone who was also struggling with big problems, the look of a man also carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. One more soldier wearing desert camouflage entered the doorway following Mitchum (Allen Sinatra); young, probably in his early thirties and a half-foot taller. Victor noticed he also carried a holstered pistol on his right hip and was wearing a Navy baseball cap.

"No need to get up Dr. Magnason, this is Allen Sinatra, he's one of my men."

Allen removed his sunglasses and gave the executive a nod. "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Magnason."

The CEO replied as he shook the SAD officer's extended hand, "Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Sinatra."

"Allen is fine."

Victor nodded he understood, turned eyes to the Director and was just about to ask if the two of them could talk alone when his bodyguard stuck his head through the doorway.

"Is everything..."

Before the man could finish his question Allen in a flash had swung around into a stooping position with an upholstered Baretta pointed in the direction of where the former FBI Agent's head had been.

Victor, too surprised to say anything only responded when he heard the bodyguard shout from outside,

"Is everything all right, Dr. Magnason?"

"Yes, John, everything is fine. Allen, he's part of my security team."

Derrick looked at Allen, then smiled, "Stand at ease soldier."

Sinatra stood and holstered his pistol. "Sorry about that, a bad habit of mine."

"Expecting someone?" the executive casually asked.

Neither Derrick nor Allen responded which was enough to answer his question, they too were on the run.

The former FBI Agent stepped through the doorway to see that the CEO was truly okay.

"John, everything is fine."

"Okay, just checking, Dr. Magnason."

"Derrick, we need to talk alone. Would you mind if Allen joins John for a cup of coffee?"

Derrick looked at Sinatra's who responded, "As a matter of fact, I would love a cup of Java."

With a nod, Sinatra joined the bodyguard as Derrick took a seat across from Victor.

Derrick saw the telltale signs that the executive had not been getting much sleep, but that did nothing to diminish the fire he had seen in the executive's eyes. A brief moment of silence descended between the two men as they waited to be alone. The less anyone else knew, the better.

Much like the curtains being lowered on the First Act of a Greek Tragedy, the Second Act was at that moment about to begin.

"Derrick, may I call you Derrick?"

The Director nodded.

Victor's eyes flickered momentarily with anger. "Derrick, the evidence I'm about to give you has cost the lives of five of my people, and friends."

"What's on the recordings, Dr. Magnason?"

"Proof of the conspiracy between this new President, his Administration and the heads of the media industry." He choked out a laugh. "It should give you some idea of how deep in shit you and President McKinley are."

Derrick remained quiet for a moment, recalling how his own world was falling apart around him. Several thoughts raced through his mind: the verbal order to pursue al-Zarqawi, the question of how his team's presence in Iran was compromised, the copies of mission orders WNN possessed, the Justice Department's recent actions, the conversation with Nelson Frank and the Russian mercenaries..."Deliver the Black Angel team into the hands of the Iranians alive...or dead, it did not matter."

Derrick managed a smile, "Yes, I do have some idea how bad things are." His face became graver, "What is it that you have?"

"Something I hope you can use to stop the crap that's going to be happening."

"I think its time I heard what is on those recordings."

The executive pressed play.

Derrick listened and soon recognized the voice of Martinez's Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank; the Senate Leader, Jim Rooney and House Leader, Patricia Bocchino. An unfamiliar name referenced by the Chief of Staff as "Donald" caused Victor to pause the recording.

"The man you will hear being referred to as 'Donald' is Donald Abraham the Publisher and owner of World News Network. The man referred to as 'Shmuel' is Shmuel Weisser, the CEO and Publisher of World Tribune; and the one called 'Jason' is Jason Simon, Publisher of American News."

Derrick nodded he understood.

The executive pressed play again and the two men kept on listening. For Derrick, it was an eye opening experience. He knew, but could never prove this kind of collusion existed between the heads of the news industry and the Democrat leadership. It was chilling to listen to the two parties casually discussing plans, plans that were in clear in conflict with at least a half-dozen Federal Laws.

One recording in particular shed light on the role Derrick's group would play in their plans. It was clear the legal actions being discussed were centered on Derrick being used as the centerpiece for a trial, a trial that was meant to entangle not only McKinley, but the Republican Party. Just as telling, the confederates all expected Derrick to "Plead the Fifth," they were not looking for the outcome, they were simply looking for a way to create headlines for the publishers!

Derrick at that moment heard a voice he thought he recognized. "Please, replay that last thirty-seconds again."

Derrick listened carefully to two, yet, unidentified men in the last portion of one of the recordings.

"Do you know who they are?" asked Victor with penetrating, angry eyes.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," answered the executive with a slight grimace.

"One of those men is the Attorney General, Antonio Drexel."

"What about the other?" Victor asked already suspecting he knew the answer.

Derrick paused before answering. No reason to play coy with this man. "That was Nathan Martinez, the President of the United States."

"Can you do anything with these recordings? Can you put a stop to this madness?"

"Yes," replied Derrick, "I can try, but our real problem is going to be the publishers and their news machines. The pressure they can apply makes it nearly impossible to get the truth out to the public, without that the Republicans aren't likely to do anything."

"RHO and my company aren't big enough to have any meaningful affect?"

"That would be my guess."

"Could your connections dump the recordings on the internet, get them to go viral?"

"No, the technology the White House controls will make sure the evidence will never be seen. Dr. Magnason, I suspected you had this kind of evidence, listening to the clips only confirmed my suspicions."

Derrick continued, "Here is my take on all this?"

"We've got four years before the next election, right?"

"Yes, of course."

"We have four years to change the paradigm."

"Go ahead, Director, you're way ahead of me."

"My team and I killed a team of men sent to assassinate us, the one survivor openly admitted he was serving under orders from someone in Washington, inside the administration. My team and I have already made a decision to take action. Let's play one scenario out, shall we."

"It's your show, Director."

"As long as Martinez and his Administration are in the White House the three news publishers will be in control. You and I would both probably agree, there is nothing we can do to change the political angle, right?"

"Yes, of course."

"The other way would involve leveling the playing field before the next election, taking the supports out from under Martinez and the Democrats."

"How would you propose that be done?"

"By breaking up the cartel."

Victor's interest was by now peaked, Director Mitchum was hinting to the possibility his stillborn news company might still succeed.

"I'm listening, Director."

"What I'm about to propose is something the American intelligence services have been doing for some time, only the targets were the propaganda ministries of third-world dictators."

The CEO listened in stunned silence.

"Let me ask you this first. What do imagine will happen if the current crop of Democrats maintains control over Washington for a second term?"

"All is lost."

"This plan we just heard the publishers and Heads of State discussing is really intended to prevent Republican Party from retaking control of any of the three seats of power, right?"

"That was my conclusion."

"We have but one chance to reverse the course the country is taking, what I'm proposing Dr. Magnason, is to neutralize one, two or all three of the news publishers. I'm talking about getting rid of their means of production, their brain trust...

The executive completed Mitchum's statement. "...and them."

\----------

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The Chief of Staff had still not received word from the Russians, a noticeable frown descended upon his face as he waited to enter the Oval Office. Nelson looked at his watch.

Goddamn it! He thought angrily. Just one thought kept turning around in his head. I told that cocky Russian he needed to send more men!

The problem for Nelson's private, little army were there were two loose ends to take care of at that moment, one in Iraq, the other in the Cayman Islands. His orders to the Colonel had been simple: find the recordings, uncover anyone with knowledge of their existence and get rid of them.

Nelson was brought from his thoughts by Martinez's Secretary. "Mr. Frank, the President is ready to see you."

The Chief of Staff picked up his leather valise and entered the through the door without saying a word.
BREAKING SCANDAL

McKinley Memos Released

World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - President Nathan Martinez, in a move intended to appeal to the international community, made the decision to release McKinley-era memos involving a secret organization, SAD.

Visiting CIA headquarters, the President openly defended his decision and words to say America would ultimately become stronger as a result of his actions. When questioned by a reporter how it would help the nation, he failed to offer any compelling reasons.

The "breaking scandal" was portrayed as anything from a dereliction of duty to outright treason by the media, each outlet throwing as much mud up on the wall as they could to see what would stick in the public arena. The news publishers and the Martinez Administration were quite confident their efforts would be turning into something much bigger than Abu Ghraib. Their hopes were to create the next Watergate and send Republican Party off to the reservation, their political Waterloo.

The news industry would laud the actions of Martinez and his administration. Their singular support of his measure were soon followed by cries by sign-carrying mobs for judicial proceedings in opposition to the former President, members of his Cabinet and high-ranking officials inside the Republican Party. Former US Presidents had authorized nearly identical missions, but those would be excluded from being released by the US Attorney General, only those documents related to the McKinley administration would become public.

Following a hour-long conference with the Attorney General and Democrat leaders, President Martinez emerged to state in very terse terms that a full investigation of the matter would be taking place. He made the point of saying he could not rule out the possibility the former President would be put on trial, and his administration face scrutiny.

When the President finished, it was Attorney General, Antonio Drexel's turn. "International laws are very clear on this issue. Anyone found guilty of violating Article 39 of the United Nations Charter will be held guilty of War Crimes. Violators and their accomplices' perpetrators will be hauled before a Grand Jury and made to answer for the felony in front of the American people." He went on, "No matter where this takes us, anyone involved in this unlawful act will be held to account."

How Director Derrick Mitchum had managed to evade Justice Department Agents was a matter Nelson was still having investigated. The meeting between Mitchum and the MENN founder, Dr. Victor Magnason was not a coincidence. There could be some real difficulties ahead if someone like Mitchum knew of, or worse yet, had copies of the taped conversations.

Nelson had already gone through his little, black appointment book and compared the dates and times of phone calls to the likes of World News Network. There were at least a half-dozen instances where he would have been recorded, never mind everyone else inside the administration who regularly spoke with that stupid news-anchor who allowed her office get bugged.

The plan, the details, the collusion behind today's Congressional investigations into today's war crime charges, it would all be there. Nelson knew the charade would be up if McKinley's attorneys got hold of the audiotapes, but the kangaroo trial would have served its purpose, given the publishers the headlines they needed to effect public opinion. Already, Martinez's appointment to CIA Director had put the agency into high gear, any plausible avenue the conspirators might have used to get the evidence out into the public's hands was now gone.

The media? Not a problem, they were the solution and except for RHO and Magnason's fledgling news company, would marginalize and dispense with the problem entirely.

Satellite surveillance had turned up little evidence of the six man, SAD team that perished aboard the downed Iraqi aircraft. Appearances were Derrick and his team were making an effort to cross Iranian airspace into Uzbekistan. All the intelligence services knew for certain of the bodies pulled from the wreckage were the number that happened to match with the missing Director and his team.

Iranian intelligence personnel were seen descending upon the crash site. It had not taken the Mullas any time to establish and announce before the international community that the downed aircraft was part of the American spy program. Martinez saw the opportunity as one of furthering the recent charges of war crimes and quickly jumped on the bandwagon. The problem for the President's Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank, however, remained; there was no way for him to confirm the SAD officers had indeed been removed from the equation. Had they in point of fact met their end, or were they still out there? What about the nine missing mercs?

\----------

MANHATTAN, NY - Publisher, Donald Abraham looked on with some pride at his publication's headlines. World News Network was the first to break the story that would set into motion events that would lead to a Congressional Investigation and hoped for sentencing of the former President, his administration, and the group called the Special Activities Division.

The front page headlines and accompanying news stories would be written differently, but they would all carry the same message, and for the one-hundred million subscribers of the establishment, it would become their version of reality. It would be the same for another fifty million network and cable TV news viewers.

Once the ball got rolling. the press campaign would become an endless twenty-four hour barrage designed with one purpose, to manipulate public opinion. They would move the masses to their position, no matter how long it took. President McKinley would be found guilty by the public, and the outcome of the trial was of no consequence.

All but one news company and one cable news network would fail to mention the Special Activities Division conducted similar missions for five former Presidents. The two holdouts, MENN and RHO Cable News, were able to do little to forestall the rising sentiment created by the slanted coverage. There was no mention of the American lives saved as a result of the preemptive missions across international borders by the media. Those missions did not matter in as much as they did not fit the publishers' agenda.

