Choose Freedom: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series (The Boston Brahmin Book 6) Page 14

  “I don’t like splitting up, but I have an idea,” started Drew. “Find a cover position behind the retaining wall and using that large oak just past the steps leading to the front door. I’ll scoot up the driveway and cover the rear of the house. You should have a clear line of sight to me at the rear corner.”

  “Yeah, I see it,” said Morrell. “I’ll get their attention. If they start shooting, we’ll let them waste their ammo and try to talk them out. If they continue, what’s the plan?”

  “Scare them out with a ton of brass,” said Drew. “Ready?”

  “Move.”

  “Moving,” said Drew as he ran up the driveway, keeping the trees as cover between himself and the side windows. There was no guarantee that the house was inhabited, but it was their last option.

  As Drew reached the corner of the house, Morrell was already in position. Drew gave Morrell the thumbs-up.

  Morrell reached down and dislodged a softball-sized stone from the retaining wall. He lobbed it onto the slate roof, which caused a tile to split and the stone to roll down the roof until it crashed onto the wooden front porch.

  Morrell shouted, “Your home is surrounded by United States Marines! Come out peacefully with your hands raised!”

  Drew watched and listened for any signs or movements. A rear door that led to a small one-car garage was visible to him. He looked back towards Morrell, who was using hand signals. Two fingers, eyes-to-house, two hostiles. Drew returned a thumbs-up.

  “Mr. Mavla-hala-hala,” shouted Morrell. Drew smiled and chuckled to himself. “I saw the upstairs curtains move and the curtains in the bottom left room. I know people are in there. We mean you no harm. We are looking for Leo and Anna.” Morrell was providing Drew their locations.

  Drew heard the sounds of footsteps running inside and a chair tipping over. Suddenly, a woman burst through the exit and began running up some concrete pavers into the woods.

  “I’ve got the woman running—left side,” yelled Drew as he dashed down the back side of the house after her. He was at full speed when Leo Malvalaha ran out the back door as well, right into Drew’s path. The two men collided and Malvalaha was knocked head over heels into the garage door.

  Drew retrieved his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Malvalaha, who was doubled-up in pain, was gasping for breath. Drew scrambled to subdue him as Morrell joined the fray from inside the house.

  “Clear inside,” he announced.

  “Cuff this one,” said Drew as he caught his breath. “I’m going after the girl.” Drew dashed around the garage as he heard Morrell shout to him, “No weapons seen inside.”

  As Drew followed the path up the hill into the woods, he couldn’t decide if Morrell’s information was comforting or if it foretold a standoff against a cornered animal with a deadly weapon at its disposal.

  Drew stopped to assess his surroundings. He’d tracked people before. He assumed it was Anna running through the woods. The ground was still soft from the melted winter snow. Her footprints were distinctive and easily trackable. It didn’t appear she was trying to conceal her escape.

  Drew started after her. Deeper into the woods and up the slope he climbed. Deadfall in the form of broken branches from the winter’s heavy snows and fallen leaves remained from autumn, making the trail difficult to navigate. But it would be the same for his prey. He noticed the skinned bark on the fallen limbs where she’d tried to step over them.

  A crack was heard ahead, followed by the sound of a woman’s voice—a groan. She’d stumbled. Drew pressed forward, stalking her and hoping to overtake her head start. His confidence grew as he began to run up the hill now. She was not deviating from the path.

  Two knees had created an indentation just ahead. She’d fallen, probably generating the groan he’d heard a moment ago. He was close. Her stride was shorter. She was walking now. Soon, he saw evidence of her feet slipping in the mud and leaves. She was tired.

  And then he found her. She was leaning against the back of a large oak tree, heaving for air. She was exhausted, probably due to lack of exercise and proper nutrition. Out of precaution, Drew readied his weapon and approached her slowly, keeping the tree between them.

  “Anna,” he called out.

  “Gaatak dahya,” said Anna in Arabic. Go to hell!

  “C’mon now, Anna,” said Drew. He continued his quiet approach as he angled himself to see her hands. Gun!

  She was sitting against the trees with her legs straight in front of her. Anna was holding a thirty-eight revolver in her right hand. Drew shouldered his rifle and quietly pulled out his seven-inch hunting knife from its sheath. He returned to his roots—Slash, the nickname he earned in the backwoods of the Cumberland Plateau when he’d first mastered the use of knives.

  “Tarak li,” she mumbled. Anna appeared to be delirious. She started to raise the weapon towards her head. Suicide? Drew didn’t hesitate.

  Drew’s knife was fairly balanced, but leaned toward handle heavy. He gripped the blade, ready to throw it at his target. Lightning fast, he found his narrow throwing line and anticipated the positioning of the weapon. Unconsciously, from a lifetime of practice, Drew aimed and released the knife.

  The knife struck the pistol and knocked it away from Anna. Drew closed the twenty feet between them in the blink of an eye and had his sidearm pulled at the same time. Anna was surprised and hadn’t moved by the time Drew was upon her, pointing the weapon at her chest.

