CHAPTER FORTY
Live news challenged the most seasoned anchor person, but the concept intrigued audiences, boosting viewership. Gimmicks meant little to Rebecca Trevino. She boasted a massive following. Next to Alex Cutler, she might be the most recognizable person on the planet.
Adjusting her posture atop her new chair—one that still smelled of treated leather, on her new set, which covered twice the area of her old one—she scanned the list of off-limit topics between her and tonight’s enigmatic guest, and found his request surprisingly limited.
Someone yelled, “Quiet on the set.” She passed the tablet over her shoulder.
Pressing her beige, knee-length skirt flat against her thighs, she looked over at the producer as he counted down. “Five, four, three…” He pantomimed the final two numbers.
When he made a fist and pointed, Rebecca said one-one thousand in her mind, and began, “Hello. Welcome to a special episode of Inside Today. My guest tonight is none other than Iranian President, Reza Shah.” She faced him, knowing the camera would pan out to include both of them in the shot before zooming in on his face for her first question.
“Thank you for having me,” he said in clear English, spoken deliberately to minimize his accent. “It is my pleasure to be with you.”
“With fourteen days until the global summit that will decide the future of the Lobby, and many speculate, society as we know it, I imagine your administration must be very busy.”
“Yes. Very busy, indeed.”
“I understand, you have declined your invitation to attend the summit. Can you tell me about that decision, and where the Iranian people stand on this heavily divided topic?”
“Certainly. I can tell you, first, that the Iranian people are not divided. We are united as a people, and as a nation, in the direct opposition of that device.
“Myself and other noble leaders will not attend, for we have nothing to discuss. We have formed our own coalition, one that your media neglects. Currently, our thirteen nation union is focusing on our salat prayers, asking Allah the Benevolent for guidance; pleading with him to impart wisdom into the hearts, and sensibilities into the minds, of these New Age Axis and Ally members.
“They must understand, there is no room in God’s world for an invention devised to tempt man into the gravest of all sins.”
Rebecca nodded casually, as if she didn’t experience a tingle with each rise in the death trip total. “There is much speculation that the nations you labeled the New Age Axis and Allies, will reach a compromise. A deal that could include the Eastern nations promising their citizens that if they live honorable, beneficial lives, they’ll receive eternal retirement as their reward. And, that the West will not interfere with this practice as long as strict procedures are in place, including the denial of Lobby assess to citizens from specific nations. There is even speculation Atriums will reopen throughout the United States and its Western allies.”
A deep frown creased from the President’s face. “That would be most unfortunate.”
Rebecca appreciated the twinkle of conviction in his eye. “there is also ample evidence that both sides have increased their military readiness, should a compromise become unachievable.” Pausing a moment, she prepared her bombshell. “Would you say the Middle Eastern coalition, like those in the East and West, are willing to compromise to avoid war?”
The President adjusted himself. The hairs on her arms reached for the skies. If her research proved correct, this would be the mega answer; the one that the estimated two hundred and forty million viewers were tuning in to see.
Pursing his lips as his head slowly shook, he answered somberly, “There can be no compromise with Satan.”
Rebecca screamed, internally. Outwardly, she nodded stoically. That line would air on every station for the next two weeks.
“You’re saying these thirteen military powers are united and ready to use force if the Lobby is allowed to function?”
“I am saying that we are praying for a peaceful resolution. We have yet to identify any nation as an enemy to God. Any actions in the near future will reflect the true views of the two billion outraged Muslims around the world who, along with our Christian brothers, harbor a goal of eradicating a machine that lures souls, otherwise destined for paradise, onto a false platform of Devilish design.”
The camera stayed on him for a full six seconds and then panned out.
“Thank you for your candor, President Shah, but to be clear, you are saying that the Middle Eastern Coalition, comprised of thirteen powerful countries, will target buildings—even if they sit on the sovereign soil of peaceful nations—in pursuit of eradicating the Lobby?”
He folded his hands on his lap, straightened his spine, and said, “We shall do all in our power to assist in the destruction of each wire and every bolt that threatens the very world Allah the Righteous has bestowed upon his children.”
With that, they went to commercial, during which time Rebecca Trevino envisioned herself going on-stage for her Pulitzer in Journalism.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
United States Army’s enlistment numbers hover around one point four million men and women. This vast number of soldiers produced a maximum of seven four-star Army generals. Having one of those important figures visit you and your organization should have brought the highest of honors to Colonel Alan Cox of the Lord’s Thorn. Instead, he felt defeated.