This was going to be the end of the Republican Party as a political force. The news coverage would run as long as necessary to effect the readership's opinions and beliefs...and then the publishers would run the stories a little longer for good measure.
FALLOUT OF ELECTION

President Martinez Wins Nobel Peace Prize

National Press

OSLO, NORWAY - Just weeks after taking office, it was announced today that President Nathan Martinez has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, which came as a complete surprise to most Americans. The five-member Norwegian committee said the award was an early vote of confidence in Martinez's promises of disarmament and use of diplomacy over the aggressive military actions of Republican President, William W. McKinley.

Martinez Polling at 92% Approval

American News

WASHINGTON, D.C. - President Nathan Martinez's job approval rating is running at 92% according to an American News Poll and has been as high as 94% since he took office in January. The last two quarterly averages for Martinez's job approval have been among the highest in American News Poll history.

War Crime Allegations Surface

World News Network

NEW YORK, NY - The Department of Justice under the Martinez Administration today announced it will be investigating International War Crime allegations of former President, William McKinley. U.S. Attorney General, Attorney Antonio Drexel, speaking before a group of Democrat politicians went on to say, "We have uncovered documents from inside the McKinley Administration that testify to the illegal sanctioning of military actions against undeclared enemies of the state."

Justice Needed for Iranians

World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Presidential Candidate Nathan Martinez invoked the American civil rights movement as an analogy for what was unfolding on the streets of Tehran. In invoking Martin Luther King, Jr. and the American civil rights movement, Mr. Martinez moved toward adorning the protesters on the streets of Tehran with the mantle of America's most intense movement for human rights and justice.

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - With the Democrats in control of Washington, the Internet Regulatory Bill, which had been stalled by McKinley's veto, now had clear sailing. Jack Newman paced back and forth looking out the office window with the phone to his ear.

"So, you're saying our party is not making any moves to attempt to stop the legislation, that it's certain to go to the White House for signature? What about the chatter on filibustering the damn bill? I can't be the only donor who will be hurt by that piece of shit?"

Jack listened to the lobbyist's response who had a resigned tone in his voice.

"Jack, in so many words, it's over. Martinez's threats and vocal support has scared anyone in his party who may have been on the fence. Advocates of the legislation are the only ones getting airtime on the news networks..."

"No surprise there," Jack chuckled with sarcasm.

"...and the Republicans are still recovering from election shock."

"They really thought that milk-toast candidate of theirs had a prayer? That's the funniest thing I've heard lately."

There was a moment of silence on the line. Jack knew he was talking in the wind; the situation was hopeless, the lobbyist was right.

"Jack, the Republicans are convinced Martinez is just too hot to oppose right at the moment. They're citing his popularity, and most believe Martinez to be the moderate he ran as during the election. They say they are against confrontation because it will start things off on the wrong foot."

"Yes, I know that's what they're telling you, but we know better, don't we?"

"I imagine so, Jack."

"Look, I know everything you're saying is true and I can understand why. Is there anything we can do?"

"I can tell you this, Martinez is not all he imagines himself to be and guys like that eventually fall flat on their face. He just needs a good push. One way would be to expose what he really is to your readers. That will knock him off his pedestal and bring him back to earth."

The consultant's words brought a smile to Jack's face. He admired many things about the man; if there were only more like him in Washington, America would not be in the fix it was today.

"Of course you're right, but we need a free internet to pull it off in a way that overcomes the vast size of the media establishment. If I could just get MENN up and running as planned, that would be our first objective, to vet this guy and vet him properly."

\----------

The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Errol Hartsfield, resigned shortly after being forced to release classified documents of the President McKinley administration. Hartsfield fully expected the communiqués would soon find their way into the hands of the news industry; he saw the same indistinguishable thing before...under one more Democrat administration.

Hartsfield's suspicions would later be confirmed as the press began working off a collaborative plan. It would not matter what TV channel a viewer turned to, or what news people would read. From the news commentators to the Democrat politicians who were put on center stage; they were all working off the same sheet.

Most politicians in the Republican Party would seek out hiding places, biding their time and hoping the storm would pass. They would be sadly mistaken as the weight of the press would stir mobs of protestors into action. No place would be safe as the press painted bulls eyes on those who were ensnared in their news stories.

Director Hartsfield's efforts to forestall the impending travesty were in vain, but he learned something about this President and his administration in the process. Something that he would keep to himself and use later...if given the chance.

McKinley Memos Released

World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - President Nathan Martinez, in a move intended to appeal to the international community, made the decision to release McKinley-era memos involving the secret government organization, SAD. The President openly defended his decision to allow the international courts to become engaged in it's own investigation of the matter.

Martinez Writes to Iranian President

World Tribune

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The President sent a letter on Sunday to Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, reiterating the American position on his nation's nuclear program a day before Iran's president made his state visit to the United Nations.

WNN Calls for Troop Withdrawal

World News Network

NEW YORK, NY - Donald Abraham, Publisher of World News Network says, "It is more likely than not" that his news company will call for the U.S. withdrawal from Iraq, in an interview today with C-SPAN's Timothy McGuire.

Martinez Signs Stimulus Bill

World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - President Martinez signs into law the Stimulus Bill, which adds $821 billion in new spending to the American economy for what the President is calling "shovel-ready jobs." The President went on to say that without the bill, unemployment would have risen above 8% and the country would have fallen into an economic depression comparable to the 'Great Depression' of the 1920s.

Moratorium Placed On Offshore Drilling

American News

WASHINGTON, D.C. - In a response to the BP oil rig disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, President Nathan Martinez has ordered the federal government to hold the issuing of new offshore drilling leases until a review determined whether more safety systems were needed.

President Announces Troop Withdrawal Deadline

World Tribune

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Today, President Nathan Martinez formally announced the deadline for combat troop withdrawal from Iraq stating, "I am convinced my administration in talks with Iran and others in the region has succeeded in our purpose. I have therefore decided that American troop withdrawal will begin later this year."

President McKinley To Be Tried

World Tribune

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Today, the Attorney General, Antonio Drexel announced that legal proceedings against the former President William McKinley would begin immediately. Drexel went on record saying, "We now have evidence the President and his administration authorized unlawful missions across sovereign borders, an act that has outraged the international community and most Americans. My department will be pursuing legal actions and prosecute anyone involved in violations of international law, including the former President and his Administration."

Gasoline Prices at the Pump

National Press

WASHINGTON, D.C. - American motorists are bracing for further increases in gas pump prices after average national prices rose 12 cents in the past week alone.

Authorities say drivers are experiencing "sticker shock" as unrest in Egypt and production disruptions in the U.S. and other countries push up the price of crude oil and gasoline. The national average price for regular unleaded gasoline was $4.11 a gallon on Friday. Experts believe retail gas prices are likely to rise more in the coming weeks as a result of unscheduled refinery shutdowns caused by hurricanes on the U.S. Gulf Coast.

Unemployment Rises to 9.3%

Page 7, World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The national unemployment rate unexpectedly rose .3% to 9.3% as Democrat Party leadership began discussing the ways to improve the sluggish American economy. President Martinez went on record telling the American people he and his administration underestimated the economic problems left by the former Republican administration.

SEATTLE, WA - The lifestyle Henry Smith and tens of thousands of college graduates aspired to was disappearing. For more than a half century, each new generation of American expected they would have better jobs, better pay and a higher standard of living compared to that of their parents. The nation experienced its periods of ups and downs, but it every time rebounded, and always continued to improve.

It was nearly three years now since Henry received his pink slip from Modern Designs. He quickly discovered unemployment benefits were nowhere near what he was making working for the technology company. By now, the politicians had extended unemployment benefits three times, but that too would soon be running out. Henry was one of tens of millions of young adults who went back home to live with the parents, their dreams disappearing.

Henry looked out his bedroom window at the relic he was now forced to drive; it was all his parents could afford to give him. Lying on his bed was the most recent "Past-Due Notice" for his college loan. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

The college graduate was nearly always angry and yet his blame was misdirected. Henry saw no reason to doubt what the attractive news anchor, Deena Crawford, had to say. Day in, day out, the same rosy theme surrounding the President was repeated: Martinez was doing all he could to reverse the horrible economic conditions McKinley had handed him. Blame for this economy rested squarely on the shoulders of the previous administration and Wall Street executives.

Henry Smith and millions of similarly unemployed young adults every time believed the world was theirs. His generation had just taken it for granted things would continue the way they had for their parents, only better. Today's economic conditions had come as a big shock. Anger and despair were growing.

Henry heard his mother yell from downstairs, "Henry, your friend's construction company is on the line!"

Henry was like many young people who voted for Martinez, with little understanding what his policies would do to the economy and job market. Things were bad, and they were going to get even worse. The Cloward-Piven Strategy the President and his party were following demanded the misery.

Henry and those young people like him remained blissfully ignorant of what was in point of fact happening and why. Most were schooled to believe in the utopian theories that at no time once held up in the real world. The trillion-dollar "Stimulus Bill" had done nothing to improve the country's economic conditions as promised. Instead, the money was being pumped to the eleven percent of the American workforce that were unionized.

The things that history had shown would work, "Reaganomic's" for instance, would never see the light of day. Keynesian Economics would continue to live on in spite of its failures. Young people like Henry Smith never questioned the motives of the media. The young man unflinchingly believed whatever Deena Crawford had to say and who to blame.

Feds Take Over Auto Manufacturers

National Press

DETROIT, MI - Bondholders, during recent negotiations were forced to accept an 11% stake in what the President is referring to as the "New Auto Industry." Estimates are that bondholders held 54% of the industry's unsecured debt. An anonymous Wall Street analyst was quoted as saying, "Yes they're getting shafted, but when a President is working against you, you've got to take anything you can get."

Benjamin Hill was one of the fifty-two million Americans who voted the charismatic, presidential candidate into office. As an auto union member, Ben's very livelihood depended upon Martinez winning the election in as much as his employer, a major American automaker, was on the brink of bankruptcy. His sweetheart union deal that had created the disaster was about to disappear.

At forty-five, Ben was doing very well for someone armed with only a high school education. Over the decades, his union had strong-armed his employer into putting together pay packages that would have been the envy of any college graduate. Ben not only had just ten more years until he could retire, but when he retired he would get seventy-five percent of what he was making at the time...plus full healthcare benefits! For life! That is, if his employer could survive long enough to cover the expense of the sweetheart deal.

Ben's situation was no different from his union counterparts in the government sector; only those lucky folks would never run the risks he currently faced.

Ben's union changed the face of the American auto industry, an industry that looked more like an employee retirement fund and mirrored nearly every major enterprise in the United Kingdom where the unions constantly needed the Labor Party to bail their nest eggs out...Ben's union was no different.

Ben Hill and his fellow union buddies were at Pete's Bar celebrating the great news, as his President had come through. The hundreds of millions his union had thrown into Martinez's campaign had paid off. Unfortunately, what Ben and his buddies did not realize was the bailout would be only a temporary fix, that once the bailout ran out it would be up to car sales to pay the bill. This was going to be a problem as most Americans rebelled in opposition to the President's autocratic actions the only way they could; they were not buying cars...cars from auto manufacturers who got the bailouts, automakers who most Americans now called "Union Motors."

Senate Passes Immigration Bill

World Tribune

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Increasing the hopes of millions of immigrants seeking legal status and exposing a deep lack of support among Republican Senators, the bill passed by 14 votes and is now on the way to the House of Representatives where it is expected to pass.

President Fights Back!

World Network News

WASHINGTON D.C. - President Nathan Martinez weighed in on the contentious labor battle playing out between the union and "big business" across the nation, condemning Republicans' push to make states a so-called "right-to-work" state as nothing more than a partisan maneuver that will hurt the working class.

Fannie and Freddie Oversight Removed

American News

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Today, the Martinez Administration signed off on the removal of the Congressional Oversight Board which has overseen the receiverships of Fannie and Freddie, which together hold some $6 trillion in home mortgages for poor and middle-class working families.

