Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I (11 page)

6 February: 1100

It was a scary time to be rich and successful. Something about having everything makes you worry about losing it all. It was also that incredible wealth, that ability to live in a different world, which made it so difficult to comprehend their irrational poorer brethren. So many of these prestigious Ivy League Alumni were scions of wealthy families. Old money, to put it mildly.

Since they had never experienced having nothing, they couldn’t fathom the frustration and sense of hopelessness the lower classes struggled with daily. Let alone understand how when you have nothing, you have nothing left to lose.

A room full of conservative-minded money managers set around a television watching the near anarchy in the streets and the true anarchy in the marketplace. All their technical models and analysts weren’t worth a damn in a market controlled by headlines. How do you short Armageddon?

Still, confusing as things were, you didn’t rise to manage billions in assets by being the type that just reacts to events. That they would do something was a foregone conclusion. The only question was what. They’d already poured hundreds of millions into various Political Action Committees (PACs). Those traditional investments to fund friendly politicians just weren’t panning out. They were paid, and paid obscenely well, to think three steps ahead of the news and one ahead of the competition. It was their job to identify future trends when they existed as mere rumors and isolated events.

Of course, you didn’t have to be Warren Buffett to realize that the politicians were losing control of the situation. The trick was trying to determine who would be controlling events when the dust settled and how best to influence them.

With the politicians riding the waves of popular opinion, the highest court being ignored and even the military impotent, there was an obvious power vacuum. The only thing clear was that the next president would be chosen by force, and not the ballot box. Even if the current president went through with his promise of holding new elections, the opposing party and millions on the streets promised to “stop him.” There was only one way to accomplish that…and it wasn’t in the courts or chambers of Congress.

One of the men stopped reading the proposal and cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I have serious doubts about the effectiveness of this investment. Come on, I trade derivatives. Frankly, I don’t know the first damn thing about running a militia. Maybe we should stick to the PR campaign? That’s definitely shaping public opinion our way.”

One of the most ruthless females shook her head at him. “How many votes does a million dollars’ worth of advertisements buy us? Who really knows? Now, how many votes does a million dollars’ worth of guns get us?” She paused long enough to assure everyone’s attention. “All we need.” Several heads reluctantly nodded.

A futures trader waved at the TV. “We can’t afford to be so naïve. The traditional political process died along with Terry Scott. This violence at the polls is going to happen regardless of what we do. Too much is at stake.” He added the magic words for this crowd. “I just want to make sure we get in on it during the startup phase. If we don’t, the competition will.” He tried to sound funny, but he was dead serious.

“This is an emerging market. We could be locked out pretty quick if the other guys dominate it. Let’s face it; the consequences of failure are a little bit more severe than missing our bonus targets.”

A famous bond manager spoke up. “The competition? Things are worse than that. The takers are trying to turn America into some type of socialist paradise. It’s everything Ayn Rand warned us about. Cynical as it sounds, we have to defend ourselves.”

There weren’t any further holdouts.

The great irony about using anonymous PAC money to recruit, train and arm a paramilitary force to “help ensure the constitutional transfer of presidential power,” was that it’s perfectly legal and even tax-free. Not that taxes would be much of a worry if they were successful. Simplifying the tax code, at least for job creators, would be a top priority in their New America.

In a 50
th
floor office across the street, their liberal counterparts met and reached similar conclusions. Major conglomerates around the world also independently accepted the realities of the new business environment. Most of them were apolitical and saw themselves merely responding to the threats around them in the most cost efficient way possible. Regardless of motivation, the results were the same.

Some would hire private security contractors to defend their interests and others would help fund existing, armed “constitutional protection” groups. A few founded their own private armies to have a chip in the new political game. Regardless of the method used, the nation would never be the same.

The random violence gripping the country was such a mild danger compared to the much greater threat entering the arena: corporate sponsorship.

7 February: 1800

“Mr. President, I must caution again that these are preliminary findings, at best. It’s only been a few days. So much can still change. Just because the serial number matches the Florida Guard’s armory records doesn’t mean the weapon wasn’t stolen recently. Perhaps in the chaos at Camp Blanding?” The head of the FBI looked more embarrassed than conciliatory.

“Between the so called ‘protective detentions’ of federal law enforcement personnel in Florida and the sealed borders, we’re finding it rather difficult to get cooperation with this investigation.”