After securing Eridu, Alan asked after his protégé, Tim Vanderhart. Thirty hours passed until they confirmed his death. Alan knew in the first ten minutes. Had Tim survived, he’d have been at Alan’s heel, hollering about the thrill of conquest. Alan intended to boost that excitement with a bump in rank. That would have granted Tim access to the meeting just wrapping up. Witnessing two Generals shake hands could have crossed of a soul on Tim’s bucket list.
Alan felt relief seeing General Koster of the United States Army board the elevator, exit the gargantuan condo occupying the top floors of La Berce.
General Trieu of the Lord’s Thorn had dismissed the other colonels, asked Alan to stay behind. With their honored guest descending, Trieu strutted back, beaming.
“Can you believe all that?” He passed over one of the dark-stained bridges throughout the home. The water that used to run underneath had been drained long ago, leaving a dry bed. Each step over the bridge echoed. The sound seemed to amplify the emptiness.
Alan had spent his life in Northern Michigan, where home prices hovered around seventy thousand dollars. Much better than the ghettos of Detroit, where a once-loved brick home could be purchased for two-thousand bucks; where five grand got you the pick of the litter; where sometimes the city paid you a hundred dollars to take a home if you promised to make it livable.
He imagined this cavernous marvel of good-smelling wood carried a value triple entire neighborhoods in Detroit; cost more than square miles of property around their old clubhouse property.
“You’re a smart man, Alan,” Trieu said as he passed him and peered out of the window, no doubt to savor every glimpse of the four-star general by watching his departure. “You tell me, why did I ask you to stay behind?”
Alan snorted. He pictured more dread accompanying this. Instead, relief escorted his impending termination. He’d been insubordinate, bordering on mutinous, since their landing, but as the saying went, “life off the farm wasn’t all song, dance, and long legs.” In response, he said, “To relieve me of my duty?”
Trieu looked at him with a crude smile. “No, sir. I want to promote you. Hand us each a new star, courtesy of General Koster.”
A military Humvee appeared beneath them. From this height, it resembled a crab scurrying across a beach. Their Army friend had choppered in various military equipment: high density receivers to allow excellent satellite relays; crates with M4A1s and AR-15s and one with RPGs; containers of leisure items for the officers; low temperature clothing; night-vision goggles; climbing gear of enough diversity to allow multiple teams to operate in any region—a bountiful reward for a successful mission.
Following the road in both directions, Eridu teemed with activity. The women and children had arrived two days ago. The vehicles that brought them filled the Atrium parking lot and desert beyond the airport. And though the majority of the helicopters survived the assault, most had been returned to their original owners.
Due to the volume of new arrivals, families still located loved ones. Once done, they were assigned lodging on the east end of the compound.
Alan found it disturbingly convenient how none of them asked where the previous residents—whose photos still decorated the walls and whose clothes still filled the dressers—had went.
Alan didn’t want a promotion; assumed a refusal equaled his death. Trieu’s first order after touching down at Eridu—to shoot anyone who moved—revealed the man’s heart.
Alan feared waking each night to find a blade spilling open his throat. The thing was, without Tim to mold; with having ingested a lifetime worth of nightmares over the past week, Alan no longer gave a shit.
“You still with me?” Trieu asked. “No ideas as to why I’d want that?”
Coming up empty, Alan shook his head.
“You’ve opposed nearly every decision we’ve made here.”
Easiest thing I’ve ever done, thought Alan. Instead of replying, he worked his jaw to one side, dug his tongue into an upper molar.
“Yet, you don’t vocalize your disapproval; you haven’t tried to organize a revolt.”
“Perhaps, I don’t disapprove,” he said with causticity.
“Ah, but you do, Alan. We both know it. It’s just, you have impeccable respect for the chain of command.”
“Unfortunately.”
General Trieu swiveled his body, taking in his burly guest. “You broke Verhultst’s nose. Fractured his eye orbital.” He looked back out the mega window. “What was he doing? Harassing one of the female captives?”
“Raping.”
“I guess that’s applicable,” Trieu inspected Alan through his reflection. “Despite three against one, you helped that woman because you’re a good man. It earned you major respect around here.”
“Lot of good it did her.”
Another beat.
Trieu shrugged, “War’s a nasty business. In this situation, we can’t let anyone go. Can’t afford to take care of them, risk someone slipping off. Poisoning their food was a mercy.”