Economy Slides U.S. Business Slows

Page 25, World News Network

NEW YORK, NY - The economy suffered sharp falls on Wednesday, hit by reports of weak US business activity and an escalating inflation picture. The euro rose against the dollar by late afternoon on Wall Street after data from the Chicago Mercantile Exchange indicated business activity in the West unexpectedly fell last month.

White House Appeals Stay of Injunction

Page 10, World Tribune

NEW ORLEANS, LA - Judge George Perkins decided in favor of granting a preliminary injunction barring enforcement of the President's "Oil Drilling Moratorium," saying the administration failed to show how the environment would be irreparably harmed if the stay was not granted. The White House has appealed the injunction.

Iran Expands Enrichment Program

Page 3, World Tribune

NEW YORK, NY - Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said yesterday that Iran had begun producing nuclear fuel on an industrial scale, an accomplishment that, if verified, would significantly advance the country's nuclear program. "With great pride I announce, as of today, our dear nation of Iran is among the countries of the world that produces an industrial level of nuclear fuel," Ahmadinejad said in a nationally televised speech from his office in Tehran.

Gov't Healthcare Becomes Law

National Press

WASHINGTON, D.C.—Today, the President signed Healthcare legislation into law. The new entitlement will add $1.4 trillion in new spending over the next decade, and over $2.5 trillion once the law is fully implemented.

Annual Deficit at $1.3 Trillion

Page 25, World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C.—The federal government is on pace to run a deficit above $1 trillion for the first time in the nation's history. Little progress is occurring in the face of intense debate over the issue of spending.
IT'S A GO!

TORTOLA, BVI - The remote white stucco villa was perched halfway up the steep-sided ridge line. The safe-house was surrounded by a chain-link security fence that seemed to keep the jungle at bay. From the balcony, one could see the Caribbean below and a few of the other vacation villas that dotted the mountainside. The single dirt road leading up to the safe house was the only way in and out by wheeled transport, and a clearing in the back of the complex served as the landing area for rotary aircraft.

Marcus sat in one of the wicker chairs, studying the motion of the storm caps as Hurricane Clarinda began making its presence felt along the island coast when he heard the familiar voice of Officer Karl Hagman.

"How was the flight?"

Marcus turned to see Karl smiling.

"It was a little rough?"

"Any problem sending the package?"

"No, of course not."

"How do you imagine Spencer Douglas will react?"

\----------

The former SAD officers had gone underground after staging their deaths in the now rusting wreckage of the downed Russian transport. In a less than spacious den the former SAD officers sat watching CSPAN's coverage of the trials being piped in over a satellite dish that had somehow survived a very active hurricane season. The men were gathered around the one color set watching, 'Red Stripe' beers in hand. This was the second week of the war crime trials now going on before a Senate Investigative Committee. Most of the team noticed it was standing room only and by the look of the disheveled appearance of most in the audience, they were largely the kind of nuts one would see in food stamp lines, or news reporters.

The Black Angel team watched as the pale, mortician-looking Senator took his seat on center stage. On either side of the Committee Chairperson were seventeen leather chairs. Karl watched as Senators who knew each other from years of collaboration conversed freely between themselves and even cracked jokes while they took their seats. It was what Hunter called a regular love fest: the moderate Republicans some of the officers called 'RHINOS' and Democrats coming together, putting aside their differences and doing what was right for themselves, not the country.

Senator Rooney's counterpart on the committee was Senator Mitch Goldwater from North Dakota, a good illustration of someone who conservatives called Democrat-lite. For the past twenty-two years Goldwater had held office. Senator Goldwater remained in office not so much because of his popularity, but in view of the fact every six years he had stuffed budgets with pork payoffs to big donors back home, getting him the advertising budget he needed to drown out his political opponents during each election cycle.

Senator Rooney called the forum to order by taking up the gavel and pounding it on a sound block several times. "I now bring this committee to order."

He then went through the formalities associated with opening Senate investigative proceedings before going into his monologue:

"We are here today to continue an investigation into the extent to which illegal, improper, or unethical activities were engaged in by President McKinley and his administration. This committee is not in favor of letting this investigation become a media circus. The primary purpose of this hearing is to discern possible misdeeds related to the international community. I would have to say the charges are quite consequential and..."

"Mute that idiot!" shouted Sean. "I can't stand listening to that fool any longer."

"Okay, Sean, settle down," replied Elijah.

The press was everywhere, watching everything closely through the viewfinder of video equipment and cameras. It would have been a gross mistake to believe they were not looking to make political hay out of this hearing. Anything that might move the ball ahead and cause an emotional call for the next step: formal judicial action. Ten minutes into his long-winded diatribe, the Senator at long last got down to business.

"Please call the witness, Director Susan Best to the stand."

The unattractive red head carried herself as if she was still on the drill grounds in the US Military. In fact, Director Best had once been a Captain in the U.S. Air Force before getting a desk job in Washington. The Director took a seat before the committee, her lawyer taking the seat next to her.

Karl recognized the name. "That's the gal I talked to when I called in for extraction."

Sean sneered, "Yes, Director Susan Best proved to be a great help."

"Please guys, I can't hear what that idiot Senator is saying," Elijah added.

"Director Best, what can you tell us about the organization called the Special Activities Division?"

"The Special Activities Division is a covert intelligence asset inside the CIA which reports directly to the President."

"What kind of missions does it carry out, Director Best?"

The witness looked to her legal council who responded by covering the open mic, briefly coaching his client before she responded.

"Senator, that information is classified."

"What can you tell us about the Special Operations Group, Director?"

"The Special Operations Group are the tactical teams that carry out missions on behalf of the President."

"Who issues the orders to the Special Operations Group, Director?"

"The Director of the Special Activities Division, Senator."

Senator Rooney's next question caused Karl and his men to lean forward in their seats.

"Director, what has become of the Special Operations Group team called Black Angel?"

Best responded to the Senator's question after conferring with her attorney. "The last communications we received from Black Angel was a 'Mayday' transmission."

"Are they assumed dead, Director?"

"Yes, Senator, they are believed to have been killed in action."

"Do you have confirmation of their deaths, Director?"

"No Senator, Baghdad Intelligence has not been able to confirm their deaths; they are missing and presumed dead."

Senator Rooney now asked, "Do you know where the Black Angel team went missing?"

"Senator, it now appears they lost their lives on a mission against terrorist insurgents."

"Where did this supposed mission occur? Was it in Iraq?"

The witness hesitated, conferring with her attorney.

"No, Senator," Director Best paused for a moment. "We are convinced Black Angel was behind Iranian lines when the firefight took place."

There were gasps heard from the audience as camera shutters snapped away, the flashes lighting up the auditorium. The reporters captured the scene and expression of the audience and committee members from every conceivable angle. The Senator became part of the drama.

"Behind Iranian lines! How is that possible? Are we at war with Iran?"

The Senator had to use his gavel to calm the audience down, but only following the photo opportunities had been taken by the press.

Best countered the Senator's last question, "Senator, Iranian-backed terrorists have been capturing American and Iraqi troops and ferrying them back across those international lines."

The Senator cut her off before she could go on to explain the circumstances surrounding the SAD mission to the television viewing public.

"Director Best, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but my next question is very important. Can you provide this committee with any proof the terrorist groups you just mentioned are acting on behalf of the Iranian government?"

"Senator, I have no way of proving that they are extensions of the Iranian government. It is logical: the terrorists would not be there if they did not have the blessings of the mullahs and the Iranian military."

The Senator stormed back, "That was not my question. The question was do you have proof the Iranian government is ordering these so-called terrorist groups to capture Iraqi soldiers."

The witness noticed the Senator failed to mention American soldiers in his retort. Director Best remained silent. There was no rational way of responding to the Senator's ridiculous portrayal of reality.

The Senator asked again, "Well, do you?"

"No, Senator."

"Let us move on to the next point. There have been orders that have come from the former President. At face value they appear to represent he knew he was committing illegal actions. Are you aware of those Presidential orders?"

"In the interests of national security, I cannot answer that question, Senator."

"Was this secret army of President McKinley's under his direct control or not, Director?"

"Yes, SAD is under the direct control of any sitting President of the United States. Senator, you are failing to mention all American Presidents..."

"Director! I still have the floor!"

Even the moderate Republican Senator had seen enough to try to help. "Mr. Chairperson, if you give Director Best the chance to explain, maybe we can get to the bottom of this."

Senator Rooney glared at the committee member, "Senator Goldwater, your time to ask questions will come. Until then, this committee expects you will hold your comments."

Senator Rooney now returned his glare to the witness, "Director Best, you are here to answer this committee's questions surrounding the serious charge of International War Crimes. You will be given a chance to respond at the end of this hearing."

"Now, you took over Director Mitchum's duties. Under any circumstances did you receive orders from President Nathan Martinez to violate International Laws?"

"No, Senator."

"Any laws?"

"No, Senator."

"I think you were about to say a little earlier that all Presidents direct the actions of the Special Activities Division, is that right?"

"Yes," responded the Director.

"Well, you have just stated that our current President has not violated any laws. He has not ordered this secret organization to do anything illegal. So, if he has not violated any laws, what does that say about the former President who did order such unlawful acts?"

Best countered angrily, "Senator, the purpose behind the Special Activities Division is known to everyone on this committee. Your portrayal..."

"Director, you are not here to pontificate. Just answer the question. Did the former President order illegal activities to be carried out by your organization?"

Best responded with venom in her voice. "Senator, I respectfully refuse to answer the question under Article 15B Section 21, of the National..."

The Senator cut her off. "Director Best, are you refusing to answer the question? I warn you, if so, you will be held in contempt!"

The Director kept on, disregarding the Senator's diatribe. "...Securities Act. Operations classified as Level 10 will not be disclosed before this panel. That is all I have to say."

The witness stood with her attorney as the sound of the Senator's gavel cracked and camera shutters snapped away. She marched out of the proceedings.

Karl had seen enough. "Turn that damn thing off!" He now had a newfound respect for Derrick's replacement. Director Susan Best had done her best to defend the code...and she didn't take any shit from that political dick head.

"When the hell is Mitchum supposed to get back?" shouted Hunter. "I'm getting tired of paradise."

Marcus entered the room with the answer. "Mitchum will be back tomorrow, Hunter. He says the mission is on, we depart within the week!"

\----------

CANADIAN BORDER - The Green Earth Foundation (GEF) had all the trappings of an activist international nonprofit organization. GEF was headquartered in the Cayman Islands, made regular donations to the Green Peace Movement and Sierra Club, and even had a slogan "Give the Earth a Chance" to keep up appearances. It was a dummy-operation with all the appearances of being the real thing with desks, chairs, family pictures, artwork, phones and computers.

The former SAD officers passed through the porous, northern border into the United States under the guise of GEF personnel with their expertly forged identification. Each man would follow a different route into the nation, each man would make his way to leased office spaces that could be found either inside, or next to the headquarters of publishers Donald Abraham, Shmuel Weisser and Jason Simon, the World News Network, American News and World Tribune.

Poverty Rate increases to 14.3%

Page 7, American News

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Census data released this month showed the nation's poverty rate increased to 14.3%. That is 43.6 million Americans, or 1 in 7. This is the highest rate since 1934.

Boeing Sued by the Feds

Page 7, World Tribune

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Just months after fights to limits labor union rights in Wisconsin and other states, one of the nation's largest manufacturers, Boeing, has been sued by the Martinez Administration for allegedly punishing union workers by shifting a proposed new plant to another state, South Carolina.

Green Energy Industry Losing Billions

Magnason Enterprise News Network

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - The list of "Green Energy" firms filing bankruptcy is growing at an alarming rate. So far, one-third of the $80 billion set aside in the "Stimulus Package" for clean energy loans, grants, and tax credits have filed for bankruptcy, or are in the process of doing so. The Martinez Administration defends its position on Green Energy by showing...

