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

  “It’s been a little hard for people to achieve anything lately,” said Sarge. “When you’re digging through dumpsters for food or running for your life, full potential seems like pie in the sky.”

  “Exactly,” said Donald. “The most basic needs are physiological—air, water, food, and shelter. You’ve helped many Americans by bringing these things to the U.S. from abroad. Second, people need safety and security to keep their wits about them. Long before the collapse event, this country was in decline socially and economically. You’ve pointed that out to anyone who’d listen.”

  “The cyber attack simply accelerated the inevitable, Donald,” interjected Sarge. “The country was deep set in doom and gloom.”

  “A malaise.”

  “Yes,” continued Sarge. “You could see the anger in social media. The streets of major cities were unsafe due to the violent acts of a few. All the cyber attack did was push them over the edge.”

  “Sarge, you’ve given people hope again because their personal safety has been restored. Financial security is beyond your control at the moment, but I believe people will trust you to make it right. You’ve proven yourself to them.”

  “There’s only so much I can do now,” said Sarge. “Before the collapse, Mr. Morgan had established a vast network of political and financial allies. The government is in shambles and our international connections have pulled back somewhat as the power struggle continues.”

  “So end the struggle,” said Donald.

  “Great. You want me to take a shot at the President?” asked Sarge.

  “No, although he deserves it after the drone stunt,” replied Donald. “Beat him fair and square using your God-given gifts. You know history and politics. You have a tremendous ability to sway public opinion through your speeches.”

  “And I’m handsome.” Sarge laughed.

  “Then, there’s that too.”

  Sarge walked to the rail and put his hands in his pockets. Donald didn’t want to push because the decision to take on such a monumental task should be made by Sarge and Julia. Donald believed the nation needed a nonpolitician to right the ship. Sarge and the Choose Freedom movement were becoming legendary.

  “How many states are on board for the Constitutional Convention?” asked Sarge.

  “We have the thirty-one Republican governorships, plus the four New England Democrat controlled houses. Borden promises to deliver Pennsylvania, Delaware, and West Virginia.”

  “That’s thirty-eight,” said Sarge. “That’s all we need.”

  “All we need,” echoed Donald.

  Chapter 42

  Sunday, April 9, 2017

  5:30 p.m.

  Morgan Residence

  39 Sears Road

  Brookline, Massachusetts

  Julia carefully made her way downstairs to join Sarge in the study. The winding staircase was made of solid, polished marble, so she always watched her footing. Julia was in her eighth month, and she constantly thought about the safety of their baby.

  She was getting settled into the Morgan estate and its Georgian Revival opulence. The fifteen-thousand-square-foot, nine-bedroom home was large enough for, well, the Loyal Nine. Her favorite part of the home was the swimming pool. A simple rectangular design surrounded by granite decking, the small oasis was completely surrounded by evergreens and very private.

  The pool was heated and provided slightly warm water for Julia to enjoy some water therapy. The water helped relax and soothe her aching muscles. Plus it took away the awkwardness she felt from walking around with a big belly. The buoyancy of the pool water reduced the clumsiness and fatigue she’d been experiencing. Above all, being alone with her thoughts was invaluable. She lived in a house full of staff, security personnel, and now, political operatives. She missed 100 Beacon, but she understood why this was necessary.

  She found Sarge alone, staring out at the four-acre front lawn. A team of landscapers was doting over every blade of grass and attending to every budding flower. The men and women alike were thrilled to be working and appreciated their payments in silver.

  Before she announced herself, she admired Sarge, uncharacteristically dressed in a suit, who instantly reminded her of photos she’d seen of John Kennedy. She wondered whether Jackie Kennedy loved her husband as much as Julia loved Sarge. Sarge was surrounded by the exquisite carved details and the walnut trim of the study. The gold-leafed ceilings screamed wealth. The portrait of John Adams was a reminder of the political legacy their child would inherit and be expected to carry forward.

  She quietly entered the study and joined Sarge by the window. Julia hugged him around the waist and put her head on his shoulder. They both watched the activity outside for a moment in silence.

  “The front yard looks like a pretty good spot,” Sarge started as he pressed his hand against the window. “Everyone does backyards. Let’s be different. Yeah. The front yard.”

  “Sarge, what are you talkin’ about, love?” asked Julia.

  “Our wedding. We should get married right here in the front yard.”

  Julia stood up and leaned into the window, trying to visualize the event. She nodded her head in agreement. “I like it. Since you picked the location, may I pick the date?”

  “Sure.”

  “May first.”

  Sarge thought for a moment. Julia knew he was running his schedule through his head. This didn’t offend her in the least. She’d come to respect that their lives would revolve around other, sometimes more important events. She and Sarge were destined to become American royalty, and with that title came a lot of responsibility and a lack of privacy.

  “Book it!” He laughed and turned to kiss her. They embraced for a long time, enjoying the rare moment alone. The sound of a blower being used to remove grass clippings from the patio brought them out of their hug.

  “I love you,” said Julia as she kissed Sarge again. She took his glass and went to the bar to refill his drink. As she did, Morgan entered the study.