  She broke down crying. “Just kill me. I can’t hide anymore. I’m starving. Please, just end it.”

  Drew found his knife and returned it to his leg sheath. He located the revolver, which only contained two bullets. He dropped them out of the cylinder and placed the weapon in his cargo pants pocket.

  “Anna,” started Drew, “we’re not here to hurt you.”

  “Why not?” She sobbed.

  “Well, because it’s not my job,” replied Drew, who instantly revisited the dozen or so times his targets had begged for their lives before he terminated them. “Not this time, Anna.”

  He approached Anna as she wiped the tears from her face with muddy hands. Drew pulled loose his shemagh and handed it to her. She ran it through her hands and looked up at Drew’s face.

  “A shemagh?” she questioned.

  “It was given to me by a man in Fallujah,” replied Drew. “I saved his son’s life and hurt my hand in the process. Why don’t you wipe your face and hands off and let’s go back to join the others. There’s an old friend who’s anxious to see you.”

  “Huh, who?”

  “Your professor.”

  Chapter 33

  Monday, March 13, 2017

  12:20 p.m. EDT

  Western White House

  Honolulu, Hawaii

  The President had been applauded in the past for being able to restrain his temper in public. He always lent the appearance of being calm and relaxed. While he was known to throw death glares at reporters or political opponents on occasion, and even using pointed, harsh language to express displeasure, he’d never been known to get visibly angry while under the guise of the cameras or in the public eye.

  In private, however, he rarely held back. Behind the cameras and teleprompters was an angry, vicious politician who frequently snapped at his staff and his wife. On one occasion, the President cursed his top political advisor during a debate-prep session and stormed off the stage. There were rumors within the White House staff of screaming and outbursts between the President and the First Lady.

  This occasion was one of the most violent exhibitions of anger his staff had witnessed in the eight-plus years of his presidency. The large, oceanfront home that had become the Western White House was elegantly furnished in traditional Hawaiian décor at the request of the President. He had fond memories of his years spent there as a child and subsequently in the island nation of Indonesia. On this day, even the tiki god statues in the office of the President were not safe from his wrath, as one went tumbling to the floor courte
sy of a firm shove by the President.

  The President leaned down and looked into the director of Homeland Security’s eyes. “I don’t give a fuck if they’re Americans. It’s subversive and treasonous. I want those broadcasts stopped. Now!”

  “Mr. President,” said the director as he glanced at the other members of the President’s national security team gathered in the room. “We have a process, sir. Especially in light of what you’re asking. An investigation needs to be made. Charges should be filed, and then a trial.”

  “I’m a lawyer, don’t lecture me on procedure!” shouted the President. “There is treason going on right under our noses. In fact, it has been for months and you’ve done nothing about it.”

  “Sir, it’s free speech,” interjected the director. The President grabbed another tiki god by the throat and squeezed the wooden carving before dropping it to the floor.

  Of all our constitutional guarantees, the First Amendment’s protection of speech is probably the best known but the least understood. Contrary to popular belief, the speech guarantee was never intended to allow, nor has it ever allowed, absolutely free speech in America. The Founding Fathers wrestled with this for years following the adoption of the Bill of Rights.

  There are just three crimes expressly mentioned in the Constitution. Article I, Section 8, gives Congress power to punish counterfeiting and to define and punish piracy. However, Article III, Section 3, spells out that: Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them Aid and Comfort.

  During the rancid political discourse that had become a part of America’s political landscape, society clamored for charges to be brought against many political foes and vocal supporters of one candidate or another. In the last twenty years, during the Bush presidency, filmmaker Michael Moore drew the ire of conservatives who demanded he be charged with treason.

  The Supreme Court made it clear that speech became treason when it transcended mere words, ceasing to be communication alone, and satisfied the four requisites demanded by the Supreme Court: an overt act, testified to by two witnesses, manifesting an intent to betray the United States, and providing aid and comfort to the enemy.

  Under that standard, Hanoi Jane Fonda was treasonous. Michael Moore was not. In most cases, it was an impossible stretch, logically and constitutionally, to attempt to punish speech with indictment and conviction for treason. Speech became treason when it transcended mere words.

  In the eyes of a delusional, tyrannical President, all opposition was treasonous and should be met with every available means to stifle it—even overwhelming, albeit unlawful, military force.

  The President stopped and stared out at the vast Pacific Ocean. “You will give me a plan by Thursday afternoon. I want this guy Sargent eradicated by Friday.”

  Chapter 34

  Tuesday, March 14, 2017

  5:00 p.m.

  1PP

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  It had been an unseasonably warm day for the Quabbin Reservoir. With temperatures spiking in the mid-fifties, Sarge and Morgan elected to climb to the top of 1PP and onto the widow’s walk. Abbie pitched a fit when her father first insisted upon the adventure. But he’d been feeling much better, quite possibly due to the break from the winter weather. He wanted the opportunity to admire spring and the sunset behind the protective railing on the roof’s platform.