Justice Department Sues Texas Over Immigration Law

Magnason Enterprise News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The Martinez administration on Thursday sued Texas over the state's strict new immigration law, attempting to wrestle back control over the issue of border security. The administration argued the Texas law, which requires state and local police to investigate the immigration status of anyone they reasonably suspect of being an illegal immigrant, is unconstitutional and would sap law enforcement resources.

DUBAI - The prosperous middle eastern city was built on the back of oil, but as recently as two decades ago, it was also known for its black-market for high-ticket items like gold bullion. There still existed an underworld where just about anything could be found, for the right price.

Allen Sinatra was staying at the Royal Falcon Hotel, one of the most expensive in the area. He wanted to send the right message and the accommodations were part of the bait. Unable to use his former connections in the intelligence services, he put the word out through some local merchants that he was trying to locate a man known as 'the Lebanese.' Supposedly an expatriate from that country, he had come to Allen's attention through one of his high-level informants who described the man, in so many words, as a black-marketer par excellence.

Allen wasn't confident the man even existed, however. If he did, he would be sure to surface in the port city. It was one of the few places in the Arab World that turned a blind eye to just about any business transaction, legal and otherwise. He was now into his second week of looking at the sites when his hotel phone began to ring.

Allen picked it up, "نعم." ("Yes?")

A digitally disguised voice came over the line, "في مطعم النخيل الذهب. الساعة الواحدة." ("The Golden Palm Restaurant. Four o'clock.")

The line went dead. Allen looked at his watch to see that it was three o'clock local time, and quickly grabbed his coat. The officer had never heard of the place. Allen slipped on his shoulder harness, went to the hotel safe and typed in the passcode, and pulled out the chrome-steel Walther PPK-S. Small, but deadly at close range. Minutes later, Allen was jumping into the backseat of a tan-body, red-roof Audi A6 taxi.

Allen motioned to the driver, "في مطعم النخيل الذهب وعجلة من امرنا." ("The Golden Palm Restaurant and hurry!")

The black market for weapons used by SOG combat teams created the environment of plausible deniability American Presidents needed to keep both themselves and the nation off the international radar. This was not Allen's first time into the underworld; he knew it could be dangerous and was always under the watchful eye of foreign intelligence services. Allen was counting on two things. His expertise in this kind of undercover work and the fact nobody would find a trace of his existence. Sinatra was a ghost. Sinatra no longer officially existed.

Allen was met and escorted to a private limousine. As the vehicle worked its way through the center of Dubai, the officer let his mind wander. His affiliation with SAD always meant his identity was kept a very close secret. When abroad Allen moved freely around without fear of being recognized by someone who might know that he did more than wear a business suit.

As the limousine picked its way through traffic, Allen sifted through thoughts of past accomplishments and how dramatically they differed from the current mission. The officer recalled the black-market arms dealer he would meet was one of only a half-dozen sources in the world with the kind of weapon he needed.

By the time the limousine arrived at the gate to the underground garage, it was late afternoon. Allen wasn't surprised by the intimidating checkpoint. At the barrier, the driver stopped the car and uttered something Allen could not make out to a robe-clad guard. The Arab carried the Russian AK-47 slung across the chest with two identically armed men standing behind him. It looked almost like Fort Knox when Allen noticed one more man behind the tinted, bulletproof glass of an ordinary looking ticket-booth. The man peered briefly at Allen, making a quick study of what he was wearing, hair color, scars should the need arise to track him down later.

The guard nodded and the driver drove the vehicle ahead, passing under a heavy steel gate designed to drop at a moment's notice. The limousine continued to a central parking spot marked "Reserved for Visitors." Allen then passed through an unmarked door into a small lobby. One more guard was waiting; this one wore the traditional Arab garb: the shemagh head scarf held in place by the doubled cord agal, and a light colored outer cloak covering the dark colored dishdasha, wool cloak, underneath.

"Carrying anything," asked the bodyguard in English with a heavy Arab accent.

"Yes, I do." Allen motioned to the holster riding under his left arm.

"Please, raise your arms."

Allen raised his arms overhead, and the guard found and un-holstered the nine-millimeter, and set it on a night stand in a corner of the room. The Arab continued to pat down Allen.

"Anything else?"

Allen shook his head, no.

"You will get that on the way out." He made a gesture in the direction of the hand weapon.

Allen nodded in understanding.

The guard pointed for him to enter the elevator. Allen stepped in by himself and the doors closed. The elevator went straight from the underground garage to the forty-seventh floor. When it opened, two strapping guards in typical Arab garb were waiting for him. The shorter of the two leaned forward and motioned for him to enter the open office entrance near the elevator.

Allen entered a spacious office with a view of downtown Dubai and the Persian Gulf. Rising from behind a desk as Allen entered, an Arab male cordially greeted him in impeccable English, "Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. I am called 'the Lebanese' in formal circles. You may call me Abraham Bateh." The Arab businessperson stepped forward and shook Allen's hand. The officer heard the guard close the door behind him.

Abraham Bateh wore a stylish navy European suit with flare-notched lapels.

Allen (Mr. Brown) nodded in agreement. The Lebanese released his grip, stepping back and motioned for Allen to take a seat in one of two leather chairs facing the desk. The businessman took his original seat, an understated leather chair that matched a drab decor. The glare of a late afternoon sun was coming in the panoramic window, diffusing his features.

"Would you like something to drink, or eat?"

"Coffee would be fine."

"Any cream, or sugar?"

"Just sugar."

The man picked up his desk phone, "I need two coffees: one with sugar, the other with cream and sugar."

Allen looked about the room; there were framed photos of historic sites from across the world. The Pyramids, Jerusalem, the Coliseum, the Eiffel Tower and several the officer could not place. Allen wondered if the various cultures represented were an oversight, or a sign the man sitting in front of him was more open-minded than most Arabs.

As was the custom in the region, Allen waited for his host to begin the conversation.

"I understand, Mr. Brown, you wanted to see me?" Allen sat back in his chair and studied the Arab for a moment. When the officer had heard of the Lebanese for the first time, his informant had mentioned a man with a nasty scar running down the right side of his face. Because of it, his enemies often called him "ندبة الوجه," (Scarface).

If he wasn't mistaken, the man before him had no such scar. The last thing he needed was to be involved in a sting operation. Allen responded, "Yes, but before I go into that, I've noticed the framed photos. I recognize all, but one of them." Allen nodded his head in the direction of a framed photo of Petra to the potential impostor.

The Arab took the bait and looked in the direction of the photo, giving Allen a chance to confirm 'the Lebanese' was who he said he was.

"That is Petra, in Jordan." The man looked back and caught Allen studying his facial features as if looking for something. He smiled and kept on, "A scar, you're looking for my old scar Mr. Brown. That was taken care of with plastic surgery. One cannot be too cautious in my line of work, a distinguishing feature like that made it too easy for me to be recognized.

"I know you've got a glare in your eyes, but you should still be able to make out the scar tissue." The man turned his head and leaned toward Allen.

The man was right: being marked with some noticeable facial feature would be dangerous. Allen could barely see a scar. The plastic surgeon had done a masterful job.

Allen responded as the Arab sat back in his chair, "I apologize for being so cautious. It is as you say, a dangerous line of work we are both in. I represent someone who wants a large number of unusual weapons."

There was a light knock at a side door.

"Come in," replied the black-arms merchant.

An attractive Arab woman with long, dark hair and brilliant, brown eyes came in carrying a silver tray with two steaming demitasses of strong smelling coffee.

"I hope you like Arabic coffee?" warned the Arab with a slight smile.

After handing a miniature cup to Allen and then her boss, the Arab woman asked, "Will there be anything else?"

"No, you may go."

She stepped out of the room and closed the door.

"So, Mr. Brown, what do you require of me?"

"I understand the Iranians have something I need. What the West calls a weapon of mass destruction..."

Americans Forgetting McKinley's Fault

American News

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Americans are suffering from a case of amnesia forgetting that the economic recession was inherited from former President William W. McKinley. President Nathan Martinez has stated on many occasions he was not aware of how messed up the economy was until he actually got to the Oval Office, and by then it was too late. Martinez's earlier promise that under his administration the country would recover, with what is now known, would have been an impossibility no matter what he did, or said.

Unemployment Reaches 10.2%

Page 32, American News

WASHINGTON, D.C.—According to a latest job report from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the unemployment rate broke 10 percent (10.2%) for the first time since the recession began under former President William McKinley.

President Raises Public Debt Limit

Magnason Enterprise News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Democrat President, Nathan Martinez signed into law today a bill that raises the public debt limit from $15.394 to $17.294 trillion. The current national debt is $15.3 trillion, roughly $65,000 per citizen, $155,000 per taxpayer. The President also plans to introduce new tax policies to help pay for the increases saying, "Taxing the rich has now become a fiscal necessity."

A janitor pushed a cart down a hallway at a slow pace that appeared to be from a lack of enthusiasm for the job. He was wearing faded green coveralls with a security badge clipped to a flap of the breast pocket. His dark hair was peppered with gray. Over the past two weeks he swept, scrubbed, and mopped virtually every room and hallway of the executive floors of WNN television studios. He was respectful, upbeat and generally well-liked by the staff.

The name on the security badge read John Myers (Hunter Jefferies). Hunter completed the surveillance work of the three publishing headquarters and a plan was laid out for each. He would now move on to helping two other officers with a last and most difficult target, the massive World News Network building.

Hunter's posture was hunched and submissive, but beneath the maintenance man's black and gray eyebrows the eyes were alert, scanning the hall ahead. Up ahead, a door on the right opened and a man and woman stepped into the hallway. Hunter recognized the woman instantly. The woman was one of the late-night news anchors he had seen on a WNN channel in Iraq. Her name escaped him. No matter. The man on her right was of no interest.

46 Million On Food Stamps

Page 4, World News Network

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The number of Americans on food stamps hit a record high in June, and economists don't expect much improvement as long as unemployment remains above 10%.

Those receiving benefits through the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program numbered 46.37 million, a government official said in a report released just days following the National Bureau of Economic Research announced the crippling recession has ended.

A businessman walked into the spacious lobby entrance of World News Network headquarters with his cordovan briefcase and coffee in hand.

The man was wearing a business suit that was far less comfortable than his loosely fitting combat fatigues, his neck chaffing under a starched shirt collar. Sean passed through a security checkpoint with its metal detector and sidearm carrying guards after being scanned and presenting his tenant ID.

Sean made his way up one of a slough of elevators up to the GEF office on the fifty-second floor. The officer spent the morning looking over the building floor schematics Sean had pieced together when the phone rang. The officer answered, "Green Earth Foundation."

"This is the receiving dock. You've gotten a furniture order here from, hold on a minute."

A receiving clerk could be heard talking in a muffled way after having cupped the receiver with his hand, "Who did you say you were with?"

Marcus' muffled voice could be heard answering the clerk, "One-Stop Furniture Rentals."

The clerk's voice came back on the line, "The delivery is from One-Stop Furniture."

Marcus' voice could again be heard in the background. "The customer paid for delivery and setup."

The clerk uncapped the receiver, "Is it okay if I send them right up?"

Ten minutes later, Sean heard a knock on the office door. He responded, "Come on in."

Marcus stuck his head in, "One-Stop delivery. I have two pieces of furniture for you. Where would you like them, sir?"

Sean smiled and replied, "In the back will be fine."

They looked the part, in their faux company uniforms, but Hunter and Elijah were having a difficult time manhandling the heavy set of metal filing cabinets through the doorway.

"Do you guys need a hand?" Sean asked with a smirk.

One more knock came at the door and a facilities employee entered. "Facilities department. I have a delivery for GEF. Where would you like the packages?"

One box contained a lightweight slow-turn electric drill with industrial stand designed to bore into solid bedrock. Miners used it to place small-diameter, dynamite charges into tunnel walls.

One more container held an ultrasound device that would determine the location of the steel rods that permeated the concrete foundation of the skyscraper. It would take hours and several drill bits to penetrate a solid two-foot wall beyond which, schematics showed a primary air duct ran the height of the building.

This was the same routine Sean had gone through for the past several months. The same operations, some quick, others laborious. A primary tunnel that carried an HVAC (heating and air conditioning) duct had shown a secondary wall had to be penetrated to get access to the floors below. The small square office had scarcely been large enough to accommodate the furnishings, desks and chairs. It had all the appearance of being a disaster.

