The Loyal Nine (2 page)

Silence filled the room as Jarrett and McDill exited, closing the doors behind them. Once the room was empty, the President smiled and spoke first.

“How are you, my friend, it has been too long.”

The men shook hands and shared a brief embrace.

“We’ve come a long way in the twenty-five years since we met at Harvard,” he said.

“I will always appreciate your assistance in landing the summer clerk’s position at Hopkins and Sutter,” said the President. “That summer changed my life.”
The summer Saul Alinsky changed your life.

“Well, Mr. President, do you have something against the nine-hole course I built on the grounds?” he asked. “We built it with you in mind—all doglegs turn left.”

“Very funny!” said the President. “It’s ironic. My swing produces a terrible slice, but it plays into a dogleg left perfectly because I’m left handed. I absolutely love your place. It’s difficult for me to find solace. Somehow, Chilmark gives me the opportunity to think and reflect.”

He set the putter aside and motioned for the men to sit by the windows overlooking the pool.

“Your children seem to be enjoying themselves.”

“Definitely. They start school soon and this gives them an opportunity to relax. It’s not easy being the children of a president.”

“How is your wife?”

“She hates me, to be blunt,” said the President. “But you probably already know this. When I entered office, she envisioned an opportunity to effectuate a new direction for America in a dramatic way. Change isn’t easy. I tried to explain to her there would be setbacks and false starts. She wanted me to crush my political detractors. She thought I was being weak, indecisive. In hindsight, I should have fast tracked some of my initiatives while I had super-majorities in both houses. Frankly, I received bad advice from political advisors who were more concerned with an upcoming mid-term election than my agenda. The party sustained heavy losses anyway.”

“I suppose,” came the reply.
Let’s get down to business
. “Mr. President, the election is in ninety days. You know why I am here. A decision needs to be made.”

“Here’s the deal,” started the President. “I still have a lot of work to do. When I came into office, I promised my constituents meaningful change. I told them we are greater together than we can ever be on our own. I am running out of time and I know it. I will not leave office without fulfilling my legacy.”

“I understand, Mr. President.”

He decided to allow the President a little more time to speak and reflect. He would encourage the leader of the free world to reach the necessary conclusion on his own. The President rose to his feet and stared out the window. He put his hands in his pockets and stood stoically for a moment.

“You’ve warned me for years of this possibility,” said the President, breaking the silence. “I have watched as you expertly orchestrate events around the world to achieve certain
mutual goals
. For my part, I have purged the military. I have executed both executive orders and secret directives with a singular purpose in mind. Your associate, Mr. Holmes, has been useful in that regard.”

“He’s a good lawyer, and appreciates the importance of our goals.”

“I have spent the last eight years preparing for this eventuality,” said the President. “In addition to advancing my agenda, I have taken measures to allow for a continuation of my work. In order to win the future, I need more time.”

“What do you propose?” he said.

“There is only one way to circumvent the Constitution without a series of annoying courtroom spectacles,” replied the President. “Martial Law.”

“I believe you are correct, Mr. President. I know you understand the ramifications of such a declaration.”

“I do,” said the President. “The groundwork has been laid. Over the last seven years or so, I have conditioned the American people to accept the presence of our military in their cities and towns.”

“The law supports your approach, Mr. President. Never in the history of our country have we faced so many potentially destructive threats at the same time. Your leadership can guide the nation through a crisis and if handled properly, a continuation of your presidency will be welcomed.”

“Thank you for that,” said the President. “Difficult times lie ahead and will require shared sacrifice by all. I know there will be pain inflicted upon average Americans. I can focus the government’s vast network of assistance upon those who welcome our help, and who agree with our vision for a new America.”

“You will experience resistance from within the government, and beyond.”