“And fingerprints or any forensic evidence?” asked a junior aide, almost absentmindedly.

“Well, quite a few, as a matter of fact. All current members of the Florida Guard…” Several aides nodded and moved on to other matters. He ignored them and raised his voice. The president was already walking away.

“Again sir, you shouldn’t base any course of action on what’s really circumstantial evidence.”

Another aide rushed in with something Oh-So-Important and bumped the FBI chief out of the way. This wasn’t his first time in the situation room. He’d seen the Administration pissed at him and pleased with him, but he’d never seen them uninterested in what he had to say. He caught a glimpse of a draft speech on the table. There’d been a few memos generated by his office with the same subject, but this just wasn’t in the same league. He couldn’t suppress the chill in his bones at seeing that one magic word repeated multiple times:

Terrorism
.

The director tried to catch the president’s eye, but he was deep in quiet conversation with someone from the CIA and several new generals. He didn’t recognize any of them. There’d been a hell of a lot of personnel shakeups, resignations and transfers out west or overseas, among the senior military staff since the Florida fiasco last week.

Working his way closer around the big table, he caught a “…very high confidence, sir.” over the humming voices. The president whispered something about wanting to see a “target package” and then spun around suddenly.

“Yes, I heard you, Steve, but our course of action has been set by the rebels’ other provocations.” The FBI director raised an eyebrow at the R-word. While it was bantered about by some news organizations, this was the first time he heard that dangerous label from any official source.

“Sir, I understand your frustration, but please be careful with such catchphrases. They can influence your staff’s thinking and have a habit of becoming policy.”

“It’s a simple statement of fact. I’m afraid I don’t have the time now to give you a rundown. Watch the speech tonight. That will clarify everything.”

The nation’s senior cop used up every last ounce of his patience to keep from screaming. “
Sir
! With all due respect, when is the chief law enforcement officer in America left out of the loop on a matter of so-called terrorism?”

One of the new generals answered while the president tried to form a diplomatic response.

“When it’s a military matter. We’ll let you know if we need anything.”

While the president avoided eye contact with anyone, some Secret Service agent rested a firm hand on the FBI chief’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to leave now. We’re about to start a classified briefing. Essential personnel only.”

10 February: 2000

Ever since the genius politicians closed the border, the state of Florida was on a war footing. There was an armed man behind every Palm tree. That paranoia grew as much from internal threats as from fear of Washington’s response. According to the opinion polls, ¾ of the population supported the acting governor and Senator Dimone. So many people so fired up, it was a classic case of the tail wagging the dog.

Of course, in a state of 19 million people, that left millions of potential agitators. Within their own borders existed an enemy far more numerous than the combined Federal Armed Forces.

You also had to reckon with the Floridians’ love of lawlessness just for the fun of it. For every IRS office burnt or ransacked during the first few days of heady “freedom,” a local county tax collector’s office went the same way.

Still, like most things in Florida, it was only for show. The “closed border” was one of the most active in the world. By conservative estimates, a quarter million people crossed every day. Mostly headed north to get out of the way of the oncoming storm, but a surprisingly large number coming south looking for trouble.

Another crumbling aspect of the facade were the local politicians that weren’t on board with the program. Especially from communities that benefited heavily from federal spending. For the most part, Tallahassee followed the time-honored political strategy of just ignoring them. This whole stunt was supposed to be for the cameras anyway. Any attempt to punish the local holdouts would give the enemies of Florida, naturally defined as Senator Dimone’s political opponents, proof that they weren’t such a united front.

In this game of high-stakes chicken, a war of explosive bluffs and rapid-fire sound bites, the slightest perception of weakness was a battle lost. In retrospect, this same facade of steely resolve scared so much of the country and guaranteed a heavy-handed response. Like so many accidents, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Just act invincible a little while longer. Keep consolidating your base support while the other guy’s split. An old strategy, but effective. Dimone and his team saw the president’s extreme blustering as desperation. The more they provoked him, the more rope he had to hang himself. Of course, the harder they pushed, the more his actions appeared justified. Welcome to the surreal world of American politics.