Sean removed a plain metal container from one of the boxes. Opening it, the officer found an arming mechanism and notebook with pass codes. Sean thumbed through several pages of the building's blueprints looking for the floors where the EMP device would need to be placed to have maximum effect.

\----------

It was 10:10 P.M. when the young security guard from New Jersey saw a man approach the glass lobby entrance. This was followed by a metallic clicking noise as a locking mechanism on the front door released. Footsteps could be heard as a disheveled-looking businessperson approached the desk with a smell of liquor about him.

The design of the building was intended to soften a boundary between the interior of the World Tribune headquarters and a busy life outside. As a result, the majestic lobby was encased entirely in transparent glass.

The man approached the security desk, passing rows of elevator banks, briefcase in hand. The security guard asked, "Can I help you?"

"Tim Jenner (Marcus), reporter."

"Do you have any identification sir?"

Marcus' right hand slowly moved to his coat pocket. His fingers came back with a small key badge, with the company name, World Tribune, identification number and his picture. Marcus then placed the plastic encased badge on the security guard's desk so he could verify Marcus' credentials.

"Thank you sir, you're good to go." The security guard keyed in Mr. Jenner's time of arrival after moving through a series of terminal menus.

"Is the cafeteria still open?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"Excellent. Good night young man."

Marcus strode to a bank of elevators. The officer looked to his right, at the fairytale atrium garden with tropical trees, flowers and running waterfall entered the elevator and pressed a button labeled "C" for the cafeteria. Once it began its upward ascent, his wobbling motion became less pronounced. By the time he reached the 14th-floor he was in perfect step and no longer appeared to be under the influence of alcohol.

Marcus' eyes were met with dazzling views of the entire city in all four compass bearings. The cafeteria's two-story height added to an impression of gross overindulgence. He walked to one of the vending machines, plugged a dollar's worth of change in and selected coffee, black. Coffee in hand, Marcus walked over to one of the locked doorways the news people used and pulled his magnetic striped identification card out of his pocket. The officer ran it over a reader, heard a metallic click as the door unlocked and opened it.

Internal staircases linked the various newsroom floors and he casually walked down to the tenth floor. The work cubicles were flanked by rows of glass-enclosed offices, many of which would remain unassigned so they could be used for private phone conversations and frequent, spontaneous meetings for the news people. Informal groupings of tables and chairs were scattered about the floor, creating a variety of social spaces.

A double-height skylight opened up overhead. The view outside was totally different from the scene four floors above. All he could see was the surrounding buildings. This was the news company's nerve center. Of the many desks, only a dozen, or so were occupied by staffers, or the late-shift reporters.

Marcus pulled a portion of a building schematic from his inside coat pocket to get his bearings. There was an access panel just on the other side of a service doorway in the center of the floor. An electrical main and equipment sat behind the locked door.

Marcus would infiltrate targeted high-rise buildings using a variety of subterfuge. Posing as a security guard, the officer was successful some months earlier in obtaining photos of the layout of various buildings and the central air systems.

The officer narrowed down the location where the ventilation system was most accessible. He was there to confirm for the team his plan for a final deployment of a primary and secondary EMP devices.

\----------

A lanky male wore thick-rimmed glasses. His name badge read Stephen Ainsworth, and he looked the part of a security guard in this, his first assignment into American News' principle printing facilities. It was here that nearly ten million papers ran off the German-engineered presses each night. It was one of half a dozen new factories that operated day and night, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

It was early morning and the officer would have access to nearly every part of a building his team would later use for their work. A miniature video camera in his glasses and an ear microphone allowed the officers in a parked van outside the facility to monitor, direct and record his movements inside the factory.

Hunter often accessed the primary targets, disguised as a card-carrying security guard. Using blueprints he would use this means of entry to identify the best locations for EMP weapon deployment. He would ultimately be responsible for installing the suitcase-sized devices and arming them to go off on the same date, at the same time: during primetime network news television coverage.

In the news company complexes Hunter entered to date he found the security good, quick, and reasonably up-to-date for a commercial enterprise, but nothing up to the standards needed to prevent his team from accomplishing its mission.

Months later, one would find Hunter, now disguised as a maintenance man, making his way through the facilities. The officer wore the same eyewear and curious hearing aid and was most often seen pushing a tool dolly. This day, inside a hidden compartment was a late-model, Russian KM2. The Russians latest developments in EMP bomb technology would take out all the electrical circuitry inside a city block radius. One was more than enough to fry the electrical circuitry for any of the newsprint operations.

Over the past months, officers had shown up around the nation as business people, casually dressed members of public tours, as UPS delivery people, as air conditioning technicians, as elevator inspectors, more than a dozen different kinds of roles to fulfill their mission. The deployment process for one half of the attack was just about complete.
CHATTER

LANGLEY, VA - Intelligence Analyst Harun al-Rashid's job was to listen into phone intercepts coming from the Middle East that were suspected of having terrorist origins. Al-Rashid represented the first line of defense against terrorist attacks, at home and abroad. A first generation American, al-Rashid's parents immigrated to the United States from Palestine before his birth.

An analysis of millions of phone calls coming into and out of known hotspots for terrorism was tackled by a backend supercomputer called B.E.T.T.Y. It was powerful enough to translate and then analyze phone conversations for key words and phrases. It would then provide people like al-Rashid with a prioritized list of suspected phone conversations. The weight given keywords like "uranium," or "C-4" moved them to the top of a list compared with words like "weapon," or "rifle."

Electronic surveillance was monotonous work, but occasionally had its rewards. This year alone, al-Rashid discovered communications that led to the ruin of Hamas-backed attempts to destroy several American embassies abroad. The terrorists were tracked down and wiped out before they had time to implement their plans. Each day he would hear hundreds of possible terrorist conversations. His job was to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Activity picked up in the past several of years, just after President McKinley left office. It was mid-afternoon and he was working through a backlog of phone intercepts when his eyes caught a term usually used by intelligence services from around the world, by both good and bad guys.

"Trojan," or "Trojan Horse," was a moniker used by covert operators to describe any of a number of weapons that could be easily disguised. They were terms that were almost exclusively used to reference weapons with mass-destructive capabilities, WMD's.

Al-Rashid listened to a portion of a recorded conversation where "Trojan" was used to verify his suspicions. The specialist heard the voice of a man. The voice of the man was speaking in Arabic, but the dialect was not familiar.

Could be Yemeni, or Kurd.

Al-Rashid listened to a phrase in which the word of most interest was mentioned.

"In need of Trojans that can fly."

The word "fly" meant an airborne attack, a dirty bomb, or chemical weapon. It was very unusual for a would-be terrorist to ever use those words unless he was in special forces.

It must be a 'third world' variety.

No special forces members in any superpower's military would ever enunciate those words in the clear like that. They were only ever thought to come up in face-to-face conversations, so the terms represented a big 'red flag.' Something, however, did not make sense. The CIA agent backed up the recording to the beginning.

Arab speaking man: "How did you get this number?"

Altered voice: "That is not important. I have a buyer in need of Trojans that can fly. They will pay in gold."

There was a long pause.

Arab speaking man: "Let me have a number where I can reach you."

Disguised voice: "I am sorry, but I can't do that. I will call you back at this number."

Arab speaking man: "Four o'clock. This is going to be very expensive."

Camouflaged voice: "Four o'clock."

Al-Rashid took a look at the locations of the two calls. The disguised man's call originated in United Arab Emirates from a pay phone in the heart of Dubai. The call went to the Iranian Embassy in Syria.

The man who answered the phone call knew what "Trojan" and "fly" meant. The person at the Embassy had to be part of Iranian Special Forces, Quds Force.

Al-Rashid took a quick look at the Iranians who were identified in that Embassy. Two possibilities surfaced, both showed as being former Quds Force agents. It was one of them, Mustafa Wahbi, or Tariq bin Ziyad.

The CIA analyst looked at the time and date stamp.

Two days ago, damn backlog!

The level of chatter had prevented the specialist from catching this in time...to tap calls going into the embassy.

Al-Rashid wasn't sure, but he believed he just missed a big opportunity. He picked up his phone and dialed his boss's extension. "I think I've got something."

\----------

YEMEN - 'Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula' (AQAP) was headquartered in the coastal town of Al-Ghaida where it directed the activities of terrorist cells abroad, including the United States. Its ties to the Quds Force made it a logical choice as a partner in Allen's plans.

Allen used a contact provided by 'the Lebanese' to make the arrangements. His name was Zafar Mahmood.

Posing as an envoy of an anonymous Saudi Prince, Mahmood set about making the appropriate overtures while Allen operated in the background. The story was, the Saudi Prince acquired a stash of chemical weapons from the Iranian arsenal and wanted to use them to strike a blow against the "Great Satan."

Following a month of negotiation, Mahmood succeeded in winning the Al-Qaeda leadership's confidence. They would carry out the attacks on targets inside the United States. They would send in a team that included former Americans to carry out the attacks. They would enter the United States through Mexico. The Prince would take care of smuggling the weapons into America. The two would come together in the suburbs of New York City. Allen knew the CIA was listening.

Today, the embargoed country of Iran found itself cash-strapped as it pursued its nuclear weapons development program. When heads of state for the former USSR no longer considered N-5 a useful deterrent, the Iranian regime procured the stockpile and were planning to use it to retaliate against Iraq. Now those deadly devices sat collecting dust, of little use, so the offer made by the black market weapons dealer was readily agreed to.

Each device was a three-cylinder design. The diameter of each cylinder was two and a half inches. The length sixteen inches. The titanium cylinders were welded to each other in a triangular arrangement. A band of thin sheet metal surrounded them, disguising their appearance and providing some measure of protection from puncture.

The three titanium cylinders were painted colors, two in red, one in white. The two inert agents were stored in the red colored cylinders. The white cylinder provided the air pressure to mix the two contents of the two red cylinders together to combine the lethal mixture. A timer triggering mechanism would start the chain reaction.

By design, the white cylinder could not be pressurized until the proper pass code was entered into a recessed push-button readout. Once that was carried out, an ordinary gas station air pump for filling a car tire could be used to charge the weapon. The secondary failsafe mechanism was a subsequent passcode the weapon required to initiate the timer. Without both unique codes, the weapon would remain inert, an un-fused bomb with nothing to start the chain reaction.

Allen confirmed through Mahmood the N-5 shipment made it out of the Port of Dubai arriving two months later in the Philippines after purposefully moving through half a dozen ports and shipping companies to lose any shadowing by intelligence services. There the containers were met by Karl Hagman.

The sixteen devices were then disguised to look like a red Class-B fire extinguisher and included in a shipment of several hundred that made its way to the port of Vancouver.

Three months after leaving Iran, the deadly contraband entered the North American continent and arrived on the loading dock of a fire equipment wholesaler in the Midwest, the "Made in Philippines" label emblazoned on the side of each fire extinguisher.

Internal Memo: Central Intelligence Agency

Recent chatter within some of the secondary channels between the Iranian government and Al-Qaeda operating out of Yemen have come to the Agency's attention.

The increased communications coincide with a large gold bullion deposit into Swiss bank accounts controlled by the Iranian government. National Security Advisory has increased to threat level "Orange."

\----------

AL-GHAIDA, YEMEN - The black market for weapons was an area constantly under surveillance by every intelligence service in the world, American, Israeli, Chinese, Russian. Those in the trade, the black marketers, however, had become adept at leaving little if anything of a trail that could be later followed. That was at least true when it came to conventional weapons. When it came to WMDs, it was a different story. Governments were willing to pay extraordinary amounts to discover who was about to do what to who and with what.

The Yemeni Army raid on the suspected Al-Qaeda operations center was such an action. CIA interrogations of those captured alive alerted them to the possibility that chemical weapons may have moved through Yemeni ports to destinations abroad. The forensic group had to put together a few of the pieces from the shattered remains of the terrorist compound. The CIA called for the use of the special forces unit, SAD, to carry out the operation, but President Martinez saw fit to shut down the group as part of his administration's war crimes investigation. The Yemen military used little care when taking the compound; the use of tank guns and RPG's left much of the computer hardware in too many pieces to put together.