“Let me be clear,” said the President with conviction. “This will be an opportunity for all Americans to choose a side. If they wish to be a part of an America that is open to fairness for all, then they will join me. Those who remain loyal to my vision will relish the opportunity to be placed in positions of power. I have no concerns about the American people who have grown accustomed to the benefits my government provides them. They will thrive with the full protection and care for their families.”

“What about your most vehement opponents?”

“Oh, I have a plan for them,” said the President. “Congress gave me fast track authority for trade agreements last year. Under the TPA, I have the ability to issue domestic executive orders over virtually all goods and services produced in the United States. I can issue executive orders for weapons and ammunition confiscation, prohibitions on hoarding food and necessary supplies, gold confiscation and the required relocation to detention facilities for our citizen’s safety. For those who choose to resist by clinging to their foolish notions of patriotism, guns and hypocritical religious beliefs, they will receive the full weight of my government upon them.”

“Russia and China?” he asked, digging a little further.

“We’ll toss them a bone,” said the President. “And stop opposing them at every turn. What about your end? Do you have everything in order?”

“I do, Mr. President. With your assistance, I have planned a series of carefully orchestrated false flag attacks this year. Everything is in order for the final collapse event.”

“Perfect. I will be in Hawaii,” said the President.

“And how will the Vice President react?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the President. “He will be in an unfortunate location when it happens. Where will you be?”

“Initially in Boston with my daughter, then we will evacuate together to Prescott Peninsula.”

“I am glad the acquisition worked out for you,” said the President. “We can offer your daughter a position in the new government when things settle down. What about her patriot friends?”

“Their lineage dates back to the founding of America. They will see the big picture, as will my daughter. All of them realize this country needs a reset. They just don’t know what that entails.”
As for you, Mr. President, your entire career is based upon planned obsolescence.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

December 15, 2015

Shirokino, Ukraine

No warning preceded the artillery barrage. A sharp detonation shook the BTR-7 “Defender,” knocking the American halfway off the troop compartment bench, as fragments thunked against the armored personnel carrier’s thin protective plate. Personal equipment and gear attached to the inside of the starboard-side hull popped loose, tumbling into the tight aisle.

He traded knowing looks with the Ukrainian Special Operations team assigned to escort him. There was nothing they could do to improve the situation. Combat was defined by probability and statistics, and they all knew what to expect next. The second round in the barrage would either land closer or farther from the vehicle, deciding their fate—and there was no way to hide from it.

The next explosion straddled the road, violently rocking the vehicle on its eight-wheel chassis. Fragments punctured the port-side hull, hissing and ricocheting through the armored coffin. The soldier seated to his right snapped backward against the vehicle’s hard interior and slid motionlessly off the bench. Screams of pain pierced the compartment, quickly muted by successive high-explosive blasts. He tucked his knees into the metal bench, making room for the team’s medic, who sprang into action from the back of the vehicle.

“This one is gone,” the American said in broken Russian, lifting the dead soldier’s black watch cap.

A jagged, charred hole appeared above his left eyebrow, evidence that a small red-hot fragment had passed through the wool hat and penetrated his skull. The Special Operations medic directed a flashlight beam at the grisly sight and nodded, pushing through the cramped compartment to reach the source of the screaming near the vehicle’s turret. By the sound of the soldier’s cries, the wound had to be severe. Special Operations soldiers had a predilection for suffering in silence, and this one was kicking and screaming.

The barrage lifted as quickly as it arrived, leaving them alone for the rest of the short ride to the Shirokino front. A few minutes later, after they had calmed the wounded soldier, the vehicle commander’s voice echoed through the vehicle, spurring the soldiers into action. A pair of soldiers lifted the hatches above the troop compartment, squeezing their equipment-laden torsos through the openings. Shirokino was a fluid battlefront against pro-Russian separatist forces, and the vehicle commander wanted three hundred and sixty degree situational awareness as they approached their destination. Freezing rain sprayed through the hatches, driven by a brutal wind that had accompanied a rare Crimean weather front.