  “Hello, Julia,” said Morgan. “Would you mind pouring me one? Same as Henry, please.”

  “My pleasure,” replied Julia. She fixed another drink for the men and pulled out a boxed Vita Coco water for herself. The drink, made in Brazil, was procured by Donald at Susan’s insistence. She continued to keep a careful eye on Julia as her pregnancy neared the projected due date of Memorial Day, May twenty-ninth.

  Julia delivered the men their drinks as she took a seat on the bar stool. The deep, plush leather chairs were incredibly comfortable, but getting out of them was quite a task for Julia. Holding up the bar suited her just fine.

  “What’s on your mind, Henry?”

  “On this day in 1865, the last battle of the Civil War was fought near the small town of Appomattox in Virginia. Lee had been forced out of the Confederate capital in Richmond and retreated to the west in an attempt to join his army in North Carolina.

  “Grant outmaneuvered Lee and placed himself squarely in the intended path to the reunification of the Confederate Army. Because Grant executed the move so quickly, Lee assumed the Union forces consisted primarily of cavalry. He launched an attack to break through the middle of the Union skirmish line, but when he did, Lee discovered that the cavalry was backed up by two corps of Union infantry.

  “Lee realized the war was lost and that he had no choice but to surrender. When the two adversaries met late that afternoon to discuss the terms of surrender, Lee arrived in an immaculate dress uniform. Grant, on the other hand, was covered with mud in his government-issued sackcloth coat and pants. An unknowledgeable bystander could’ve assumed Lee to be the victor on that day.”

  Sarge took a drink and Morgan did as well. This was the first time Julia had joined the men during their afternoon cocktail hour. She was fascinated by their body language and interaction. Early on, Sarge and Morgan might have enjoyed a teacher-student or even a father-son relationship. Now they were equals, contemporaries.

  “I know the story well,” added Morgan.
“Lee underestimated his opponent and lost. He was a proud man and, as such, was afforded the respect of his conqueror.”

  “I believe those days of political grandeur are over,” said Sarge. “Today, the victor annihilates his opponent, even when the battle is over.”

  “Perhaps it is time for this nation to change its ways in this respect as well.”

  Sarge stood and walked over to the Adams portrait, seeking inspiration. He leaned against the fireplace mantel and rested his arm while he spoke.

  “I’m afraid we may be headed for a civil war,” said Sarge. “The President has polarized the country for years. Now, in the aftermath of the collapse, he has carved out his own fiefdom in the form of Hawaii, California, Oregon, and Washington, with parts of Arizona and Nevada as well.”

  “How do you plan on avoiding such a conflict?” asked Morgan.

  “For starters, with Julia’s help,” started Sarge as he nodded and smiled to his betrothed, “and the assistance of our new IT department headed by the Zero Day Gamers, I’ll be making a major address to those areas on Friday. I hope to appeal to their sense of patriotism to the great nation in which we live. I’m going to urge them to attend the Constitutional Convention in St. Louis.”

  “What if they don’t?” asked Julia as she joined the conversation for the first time.

  “We have enough states to pursue the agenda I’ve developed,” replied Sarge. “If the support for my plan by the overwhelming number of states in the country is not enough to convince them, then I will formulate a plan B.”

  “Henry, exhaust your political options. You mustn’t undertake any course of action that would create a constitutional crisis. Our nation and the republic is bigger than our political differences.”

  Sarge walked to the window and once again stared at nothing in particular. Julia could see he was troubled and frustrated.

  “This President needs to learn from General Lee, a true gentleman,” said Sarge. “He needs to recognize and admit defeat, then leave office with dignity. If he doesn’t, I will find the means necessary to force him out.”

  “You are choosing to clash with the President on the political battlefield,” started Morgan. He sat up on the edge of the leather armchair. “I caution you not to overlook his desperation. Desperate men do desperate things. His attempted assassination of you is indicative of his fear. Do not forget that he controls the most powerful military force in the history of mankind.”

  “Yes, sir,” interrupted Sarge. “Thus far, the military has followed its oath to the Constitution for the most part and stood down when it came to raising arms against Americans on their own soil. They didn’t take up arms against us when we drove the Citizen Corps out of Boston, New York, Philly, and other major cities. They allowed the Texans to drive the UN back across the Rio Grande without entering the fray. I want to believe they will stand down as I attempt to reunite the nation.”

  Morgan stood and went to Sarge’s side. He placed his hand on Sarge’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. Morgan finished the conversation with his last piece of advice.

  “Not all of them may stand down as you suggest. If a civil war is the solution, just remember, there is no honorable way to kill and no subtle way to destroy. Nothing good comes out of war, except its ending.”

  Chapter 43

  Tuesday, April 11, 2017

  11:00 a.m.

  Quinn Residence

  Brae Burn Country Club

  West Newton, Massachusetts

  The Quinn home was bustling with activity. Stability was being established throughout Boston and especially in suburban communities. Donald was assigned a full-time security detail around their home, although there hadn’t been any signs of petty theft or looting in over a month. Civilization had begun to rise again through mutual respect and optimism.