The raid, however, led to some important discoveries and the CIA was now pursuing those leads with the help of Interpol and Israeli Intelligence. All indications were that something was planned for the United States.
UNTHINKABLE OCCURS

MANHATTAN, NY - The lone figure stood in one of today's many empty, downtown, New York offices quietly watching the lobby entrance of World News Network headquarters through a set of field glasses. From the twenty-fifth floor of an adjacent high-rise, he was hidden from view by the one-way, mirrored, glass-skin of the building; he would go unobserved from offices in the neighboring buildings.

Derrick was dressed in business attire to blend in with his surroundings, a charcoal-gray suit, a paisley patterned tie and wingtip oxford shoes.

The long shadows cast by the buildings, by the setting sun, were beginning to give way to the approaching darkness. His cellphone, lying next to him on the desk, began to dance across the dusty surface with an incoming call, he picked it up and took a brief look at the incoming number and answered in Arabic.

"ما هو وضعك؟"

("What is your status?")

An electronically altered voice responded.

"كل شيء أخضر للذهاب في واشنطن."

("Everything is green to go in Washington.")

There was a brief period of silence followed by two audible beeps indicating the caller had disconnected the connection.

One of the rewards in this line of work was seeing justice meted out to bad guys, especially those bad guys who thought themselves untouchable. Today, the once untouchable media would find out what that kind of justice looked like. Today, the power of the radicals running the Democrat Party might fall.

Derrick placed the phone back near the original dust-free spot and looked at his watch, 6:25 P.M.

This would be part one of a two-pronged attack. The damning audio clips, the President, his administration colluding with the news industry, they would also hit the internet today. Today, American politics would change forever; the media had in point of fact screwed with the wrong guys.

Derrick picked up the vibrating phone, and seeing the call was from a familiar phone number, accepted it.

An altered man's voice spoke. "The courier is now in sight, northwest side of the pedestrian crossing. Intersection of Eighth and Forty-first...dark hair...black dress...red scarf."

Derrick looked at his wristwatch, 6:30 P.M. He looked through his binoculars in the direction of the intersection, keeping the phone to his ear. The director looked along Eighth Avenue to the intersection of Forty-first Street; there was now a group of people on the northwest corner waiting to cross. Derrick spotted her, the Middle Eastern woman wearing a full-length, dark-colored dress with a red scarf. The woman was a terrorist, recruited by Al-Qaeda for a suicide mission.

"Do you see her?"

"Yes, waiting to cross to the east side of Eighth Avenue, black purse."

"That's her."

The crosswalk signal changed and the female terrorist began making her way across the street...she was across the street and walking toward the entrance of the World News Network building. Derrick saw her look at her watch.

"6:32 P.M.," came the altered voice over the connection.

Derrick noticed the Arab woman was beginning to show some signs of nervousness, stepping aside to pause for a moment...she looked both up and down the sidewalk.

"She's looking to see if she's being followed...or to time things just right," assured the disguised voice.

"It is 6:33 P.M."

\----------

The 911 Dispatch Center's switchboards lit up like a Christmas tree. Alice Beale picked up the call routed to her station. "911, what is your emergency?"

A distressed male voice came over the line. "Send help! We're under attack...everyone is..." She could hear the sound of a man choking.

"Excuse me, sir? Did you say..."

There were now audible background noises, the building's fire alarm, people yelling, the sound of hacking coughs.

This brought back bad memories. The 911 operator had been on duty September 11, 2001.

"This is James." An uncontrolled cough interrupted the man in mid-sentence. "This is James Pinsky, I'm at..." Manic coughing was followed by the sound of the receiver hitting a hard surface. All Alice now heard was the sound of a fire alarm going off in the background.

Operators throughout the call center looked over their partitions to see if anyone else had received a similar call. Alice looked at her terminal for the location of the call: World News Network, downtown Manhattan.

\----------

LOS ANGELES, CA - President Martinez was in the middle of practicing his speech in an empty auditorium when he was all of a sudden surrounded by a defensive perimeter of security agents with pistols drawn. His first reaction was one of personal fear. He could be seen by those around him to be trembling uncontrollably.

The Chief of Staff, Nelson Frank raced over to the President. "Mr. President, please come with me."

The President, still shaking, exited the auditorium under close guard to a waiting motorcade at the civic center rear entrance.

"Mr. President, we have been attacked."

"WHAT?"

"We don't know to what extent, only that several cities have been attacked. There may have been chemical, or nerve agents involved and some sort of electromagnetic pulse device."

"Are we safe?" murmured the President, looking especially pale.

"Yes, sir, I am convinced that you are safe."

Nelson couldn't help but think to himself how cowardly the President's display was.

"How do you know that Nelson?"

"Well, for one, if you were at risk, an attack would have already happened. Clearly the attacks were timed to occur at the same moment. No word has come through of any further assaults."

The President looked troubled.

"This limousine has been designed to withstand chemical attacks: it's airtight. The air you and I are breathing is recirculating inside the cabin. The charcoal filtering system would allow us to drive across the country without ever opening the door. That, of course, won't be necessary. We're on our way to Air Force One right now."

The President appeared to calm down a bit. Some color started to return to his face.

"Your wife and son have departed Washington and are safe and on their way to NORAD as are members of your cabinet and the party leadership. They will rendezvous with you at our next destination."

One of the two security agents in the front seat touched the contact for the communications earpiece. After a few moments of listening to the incoming call, he turned his head and at the same time lowered the bulletproof glass that separated the car's driver from the passenger compartment.

"Mr. President, the Vice President is on the line for you."

Martinez instinctively thought, The back stabber, she's calling to see if I'm alive. Against his wishes, the Blue-State Senator was put on the ticket to keep her from exposing Martinez.

"That woman would just love to hear I had been knocked off. Tell her I'll call her if I need her."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Martinez turned his head toward the Chief of Staff as the agent raised the sound proof glass back into position. He began to settle down a bit and thought of the political ramifications of the event.

Back on September 11, 2001, most Democrat politicians' thoughts were not of the tragedy itself, nor the loss of life. No, most had something else cross their minds. Who was the attack going to help, politically? As it turned out, it was the moderate do-gooder in the White House who came out ahead. Today, however, it had happened on their watch. It was now their turn!

"What do you think this attack means to my presidency?"

Inwardly, Nelson smiled, "Mr. President, I imagine it means another four years."

Forgetting his earlier fear, Martinez nodded his acceptance as he switched his gaze out the window at the passing Latino ghetto. The thought of one more four-year term was elating. His policies would be given the time they needed to be fully implemented. His dream of changing America would be fully realized.

Throughout America's history, when the nation came under attack, the nation rallied behind the sitting President, no matter how bad their term. Martinez's party had seen the same thing happen to the former President. FDR and his administration had been saved only by WWII. Some in his party had even been caught bemoaning that they had wished the 9-11 attack happened on their watch.

From the vantage point of Martinez and the Chief of Staff, the timing couldn't have been any better. Today's attack was sure to increase the President's popularity and give him the edge he so desperately needed to win the presidential election, in just two months. All the malaise he and his policies created would be forgotten, forgiven. Yes, he would win reelection and be able to implement the final part of his plan.

The discussion kept on between the President and his Chief of Staff as they made their way to the Los Angeles International Airport and Air Force One.

"Who do you think is responsible for this?"

"Mr. President, I can only speculate, but I am convinced it could be either foreign, or homegrown terrorists."

"You mean the Tea Party, don't you?"

Nelson looked to make sure the soundproof barrier was back in place.

Nelson's mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. "Why not? We've been looking for a way of dealing with that group. I imagine someone in that movement could be implicated, which will have the same effect as if all of them were complicit."

"What if they're discovered to be foreign terrorists?"

"It won't hurt us a thing to try, Mr. President."

\----------

The Muslim terrorist's cellphone began to vibrate in his pants pocket. Taking it out quickly, he looked at the number of the originating call before accepting it. A frantic voice came over the connection in Arabic, "وقد تعرضت لما يثير الشبهة، وضعك ("Your position has been compromised!") أكرر، الموقف الخاص بك قد تعرضت لما يثير الشبهة،("Repeat, position has been compromised!")

Reaching into a sliding drawer of an old office desk he grabbed a nine-millimeter pistol and chambered a round. He looked at the video feed from one of the roof-mounted surveillance cameras, which should have given him a clear view of the building main entrance. The display now showed nothing except static, an FBI sniper's bullet had taken it out. The terrorist looked at a second display and saw it all of a sudden go blank as well.

The terrorist turned out the overhead light and took a quick look from the third story window. Black-clad men were closing in on the main entrance.

Anwar al-Awalki had taken extra special precautions to prevent his mission from being discovered. Everything was passed by word of mouth. No use of the internet. How had the FBI uncovered the hiding spot? It had to be someone on the inside.

Al-Awalki looked about the room. There was nothing he could do about the Egyptian (spotter), he was as good as captured, but that did not matter. The teacher was purposely left in the dark and knew little to nothing about the operation.

The terrorist was running out of time. He motioned to his two fellow freedom fighters to pick up the two fire extinguishers as Anwar opened a drawer to a desk and grabbed a palm-sized remote control trigger.

One of the terrorists pushed aside a filing cabinet to reveal the hole they excavated through the wall for just such an emergency. The three men quickly crawled through and made their way to a stairwell in the center of the building. Anwar heard an explosion as the front door was ripped from the building foundation. The FBI, or SWAT Team were getting close. Moments later the three men were in the basement and running to a large, heavy, wood shipping crate in the corner of the large, empty room.

"ساعدني هذا دفع للخروج من الطري

("Help push this out of the way!")

The large crate covered one more hole they excavated through the concrete foundation, a meter of dirt and rock and one more layer of concrete, emptying into the New York City sewer system. One of the two men carrying the fire extinguishers carefully dropped through the hole after setting them aside.

Following, the man above dropped the two red cylinders down to the man below; he briefly looked back at al-Awalki, who motioned for him to get out with a quick nod of his head. The man jumped through the hole and landed heavily.

Al-Awalki heard the sound of boots, dozens of them running in their direction. He threw the switch for the hidden explosives to "On" with his thumb. A lighted button turned on, first red then green, to show that it was coupled with the arming trigger.

Anwar shouted, "وأنا الآن تفجير المتفجرة" ("I am now detonating the explosives!"). He pressed the green button as he jumped through the hole.

There was a deafening explosion. The terrorist leader felt the shock wave of the blast as he fell through the air. He also landed hard. Everything about him shook. Anwar jumped from under the hole to avoid falling debris at the last moment. The terrorist discovered he had lost his hearing. Anwar gazed up, saw his two compatriots pause to see if he needed help. He motioned for them to keep going. The terrorist leader followed the other two men down the sewage way with a slightly slower gait.

The charges he installed throughout the building would take care of most of the pursuers. It would also be hours, if not days, before they discovered that he and his fellow terrorists safely escaped. The only evidence Anwar was forced to leave behind was that Egyptian, but he would not present problems. He was kept so far in the dark, he had not even known of the escape route.

Al-Awalki smiled, "يتمتع غوانتانامو." (Enjoy Guantanamo!)

\----------

Dr. Victor Magnason was sitting in a chair in an undisclosed, island location looking out on the Pacific, contemplating what he knew was happening back in the States. Suddenly, he began coughing uncontrollably. Soon he wasn't able to catch his breath! Stress was a trigger for these episodic attacks. As his coughing became more savage, his physician, Dr. Earl Whaley came running into the room followed by George, his butler.

"Hold him steady!"

The doctor pulled a syringe from his black leather bag as George tried to prevent Victor from moving about, grabbing him in a bear hug from behind.

Victor could no longer bring enough air into his lungs to fully cough, and he was starting to turn blue.

"Just one-second, Dr. Magnason! This will take care of you. Hold on!"