The vehicle slowed, and his escort team slid toward the starboard-side exit hatch. When the vehicle stopped, the soldiers opened the two-piece door, disappearing through the hull. The mercenary followed them into the driving rain, sprinting toward a series of drab, pockmarked Soviet-era buildings surrounded by barren trees. He stole a glance at the BTR-7 behind them, seeing two shredded tires. He’d always thought four tires on each side was overkill, but maybe the Soviets had been onto something with their original BTR design.

He kept pace with the commandos, stopping at a low-profile, earthen bunker just inside the tree line. Two serious-looking, heavily armed men wearing dark green camouflage uniforms and ballistic helmets greeted them at the sunken, heavy-wooden-beam-framed entrance to a reinforced defensive checkpoint. Splintered tree trunks and mangled branches gave him reason to believe the area was frequently targeted by separatist artillery. The cold rain was bad enough.

The gruff-looking soldiers fired a string of questions at the Ukrainian commandos, who rapidly answered and stepped aside. All he understood from the exchange was the word
Amerykans’kyy
. The Ukrainian and Russian languages didn’t share enough in common to assure mutual intelligibility.

One of the soldiers asked another round of questions, clearly frustrating the Ukrainian commandos. The second soldier stared at him intensely, almost pathologically, as the rain streamed down his helmet.

“Is there a problem?” he said in Russian, hoping to break this little stalemate.

“Big problem. Our commander doesn’t want to meet with you today,” said the psychotic-looking soldier.

“That’s not what I was told an hour ago,” he replied. “Good men have died bringing me here.”

The man scoffed at the statement, causing a visible scowl from one of the Ukrainian commandos.

“You got a problem?” asked the soldier, nodding at the commando.

The Ukrainian Special Operations officer shook his head and muttered in Russian, loud enough for them to hear, “Militia scum.” Instead of the lethal knife fight or point-blank gun battle he expected, the unstable-looking soldier took a step back and laughed.

“Well, this militia scum has liberated more territory in a month than the Ukrainian military has recaptured in a year,” he said, motioning for him to step forward. “We’ll return this guy after the meeting. Go on—before the separatists drop more shells on your head.”

He nodded at the commando leader, who had been assigned to deliver him, unarmed and unharmed, to the infamous Azov Battalion’s forward headquarters in Shirokino. Andriy Biletsky, the ultranationalist founder and leader of the Azov Battalion, promised to meet with him during an inspection of the battalion’s front-line positions. He would have much preferred to catch up with Biletsky in a quiet bar or swank restaurant in Kyiv, but the enigmatic leader had proven elusive and especially distrustful of foreign interests. His benefactors’ research indicated that Biletsky’s battalion was bankrolled exclusively by Ukrainian oligarchs, a sign of his ultranationalist loyalty.

His mission was to change that. The former Navy SEAL officer turned mercenary had been sent to make an offer his benefactors hoped Biletsky wouldn’t refuse. It wouldn’t be an easy sell. Azov Battalion had fought hard to recapture Mariupol from the pro-Russian rebels, pushing the separatists to the outskirts of Shirokino, where the battle had stalemated for months. His benefactors’ offer of guaranteed, continued arms shipments and financial support came with a high price tag. A price tag he was afraid to mention.

“Follow me,” said the soldier, motioning toward the building directly ahead of them. “He has a bunker beneath the building. You speak Russian, huh?
Amerykans’kyy
still study Russian?”

“Some enemies never change,” said Nomad.

The man laughed, slapping him on the shoulder before heading toward the abandoned apartment block. As the two men drew closer to the structure, he could tell that the buildings had been subjected to sustained bombardment. The sturdy, four-story concrete testaments to Soviet construction stood unfazed despite extensive superficial damage to an otherwise featureless façade. Sturdy construction was about all these buildings had going for them, and in the end, it was all they needed. He seriously doubted any similarly sized building designed in the United States could have withstood this kind of high-explosive facelift.