Alan’s blood warmed. The general might be better trained, but Alan was twenty years his junior, and sixty pounds heavier. Alan experienced a flash of clutching the man by the back of his neck, bashing his face into the glass before them, see if he found death be severe head trauma a mercy.
“You remember walking into that room?” Trieu said.
Alan flinched. They’d entered the upper level access room on the first day together. He’d never forget the sights, or the smell. Slumped bodies occupied dozens of chairs. Three times that number were strewn on the floor like discarded garbage. Enough piss pooled on the floor to constitute a pond.
“That’s what we’re fighting here, Alan. It’s uglier than my tough decisions. It’s the Devil’s work.”
Alan nodded. He’d headed those who volunteered to load the corpses.
Those twenty-four hours passed in a haze. Fill the elevator, send it down. After each return, they’d wash it out, get that floor spotless, then turn it filthy. For what?
Unconsciously, they’d saved the children for the last. Thirty-two of them. Twelve no older than nine. The youngest, a toddler, died with a look of absolute horror on his face. A single gunshot wound dotted his little chest.
“You a New Testament guy, or an Old?” Trieu asked.
Full disclosure, Alan had dyslexia, never read either. He knew God existed and that more and more of the world was being cast under some MTV spell of stupidity, short skirts, and society as a hive-mind. He knew big name pharmaceuticals were drugging a generation to make them dependent so those in control could instill socialism and attain dominance. He knew, due to a genetic memory that stored a person’s actions and compiled generational traits since the genesis of life that a high percentage of blacks were violent, sexually deviant, and that they corrupted everything they came into contact with. Yet, he’d never wanted them dead. Just let them have their continent of chaos and anarchy, while the rest of the world prospered with kindness and compromise.
Trieu continued, “The Old Testament is all that matters. Ain’t no substance to the New. It’s passive bullshit about turning cheeks. Ain’t no mention of God. How crazy is that? Just some guy going around talking to people, tempting them to go against everything said in the first half of the Bible.”
In the distance, the Humvee stepped near a helicopter and little specks moved into the awaiting transport.
“If you love Jesus,” Trieu continued, “I’m not going to knock it, but he ain’t God. It don’t say that on ‘nan one of them pages. God tells us the Devil’ll strike and it’s up to us to douse his fire.” Another beat. “Do you have any doubts this machine is Satan’s minion?”
Alan considered the question. The memory of lifting that young boy off of the cold floor remained fresh. The kid had been chucked aside with such disregard, he’d landed on his face, smashing his nose almost flat to one side. The boy’s small, well-kept afro showed his pride in appearance, which meant in self, often in others. He might have been a good looking kid, had rigomortis not molded that into place.
He pictured Tim’s face battered and distorted like that and inhaled. The one solace of Tim’s death: he could move on, avoid being siphoned into a godless machine.
“No, I have no doubts. It’s a soulless evil devised to destroy everything good and pure in our world.”
“That’s right, and yet you think many of my decisions have been…harsh.”
Alan scoffed. “They could have been handled with more compassion, yes.”
“That’s why you have to be our second in command.”
Alan focused on his own haggard reflection as the helicopter blades started to spin in the distance. With a heavy beard, a mustache grown to cover both lips, and thick hair, he appeared the last survivor of a lost clan.
“Between you and I,” Trieu continued, “we have every man on this compound’s unwavering loyalty. This thing’s just beginning. We have a short time to train until this international summit will decide the fate of billions; of every breathing body on this planet.
“If what general Koster just said is true, America is willing to compromise her values. They will discard God’s laws. Thankfully, some in the military will protect our future. They intend to take the fight to foreign soil, start a war, regardless of commands. As they lay waste to the enemy, the Lord’s Thorn must cleanse our homeland.
“We have our targets, their addresses, and the men. We have technical support, the explosives, and the financing. What we need is leadership.” Turning to face Alan, he extended his hand as if to shake. “I know you’re still ready to lay down your life in the pursuit of destroying this great evil. Be the check that balances me.”
Alan looked at the hand and breathed deeply. He couldn’t support General Trieu’s actions, but they lived in a fallen world. Alan’s only certainty was the Lobby brought wickedness. He raised his hand, yet avoided the grip. “As long as in that process we don’t become the monsters we intend to defeat.”
Trieu nudged his hand forward, but didn’t clasp. “Fair enough. But you accept that our hands must get bloody.”
Alan made the connection, and squeezed his general’s hand. “Absolutely.”