Acting Governor Pickens fanned himself while he waited outside the convention center for the conference to start. This Council of Governors meeting here in Tampa should have been the centerpiece of the grand theater. They weren’t off to a great start. The name itself was a misnomer. Only a handful of governors came themselves and not even every state bothered to send a representative. No matter. None of the organizers were getting bogged down in such technicalities.

Dimone’s handlers kept their eyes on the big picture. On all that mattered: how the show looked on television. The décor, the pageantry, a few celebrities, the marching band and the laser light show were all so over the top as to make Kim Jong-un look humble.

This desperate gamble was the biggest sign for Governor Pickens, head honcho after his old boss finally passed away and the lieutenant governor resigned overseas, that maybe he wasn’t backing the winning horse after all. The president’s donors definitely had deeper pockets and weren’t shy about reaching in.

The other side’s advertising blitz numbed the mind. Those Washington elites didn’t bother spending marketing money in Florida; why compete with Dimone’s money in a state that was already lost? Instead, they showered the swing states in their cash. It was working, too. While Florida grew more radical, the polls everywhere that mattered swung slowly but steadily in the president’s favor.

Pickens shot the excited reporters another million-dollar smile. No, it wasn’t that bad. If they could flip just a few sympathetic governors, the president’s hold on power would collapse. Only a mass movement, or something perceived as popular, could rattle the Administration’s power tree. One rough shake and the president and all his cohorts would come tumbling out of their clubhouse.

Conversely, Dimone stood on the ground with no real tree of his own. This get together was the best and maybe last chance to show the legitimacy the senator’s campaign so badly needed. It also couldn’t hurt Pickens own standing. The acting governor didn’t try to suppress his self-satisfied smile as he counted all the network cameras crowded around the convention center’s entrance. The senator and company liked to treat the governor as a useful fool. Well, who outmaneuvered whom tonight?

Senator Dimone was going to be the last to arrive at his own party. What a smooth move from Pickens to convince Dimone’s PR team, at the last second, to slip the governors of California and Washington into the senator’s motorcade instead of the boss. Those two were by far the most famous and prestigious guests. Their presence ensured instant and major media obsession. Riding in Dimone’s limousine, they would draw the network attention first, helping to bolster the senator’s national leader credentials. They were truly the opening act for his grand entrance.

The key detail Pickens left out was who, of all people, would be the smiling face welcoming them to the Freedom Convention? While the senator rode along behind them in an unmarked SUV, just a little too late for the big show. Pickens beamed harder and fiddled with his American flag lapel as the motorcade drew within sight.

A quick
whoosh
drowned out the humming crowd. Pickens did briefly see the missile’s flaming tail, though his mind wouldn’t register the fact until he dreamed about that night in agonizing detail. After the black cloud cleared, the strike’s precision was impressive. The laser-guided death ripped Dimone’s limousine into two twisted pieces and left a small crater in the road…but caused zero collateral damage. No physical collateral damage, at least. The fallout from the cameras streaming raw footage of the assassination of two popular state governors worldwide was a different story.

The motorcade’s security detail had kept the dangerous crowds and suspicious traffic at a safe distance. Which just made their principal an even more inviting target for the
Reaper
drone cruising 5,000 feet overhead. It would continue to circle for another half hour and use a variety of outrageously expensive sensors to confirm that Senator Dimone did not survive the attack.

Shocked as he was, Dimone still knew a photo op when he saw one. Despite the wrenching of his stomach, he sprinted from his place in the rear of the convoy straight towards the fire. The moths and their cameras fluttered in from the convention center. Casting about for the best response, he began performing something similar to CPR on a fallen motorcycle cop. The officer’s pleas that he, “only had the wind knocked out,” were met with more vigorous pumping and awkward attempts to kiss him by Dimone.

Just as the policeman began drawing his service pistol to finish what the drone couldn’t, another cop stepped in and “relieved” the politician. Dimone fired off that world famous grin and shouted at the cameras. “He’s going to make it!”

Neither of the neutral, but beloved governors of Washington and California in the shredded limo were so lucky.

Three hundred miles northwest at Eglin Air Force base an Air Force general, provisionally promoted after his predecessor refused to carry out the mission, congratulated an unhappy pilot sitting in a souped-up Xbox video game console. A junior officer peeked in and meekly suggested he should turn on the TV and, by the way, there was a rather pissed off White House staffer on the line.