A minute later, the injection began to work. Two minutes later, his coughing had eased. Five minutes later, Victor's breathing had returned to a normal rhythm. The doctor knew things were getting worse, Victor's condition was rapidly deteriorating.
THE HOURS FOLLOWING

NORAD, COLORADO - Marine One descended from clear Colorado skies. Brisk, windy conditions made the landing a little touchy, but finally the wheels touched down on the small fence enclosed helicopter pad. The secret service was out in full force, standing at a distance.

The rotor blades gradually dropped in speed at long last coming to a complete stop. The hatch door opened, the President appeared descending the steps, half saluting the Marine guard, taking a few more steps before pausing to light up a cigarette.

One of the plain clothes agents approached the President directly as the remaining agents moved to encircle the President like some kind of human shield.

"This way, Mr. President."

By this time Nelson Frank and Senator Jim Rooney had also stepped down from the helicopter and began following Martinez's lanky, long strides. No one said a thing. Everyone within his administration had just one thing on their mind and they weren't going to talk about it in public. NORAD had been chosen as Martinez's temporary safe house in as much for its proximity to Los Angeles and the security the underground facility offered from chemical and nuclear attack.

Minutes later the President and members of his administration sat in leather chairs lining both sides of a rectangular wood table. A small, black speaker-box sat in the middle, a flat-screen display hung on the wall at the far end opposite the President. The single ashtray, empty thirty minutes earlier, now had several butts, one still smoldering. This was not the normal photo-op; writing pads, pens and laptops lay strewn in front of each participant. Some chatted amongst themselves, while others were busy doodling with some portable, electronic device. Martinez busied himself by lighting up one more cigarette, then, with nose raised high like some Greek God, blew smoke rings at the overhanging, light fixture. There was a knock at the doorway and a NSA (National Security Administration) official entered the room and was immediately acknowledged by the Chief of Staff.

"What word do you have for the President?"

"Mr. President, it now appears the attacks were carried out using some kind of chemical agent. We also believe electromagnetic pulse bombs might have also been used due to the complete blackout that occurred at the target sites."

"What were the targets?"

The President and his people had expectant, glowing faces like children on a Christmas morning getting ready to open up their presents. Everyone was expecting to hear the targets had been population centers, or the major financial districts like Wall Street, or Chicago Commodities Exchange. Martinez, Nelson, Rooney, and everyone sitting at the table waited with bated breath.

"Mr. President, it now appears several major news companies were the targets of the attack."

"What!"

No one could believe what they just heard.

"Mr. President, right now, it appears that news companies were the focus of the attacks."

The NSA Official could not help but notice the sudden change in atmosphere; the expressions of his audience instantly changed from eager, almost glowing faces to expressions etched with shock and dismay.

Martinez, still not believing his ears sprang upwards in his chair.

"The attacks were against news companies? Nothing else?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

You could hear a pin drop.

"Mr. President, the military has been put on highest alert, the Air Force is providing cover over the largest metropolitan areas and all public and private air traffic has been grounded. The FBI, the NSA and Department of Defense are all mobilized."

"What is the state of the news networks, are they still broadcasting?"

"No sir, the major networks are no longer broadcasting."

"No longer broadcasting?" growled the Chief of Staff with a gaze of disbelief. "Which ones?"

"None of them, sir. The news networks are not transmitting."

\----------

MANHATTAN, NY - The agent glanced at his watch and then eyed the surveillance monitor to see the prisoner sleeping. The Middle Eastern male was picked up during a raid of a terrorist safe house that had gone up in a horrific explosion. This guy was seen safeguarding the premises. Unfortunately, he was able to alert the other terrorists before he could be apprehended.

The tip off had come from an anonymous source. The call into the New York branch was traced to a pay phone from one of the Washington, D.C. neighborhoods. Investigators found no one willing to help identify who the anonymous caller might have been until they started throwing cash around. That was when the FBI discovered a black sedan was seen in the area, with two white male occupants. The identification of the do-gooders remained a mystery.

The prisoner's driver's license stated he was a Mr. Abu Mohammed, but it was a forgery. Running his photo through CIA matching software provided a single hit: Siratum Ferdaus. The photo ID showed a man suspected of being a low-level lieutenant in 'Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula'...this was all the administration would need.

\----------

"My fellow Americans. The nation was attacked by terrorists claiming to have ties to our mortal enemies, Al-Qaeda. I would like to assure you that I am doing everything in my power to protect you, the citizens of the United States. I will get this nation through this attack in the same way Franklin Delano Roosevelt got the country through the crisis of World War II, when our great nation was also attacked by those hostile to us.

"Tonight I have issued an Executive Order putting our nation on a war footing. I am also declaring with the evidence I have in hand that a "State of War" now exists between the United States and three countries in the Middle East. Iran, Syria and Uzbekistan have all played a part in the attack against our great country and they will be made to pay.

"I have been advised that under conditions of war the President possesses greater powers to act on behalf of the people. As such, I am hereby taking those steps I deem necessary for the welfare of the nation. The necessity of Congressional approval on my decisions is hereby overridden to keep Americans safe. My first act is to postpone the November election until the country's safety can be assured. The Attorney General has been consulted as have the fourth Judicial Circuit. Each has concurred the President under conditions of war is within his legal rights to initiate such an injunction.

"My dear Americans, things will change for all of us. War forces its citizens to change..."

The President's speech went on for nearly an hour. The shock of his actions would have immediate repercussions, and what remained of the press attempted to make up for the void of the major media figures that were no longer in the picture.

The news anchor, Terry Henderson, reported on National Government Radio, "President Nathan Martinez, the forty-eighth person to hold the office has declared the nation to be in a State of War. We've just gotten the results from our 'spot poll' of a selected group of Americans who watched the President's speech. Here to explain the results of the poll is our analyst, Tosh Zanga. Tosh, what did your poll uncover?"

"Terry, the poll showed conclusively Americans support the idea of the President delaying the November elections, at least until the issue of this war is settled."

"Fifty-two percent of those polled supported the President's actions, forty-eight percent were in opposition. The error was plus, or minus five percent."

The analyst and news-anchor spent the next fifteen minutes discussing the theories behind the survey and what they meant before the public news channel went to a break.

Off the air, the news-anchor was incredulous at the polling results. The numbers just didn't add up what with all the negative polling for the President.

Henderson, a new hire just out of journalism school and wet behind the ears, asked, "Tosh, how in the world did you get a favorable poll for what amounts to a seizing of power?"

"Simple. My boss jacked up the size of the minority respondents of the sample."

"Is that ethical?"

"No, of course not, but we are here to support the President."
THE DAYS FOLLOWING

WASHINGTON, D.C. - FBI Director, Mark Fecthel began his opening testimony behind the closed doors of the investigative committee, peering first at his notes and then reading his prepared statement.

"Members of Congress, for the past three weeks, the FBI has been investigating the attacks that occurred on the news industry. In the process my organization has identified a number of terrorist organizations who could have had some involvement, specifically one splinter group of Al-Qaeda known as AQAP, which is claiming responsibility for the attacks. AQAP operates out of Yemen and are known to have close ties with both the local government and Iran."

"Our experts, however, do not believe the recent chemical attacks could not have been carried out by Al-Qaeda alone; the logistics involved would be just too difficult."

"The casualties suffered by the news industry were significant; the headquarters and manufacturing facilities of World News Network, American News and World Tribune have been discovered to be the targets of the attacks. The attacks occurred principally in the northeast along the Atlantic Seaboard where you find the greatest concentration of operations for the largest news networks. These were targets that never expected to become victims of chemical attacks, and as a result, their security measures and hardening of facilities were never carried out. The news operations and facilities and the contents are believed to be total write offs."

"I have been told to withhold data on the number of casualties by the President. My organization is in the process of identifying men and women who have been through formal military training on chemical weapons. We are also pursuing eyewitness reports of Middle Eastern men and women who were seen near the premises during the time of the attacks. We have sketches of those suspects and they are now posted on the FBI's Most Wanted List."

"The weapons employed were of two types, a binary nerve agent thought to have originated in the former USSR. This nerve agent is the most lethal ever encountered and was introduced into the ventilation systems as an aerosol mist, which rapidly spread throughout the targeted facilities. The triggers used were both timer and remote-control capable, and incorporated no failsafe switch."

"EMPs, Electro Magnetic Pulse weapons, were also deployed in the same, targeted facilities. The same type of triggers was used to detonate the EMP devices, thirty seconds after the nerve agent was released. The pulse was strong enough to take out all electronic devices inside the facilities and in some cases, buildings adjacent to the targets."

"Unfortunately, because most of our findings are classified and the investigation is ongoing, for security reasons I am not able to go into any more detail at this time."
EPILOGUE

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Anyone in Washington who once viewed themselves as untouchable was now operating in fear for their political fortunes, the tables had completely turned against them. The loss of the monopoly would rapidly change the face of the Democrat Party and for a very long, long time.

The judicial system offered some hope for President Martinez and his party, but the courts were not completely under his party's control. The District Courts in the northeast could be counted on to decide in favor of the President's illegal action. Going for Martinez were his political hack, the Attorney General, who began the efforts and helped the Democrats succeed in getting a temporary suspension of the election.

Republicans in Congress stood their ground and contested the judicial decision of the lower court, taking their case to the Circuit Courts. The President called upon his supporters to march on the Capitol while the Attorney General prepared to take the President's case to the Supreme Court.

Mobs descended upon Washington overwhelming the small body of police who broke lines with their union. The President refused to call out the national guard when the museums of the Smithsonian Institute were ransacked and national treasures spirited away by the agitators. Congress was about to cave into the President's demands when anarchy was just averted by the public outcry from other Americans, the orthodox majority!

Enraged by the audio recordings that went viral on the internet, the treachery of Martinez and his administration were there for all to hear. Collusion between the Democrat leadership and people the public had never heard of before: Donald Abraham, Jason R. Simon and Shmuel D. Weisser. The secret was out!

The call for impeachment and investigations of the exposed collusion between news industry and leadership rose in the throats of Americans across the country. The majority was incensed by what they discovered and rose to shut down the radical minority. Center and center-right politicians responded uncharacteristically by holding to their position and not caving as they would have in the past. They had become emboldened by the less powerful and less vocal news media.

The Attorney General's efforts failed, the court's decision would come down along ideological lines, five to four. The Supreme Court had overturned the Fourth Circuit's ruling...the November election would be held!

The President was forced to backtrack and attempted to redirect the nation's anger onto those countries suspected of carrying out the attacks. Martinez's endeavors to characterize the attack as a strike on America failed...without support, he could no longer hold sway over the minds of a majority of Americans.

Polling before the election now heavily favored the opposition candidate, an Iraqi war veteran by the name of Colonel Maxwell H. Heston.

The counterculture mob of the recusants went missing in Washington. The all-too-familiar drumbeat of anarchy that had sent chills down the spines of moderate and conservative politicians alike went missing. The void was soon filled by mainstream Americans who descended upon Washington in the millions, toting signs like: "This is not Cuba," "America is a Democracy," "Out with the Dictator."

The President, his administration, the Democrats in Congress saw the millions...fear began to strike the hearts of politicians who had never before had to hide. These demonstrators represented the core of the country and for the first time their voices were being heard. Those politicians who failed to heed the will of the majority did so at their own peril.

Martinez was horrified by what he had seen, his life now degenerated into a dysfunctional, irrational state where reason and judicious behavior did not exist. The President countered the only way he knew how, as a community organizer, by inciting the mob. Martinez traveled about the nation to historically mutinous enclaves hoping to foment the unrest and turmoil formerly delivered by the news media establishment. Martinez would succeed, and states of chaos reigned in parts of America, fueled by a man who excelled at provoking violence, a vigilante who excelled at using the 'race card.'

At first, the President's attempts appeared to be working as tens of thousands of what can only be described as anarchists were worked up into a frenzy. That rabble then descended on various parts of the country on buses paid for by the President's political party. Traveling to political hotspots they were there to dissuade normal Americans from voting in opposition to the President. The threats of violence and destruction at the outset worked, but then something began to happen. The President's supporters began to fade away.