  Susan insisted on throwing Julia a combined baby and wedding shower. As an empathetic person, Susan debated whether it was appropriate to have such an affair considering so many people were still doing without. Donald convinced her that the nation needed to rally around ideals and visions of the future, not the hardships of the past. This applied to everyone, including their circle of friends.

  Donald’s role today was that of honey-do husband. If the trash needed emptying, he was on it. Out of wine? Let me pour you another glass. Pin the tail on the donkey? Wait, what? I’m the donkey. Forget it.

  Rebecca and Penny were at the top of their game as they dutifully performed their tasks. They’d dressed in pink and white frilly dresses with long gloves that reached their elbows. The outfits were their Easter Sunday best, although they fit snugly after a year’s worth of growth.

  Their initial duties involved greeting the guests at the door. Donald hadn’t tired of the rehearsed routine. As the doorbell rang, Penny would open the door and Rebecca would join her side.

  “Welcome,” they would say, followed by I’m Penny—I’m Rebecca. In unison they’d proudly announce, “We are the hostesses with the mostesses.” Donald realized that every parent considered their children to be the most adorable angels on the planet. But on this day, he verily believe Penny and Rebecca ranked in the top two.

  Donald loved his daughters and he was especially proud of Susan for maintaining some semblance of childhood while they lived at Prescott Peninsula. The girls had been through a lot but not as much as others around the country. As time passed, Donald would teach them the lessons to be learned from the collapse.

  The party was in full swing after about an hour as the wine kicked in and the older ladies became philosophical. This was the free advice portion of the program, folks. Donald hid out in the kitchen but eavesdropped like a pro.

  “Now, Julia,” started Mrs. Lowell. Donald easily recognized her raspy voice. “Sarge is one of the most powerful men in the world—destined for greatness. He is not driven by money or power.”

  “Constance is right,” added Mary Cabot. “He has a goodness and love of country that few of his predecessors had. Neither John nor Lawrence have the temperament to guide us through these troubled times.”

  “Thank you, ladies,” said Julia. “I will support him—”

  The advice continued as Aunt Stella interrupted her. “Just you remember, dearie, that the real power of a man is determined by the support and love of the woman standing next to him.”

  “Well said, Stella,” said Mrs. Cabot. “In fact, women could never be as successful as men because they don’t have wives to advise them.”

  The room burst out in laughter. The man-haters club was now in session. Donald slid beneath the kitchen counter and looked for an escape route.

  “A real man chooses to honor, love, respect, adore and be faithful to one woman.” Mrs. Winthrop? Donald couldn’t tell because the advice came in a flurry now.

  “You let us know if he has one inkling to act like that JFK.” Mrs. Lowell laughed.

  “Yeah, the first time some Marilyn Monroe floozy comes sniffin’ around, you call us.”

  Penny added to the conversation. “Like the Ghostbusters?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Who you gonna call?”

  “Floozy-busters!”

  Oh gawd. Donald slipped out the front door to check on security.

  Chapter 44

  Friday, April 14, 2017

  7:50 p.m.

  73 Tremont

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Sarge sat alone in the office John Morgan had occupied at 73 Tremont for three decades. The desk and chair he now occupied was his if he wanted it. Morgan had made it clear that his days as head of the wealthy and politically powerful Boston Brahmin were over and Sarge was expected to take over the helm. However, Sarge wrestled with whether he could pursue a political career for the highest office in the land at the same time.

  He had reached a turning point where he could stay the course, work in the shadows like his mentor had done for nearly forty years, or be thrust into the political spotlight. Thus far, only his clos
est friends, the Loyal Nine, and Morgan’s confidants knew that Sarge was exploring the possibilities.

  If he was successful in his political campaign, he’d become the first sitting President of Boston Brahmin lineage since the founders. The executive council of the Brahmin typically avoided the presidency, choosing instead to manipulate the occupant of the White House instead.

  By becoming President, political power would be consolidated in a way that would make most Americans shudder. It certainly would create an opportunity to spread the influence of his benefactors throughout the world in a fashion envisioned by the Clinton Foundation for themselves. HRC, however, was in ill health, a fact that would have surfaced had the collapse not occurred. Her brain condition had deteriorated rapidly in the latter months of 2016, and she might not have been able to take the oath of office had she won the election in November.

  Sarge often wondered if Morgan was aware of the seriousness of Clinton’s condition, hence the reason he orchestrated Abbie’s placement on the Democrat ticket as Vice President. It was an odd coupling by all viewpoints, but one that would have been fortuitous for the Boston Brahmin.

  Sarge thought about Abbie as his Vice President choice, which was part of his reasoning for sending her to meet with the governors. America needed an outsider to run this country now, but Sarge needed an insider with the political gravitas to build a consensus. Abbie was perfect for the job.

  This would be Sarge’s last address to the nation via the Digital Carrier Pigeon network. As power was being restored nationwide, the media was ready to get back to work. On Monday, just two days before the Constitutional Convention in St. Louis, power would be restored to New York City. This was by design. After a couple of days of the media covering the death and destruction, they would be hungry for the cause of the cyber attack and the potential solutions.