  After Sarge insured that Morgan reached the rooftop safely, he made his way back down the stairs and retrieved their cocktail glasses and the bottle of scotch whisky. Sarge had begun to cherish his time alone with Morgan. The man’s demeanor had changed considerably following his stroke. He seemed to appreciate life more, especially since Sarge had shown the ability to carry forward the legacy of the Boston Brahmin.

  The Quinn children were still playing on the front lawn of 1PP as darkness approached. Susan looked up and waved as Sarge poured their drinks. They shared a simple toast—cheers. Morgan stood quietly for a moment. He seemed to be taking in the grandeur of spring on the Quabbin Reservoir. Leaves were returning from their fall departure and birds were singing the praises of the warmer weather and the abundance of earthworms that made their way out of the wet ground.

  Morgan turned his attention toward the setting sun as he took another sip of whisky. “Henry, I’ve spent many evenings admiring the sunset from 73 Tremont. I’ve learned that high to mid-level clouds are the most effective canvases to display the colors that the sunlight is painting. Without clouds, there is no color. Too many clouds produce nothing but gray, sad skies.”

  Sarge was tempted to comment on the beauty of tonight’s sunset, but he got the impression Morgan had something on his mind. He got philosophical often, a side Sarge had never experienced prior to the collapse.

  “Over time, I have come to learn that power does not corrupt a man,” continued Morgan. “It’s the fear of loss of power that corrupts him. I’ve known that fear, and I vowed many years ago not to allow it to consume me. For when it does, you’re apt to make irrational, emotional decisions that are rarely error-free.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Sarge as he continued to allow Morgan the opportunity to speak.

  “The President is losing, and he knows it,” said Morgan. “I don’t need to pick up the phone and call him. I don’t need to have one of our many moles inside the administration confirm this for us. I know him, and the President’s frantic as he seeks solutions to stem the tide, no, the tsunami, of support you’ve generated.”

  Sarge thought about this for a moment. He’d contemplated reaching out to the President in an attempt to bring this political standoff to an end. The toughest tasks were still ahead for Sarge, including what might be an all-out military assault on the Citizen Corps strongholds in the western states.

  “Should I call on him to resign, privately?” asked Sarge.

  Morgan shrugged. “I doubt he’d take your call. This President doesn’t know loyalty. He’s an opportunist. You can ask our allies around the world, especially in Europe. They lost respect for him many years ago.”

  “We have several options at our disposal,” started Sarge. “Naturally, there is impeachment. The second is political pressure from the state governors who have been liberated from the UN occupying forces and the Citizen Corps. Another option, of course, is assassination.”

  Morgan managed a grin and toasted his glass in Sarge’s direction. He took a long sip and said, “Henry, ordering the death of a man, including one you don’t like, is one of the most difficult decisions you’ll ever make. You will, however, make that call more than once in your lifetime. There will be times that leadership decapitation is a necessity.”

  “I’m not afraid to make that call,” said Sarge.

  “Good. When faced with this option, be aware that more often than not, failed plots to assassinate others are exposed. Failure can result in suffering incalculable damage to your reputation and respect. The key is success. Surround yourself with the best operatives, and trust them wholeheartedly, like I trusted your brother.”

  Sarge nodded and refilled their drinks.

  Morgan continued. “In the case of our President, assassination is not the solution. The country has suffered enough without losing its leader to violence. You’ve undertaken an ambitious, yet perfect, strategy. This nation has to be rebuilt in the same manner in which it was built, at the grassroots level.”

  “Sir, it’s taking a lot of time,” said Sarge. “People are clamoring for a return to normalcy. But just as important, they are ready for our government to reassume its proper role. The President is preventing that from happening through his use of martial law.”

  “I’ve given this some thought,” said Morgan. “You cannot undertake any activity that would create a constitutional crisis. The collapse of the power grid may have brought the nation to its knees, but the removal of the President by any means other than as provided by the Constitution would result in a bre
akdown in our government.”

  The sun began to sink over the horizon and Sarge thought of his options. “We could attempt impeachment. In the last one hundred seventy-five years, one-third of our presidents have either died, become disabled, or resigned from office. However, none have ever been forced out by the impeachment process. In addition, the impeachment process plays out in Congress, which has not convened since the collapse.”

  “You have another option, Henry,” said Morgan as he leaned against the rail and looked directly at Sarge. “You’ve endeared yourself to the governors and legislatures that you’ve put back into power. Use that political capital to your advantage.”

  “A constitutional convention?” asked Sarge as he nodded his head.

  “Certainly,” replied Morgan.

  “I would need to get thirty-four states to call a constitutional convention where amendments can be proposed and, quite possibly, a neutered President who has overstayed his welcome can be removed.”

  “Well, perhaps not forcibly removed; however, a special election might be an option if passed by the states,” added Morgan. “Regardless, a clear message would be sent to the President—three-quarters of this nation are prepared to remove you, one way or the other.”

  Morgan handed Sarge his empty glass and made his way toward the stairwell. With the setting sun came chilled air, and on this night, a full moon was rising in the east.

  Chapter 35

  Friday, March 17, 2017

  St. Patrick’s Day

  9:00 a.m. EDT