The former news media was not there to continue to fuel their anger, to incite violence...the activists found they needed to return to their ordinary lives. The agitators had apartments to pay for, children to raise, occupations to go back to as the President's money began to run out. The megaphone the Democrats possessed to maintain their power was now gone.

The result was a national election that was a sweeping landslide for the Republicans. Martinez was out, most of the ultraist politicians...out, but the President still had two months to tear things asunder. Martinez was convinced he still had one more card to play...he was in the process of implementing his mad scheme, but by now, the President had become so unglued, Congress decided to step in and stop him before he played his final card...Race riots.

In an Emergency Session, the Democrat-controlled Congress took the unprecedented step of removing Martinez from the Office of the President, as were the Senate and House leadership. The Vice President replaced Martinez before he could cause any further damage to the nation. Margaret Evenson would become the shortest serving President of the United States, remaining in office only long enough to turn over the reins to the newly elected President, Max H. Heston.

The revolutionary movement in America fell like a house of cards. The one-day attack upon the American news industry not only had a devastating effect in the short term, it had far reaching consequences. The familiar faces of the once-powerful, news monopoly were gone as were some of the best minds in the industry. The President and his party, carried to power by the media, now discovered their positions exposed. People were beginning to find out the truth about what the Democrats had been doing.

The papers went missing from the racks and front doors. The editorial columns, the lopsided polls went unreported. The news monopoly was no longer around to neutralize the orthodox majority. Talk radio, and the internet took on more importance. Conservatism was on an equal footing in every market across the country...the old cartel was gone!

Wall Street initially responded to the attacks, but soon rebounded, and the depression the academians prophesied not once happened. With the media establishment largely missing, there would be some time before Democrats returned to power, which meant the economic future of the nation looked bright.

Martinez's term spawned a new political movement, the "Tea Party," that voted out the moderates.

Cries could be heard from the liberal bastions, the echoes of which swept around the entire world.

News media bias in the United States, the systematic representation of one point of view, went missing. So did their ability to create conditions that led to class warfare and favorable treatment of Karl Marx's theories. The collusion that came from reporting only those news events that supported recusant positions, likewise, went missing. The ability the press once possessed to move independent and moderate voters into the Democrat camp disappeared. The days where the party had everything laid out for them on a platter were over.

The news people that remained from the old establishment, those that had entered journalism so they could change the world, those that operated by the motto, "Don't let the facts stand in the way," went unemployed. As a result their cover-ups for a political party went missing and a new kind of reporting emerged...true, investigative journalism that exposed Martinez and his party of trying to implement Cloward and Piven. Martinez was exposed for the socialist he was, and he was no longer able to hide who he was from the public since the power of the old media cartel no longer existed.

The newsrooms and the caucuses oriented around gender, race, and ethnicity, went missing. Despite the rhetoric of the past, voters now began to move to the center and right as economic conditions improved, higher-paying jobs became more plentiful and living conditions rose.

The publishers were not so lucky; they were dealt a massive blow. The infrastructure existed, but it was hopelessly contaminated by a chemical agent of undetermined longevity...and the minds, the minds behind the operations were gone. The costs to rebuild would prove too much for the cash-strapped families and unless helped, they would become a part of history.

During the closing months of Democrat power, the party endeavored to save their allies, but the passage of a bailout bill failed by just a handful of votes...the discontent of constituents voices was now being heard by politicians. The Democrats' next attempt was to enact legislation that mandated insurance companies cover the damages, but Martinez's declaration that a "State of War" existed worked to the advantage of the insurance industry. The Supreme Court ruled in favor of the insurance companies, again along party lines reaffirming the defendants were not liable for losses resulting from "Acts of War."

To the politicians on both sides of the aisle, the voices of the people were now heard. The politicians knew they no longer had the shelter they once relied upon. There would now be no place to hide come election time.

The one consolation for the old media came in the guise of a national holiday, the day called "Journalism Day." History would record that the heinous acts of that day would forever change the nature of the American news industry. Those that fell included some of the biggest names in the media world, their names would be preserved in the so-called "Freedom Wall" memorial where the epitaph read:

In honor of those souls who died in the name of freedom of speech.

\----------

The control over the news industry by a handful of publishers went all of a sudden missing. Most news organizations had at no time considered themselves vulnerable to anything, least of all, acts of violence. They gained this unfounded view of omnipotence by the century-long period in which they were insulated from legal attacks faced by everyone else in the private sector. The profits they created had not gone to insure their operations from catastrophes, but instead were used to pay for the opulent lifestyles of America's former Royalty.

Most on 'the left,' including the unions, the judiciary, the education system hoped for a quick recovery. They were sorely mistaken as the news families were forced into receivership. Their holdings, once worth hundreds of millions, were made worthless overnight. The publishers of the old news media would never fully recover from the attacks of that September day.

The scope of the damage that was done became clear very quickly. The infrastructure that remained was contaminated and would cost hundreds of millions to replace. Hard assets like the monuments of the publishing dynasties, the skyscrapers for the armies of so-called journalists. The enormous printing facilities, which housed the massive printing presses were likewise, toxic. Neither the CDC, nor Russia, knew how long the nerve agent would persist as an invisible killing film that covered the surfaces of everything.

The network and cable news industry faced an identical fate. Their studios, the buildings, the working habitat for the old media establishment were made valueless, dangerous beyond repair. Suddenly, the cost of doing business for the once, 'all powerful' media establishment had become prohibitive.

The most powerful of messages had being delivered, but by whom? One group was convinced Arab ties played a significant part in a genocidal act, one that paralleled the Holocaust. Anti-Semitism and Jewish ownership of most of the news establishment was believed the root cause. Another outspoken group was convinced the attacks were a product of homegrown terrorists, and perhaps, the Tea Party.

Following the attacks, messages began to mysteriously appear at the premises of the remaining news establishment. One missive was scribbled with pronouncement, "Deliver a just service, or forever live in fear." Another communiqué stated something almost identical, "Provide factual coverage of events, or face similar consequences."

As the news establishment lost its nerve, their views on current events began to lose their viciousness. The unsigned commentary of editorials reflecting the collective position of the news services, likewise, became less virulent. Thousands of journalists would leave the ranks as pay packages became ever smaller to help defray the costs of keeping them safe. With time, the fifty-thousand strong press pool of old would fall by two-thirds. During the blackout that followed the media establishment's absence, a new kind of news company emerged. Any news company run by traditionalists then rapidly became the source Americans turned to and then there was Magnason Enterprise News Network.

\----------

President Heston was sworn into office and things began to quickly change. The main focus of the country was changed from one of looking to government for all the answers, to letting people remain in charge of their lives and property. Social programs that were said to be necessary to guarantee equality of opportunity, equal education, access to healthcare and welfare checks would either be paired back, or required recipients actively engage in productive acts.

The government programs that no longer served a purpose, and instead, became political machines, would be dismantled, or see their budgets dramatically cut. The Department of Education and the Environmental Protection Agency would be the first departments scaled back. Along with their billions cut from the budget, Congress and President Heston eliminated most of the economy-restricting regulations they created over the years.

Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac would be privatized as would the auto manufacturers formerly owned by Washington. Those institutions would now have to stand on their own, or fail. Funding for activist groups like ACORN would no longer be the responsibility of American taxpayers.

The issue of "Same Sex Marriage" disappeared from public discourse. The same was true for the voice of militant environmentalists. Global Warming disappeared, and groups like the Sierra Club and Green Peace lost their clout in the Capitol.

Federal laws preventing oil and gas exploration and production were discarded. The artificially inflated costs of living, fuel prices, electric utility bills, the price of food, disappeared. Capitalism was again, allowed to work and people's lives improved.

Tort Reform was given the voice it needed in Washington and passed into law. By reining in the exorbitant judgments awarded to trial lawyers, premiums for insurance and healthcare became affordable. The number of frivolous lawsuits fell.

The healthcare law was scrapped and the artificial barriers created by states for insurance policies discarded. Americans could now shop across state lines for the kind of coverage and options they wanted, not those mandated by unseen bureaucrats. The increased competition lowered premiums as the Law of Supply and Demand was allowed to prevail.

Many Democrat programs lost taxpayer subsidies. Government regulations on ethanol, unrealistic mileage requirements, tax breaks for the "Green Industry" were discarded and a free market was allowed to exist. The industries who relied upon taxpayer dollars for their survival disappeared.

Personal income taxes fell and the American economy began to rapidly expand. Unemployment rapidly fell as the standard of living for all grew. Prosperity returned to the nation.

The American public became informed, they now read, heard and learned the other side of the capitalist story. Economics, politics, the culture of the nation were all now vetted from an unbiased vantage point. The seventy-seven percent of Americans who identified themselves as traditionalists would now have access to the facts. The days where ordinary citizens were duped into believing extremist ideas were gone.

The irrational world of radicalization began to fade. Their efforts to take the former, Republican President and his party down with charges of war crimes backfired. Their plans resulted in the creation of their worst nightmare, and an enemy that ultimately caused their demise.

Then there was President Heston's actions to close the Internet Regulatory Agency. The regulations preventing MENN from succeeding were gone! Magnason Enterprise News Network would become a colossal success. People from around America quickly subscribed in numbers that exceeded all expectations. MENN would turn out to be the final nail in the coffin of ultraist control over the American people.

The regulatory barriers the old media establishment once relied upon to keep competition out, were now history. Those in the old media that survived, now found their brick and mortar operations and unionized workforce very expensive. For many, the costs to maintain both were too high and resulted in the demise of either the union, or the company. Industry consolidation that was now a 180-degree shift from the one that occurred in the early twentieth century.

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DARIEN, GA - Dr. Victor Magnason could now rest in peace, content in the knowledge that he helped orchestrate one of the greatest upheavals in American history and saved the country from an uncertain fate. American history was filled with the names of unsung heroes. Those who fought and died for their nation.

The war Victor fought was one of ideas and a way of life. The war he fought was one no one was convinced was happening. He had seen it and won. Truth and justice would return to the American people. Journalism would serve the purpose the founders had in mind when they created the First Amendment. Missing the rhetoric and propaganda of the old media, each side of the political spectrum would become more willing to work together. To do what was best for America and its citizens. To do what was best for the future of its children.

America would not yet succumb to the same fate that had befallen other great nations. Instead, it would continue to give the world that "shining light upon a hill." A guidepost to a better place. To a better existence. To a better planet.

The former SAD Director stood next to the fresh mound of dirt. He had watched from afar until the others had left. It was a small Georgia cemetery with a hundred, or so headstones. Most of those attending the small funeral had shed no tears, no open grief for the loss of the man. Derrick stood for few moments next to the grave, understanding what Victor and he had accomplished. The gravestone in front of them read:

Dr. Victor R. Magnason

Born December 27, 1955

Died June 27, 2016

I have done my part

Derrick turned about when he heard a car approaching up the gravel road. A lone man in a business suit exited the sedan and approached.

"Director Mitchum?"

"Yes, I'm Mitchum."

"Dr. Magnason wanted me to see that you got this." The stranger handed him a brown leather attaché case. "It is a token of his appreciation."

The stranger turned back to his car and walked away.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Former software executive turned fiction writer, Frank graduated in the late seventies and went to work for NCR in minicomputer sales, then moved into personal computers where he remained for the next ten years. In the early nineties the author left the hardware side of the business for software. Shortly after the 'dot.com' bubble burst, Frank with his wife and infant daughter returned to his home state of Florida. Besides typing away on a Macbook Air, Frank spends his time as the family chauffeur, gofer and biggest fan of both daughter and wife.

Frank's writing style reflects his business experience and traditionalist outlook on life. Frank writes to a niche of like-minded readers who need an outlet for escaping today's really troubling times. The topics and plots are intended to be provocative, in some cases humorous, wishful and thought-provoking.
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

WTF! This is a Liberal Utopia! (Satire)

BamaOay the Barbarian (Satire)
CONNECT WITH AUTHOR

Personal blog: http://www.fbthompson3.com

Twitter page: http://twitter.com/fbthompson3

Satire blog: http://idiocracy.me

