Anthony Chattem covered his mouth to keep himself from snorting. Max knew Chattem held a deep disgust for the rich, but he figured his target would come around once he really thought about the big picture. An awkward moment passed.
“I agree peace is in our nation’s interest,” Chattem conceded. “However, to return our nation, if not the rest of the world, back to peace takes more than the musings of one old man. I’m sure you’re aware of my many attempts in Parliament to extricate Britain from this American war. Sadly, the Tories have tied our nation to the whims of that bloviating idiot in the White House who started this entire war. I’m not sure that there’s much I can do at this point to change that fact.”
“My concern is with Britain, Mr. Chattem, not America,” Max replied. “I, like many other Londoners, do not want the country to go down with a sinking ship. We want to salvage what we can and position ourselves to rebound when the eventual recovery from the war happens. To that end, if you were to become PM, what would be your stance toward the Russian Federation and the Eastern Alliance?”
Chattem smiled. “If I were prime minister, I would end British involvement in the war. This is a war that we should not be involved in, and I, for one, do not believe we should lose any more of our youth fighting a war that the Americans forced NATO into. As to the Eastern Alliance — again, Korea and Taiwan aren’t a concern to the UK. And Asia is a long way from Britain. Does that answer your question?” Chattem asked.
Max nodded. “From a business and policy perspective, this makes sense, and that is what the people I represent also want to see happen. Your stance has always been antiwar, and your policies have been focused on solving the problems of Britain and taking care of those in need domestically. I admire that about you, Mr. Chattem, and I’d like to do my best to help you get to 10 Downing Street one day.”
Chattem rubbed his chin, deep in thought.
Sensing some concern, Max pressed in. “What would it take for you to become the next PM? The interests I represent may be able to help, but ultimately, we need to know what will make the difference. And please, do not hesitate to tell me exactly what you need, no matter how crazy it may sound.”
Chattem laughed. “Eliminating half a dozen Tory MPs would be a start,” he said jokingly, not realizing that Max was very serious about doing “whatever” it took to get him into office, even if it meant offing a few pesky members of Parliament.
Chattem paused, calculating a more useful response. “I need a public relations disaster for the current government,” he remarked. “Suffering military defeats is one thing — my party is already using that to our advantage with the antiwar marches and protests — but if London and some of our other major cities were ever attacked, especially after the PM said we were well protected, I think that would go a long way in destroying the moral support of the people for the party in power. If a scandal were thrown in at the same time, it could be enough to cause the current government to collapse, or at least give me the leverage needed to call for a vote of no-confidence,” he concluded.
Max took a deep breath and let it out. “That is a big list, Mr. Chattem. I’m not sure that my backers can carry out any or most of that. However, I’ll bring it up to them, and we’ll try to help where we can. As situations do happen to your advantage, you will need to capitalize on them, Mr. Chattem. If we’re to spend enormous political and financial capital to help advance you into the PM office, you will have to pay us back some favors when we call upon you. Is that understood?” he asked.
This was the moment of truth. Would he get Chattem to agree to a quid pro quo? Once he approved their little arrangement, he would forever be ensnared in the web of the GRU and be their perpetual pawn, unless he wanted to be exposed.
“Mr. Weldon, I won’t agree to a blank check of support to the global elites your firm represents,” Chattem asserted. His face softened. “I have made my positions on the war and internal policies clear, which I believe coincide with your own interests. If I am so fortunate as to become the next prime minister, I won’t forget those who helped me get there. I will give your concerns due consideration.”
Max nodded, then pressed him a bit further. “If we’re able to help you become PM, your position is that you would end British involvement in the war and sue for a separate peace with the Eastern Alliance, correct?” Max asked a bit more directly and forcefully. He needed to know beyond a doubt that Chattem would be sympathetic to their cause if he rose to power.
Mr. Chattem looked nervously at his watch. He was probably starting to worry that this meeting was taking too long and thinking about how they might get caught.
“Mr. Weldon, as I said, if I were PM, Britain would end our involvement in the war. If I were PM, I’d pursue a separate peace with the Eastern Alliance and end British involvement in the war… immediately.”
Max smiled. “Got you,” he thought. “You now work for me, whether you know it or not, Mr. Chattem.”
Max stood and extended his hand. “Mr. Chattem, it was good to finally meet you in person and work through some of these critical details. The world is at a precipice. We find ourselves standing at the edge, looking down into the abyss. If calmer heads do not prevail and step back from the edge, I fear the world may fall into that black nether, and God only knows what may become of us if that happens… I will speak with my backers, and we will do our utmost to ensure you’re the next prime minister of Great Britain. If we need to meet again or convey any information between ourselves, my secretary will reach out to yours.”
Chattem nodded. As he began to turn to leave, Max stopped him.
“One more thing — you’ll need to transfer your retirement portfolio to the management of my firm immediately. That will be the cover for any future meetings between us.”
Chattem nodded again, and the two men left the suite and headed out the building through different exits.
The Frozen Chosen
The wind howled fiercely outside, rocking the amphibious assault vehicles, or “amtracks,” with each gust as the 5th Marines raced down the Pyongyang-Kaesong Highway. They were battling against the clock in a desperate attempt to reinforce the US Army’s 7th Infantry Division at Taechon, 128 kilometers north of Pyongyang. If they didn’t arrive soon, many lives would be lost.
A blizzard had swept down from northern China, devastating the Allies’ ability to stop the Chinese Liberation Army’s massive counterattack at the Yalu River. The whirling snow had hidden the movement of tens of thousands of Chinese soldiers and prevented the Allies from using the one asset that neutralized the overwhelming infantry numbers — their air power. Without close air support, the units defending the Yalu line were simply overrun by the sheer volume of enemy soldiers being thrown at them. It was now a race against time to prevent an all-out massacre from unfolding.
Five hours into their race north from Busan, South Korea, the twenty-one Marines riding in the amtrack with Master Sergeant Tim Long were getting a bit antsy. Aside from a pit stop to refuel, they had stayed on the road, which meant no one had been able to fully stretch out or even take a proper bio break.
Master Sergeant Long had just rejoined the company three days ago, after recovering from a few broken ribs and a punctured lung suffered six weeks before. He had been eager to get back to his unit and knew some of the hardest fighting was still ahead of them. However, he hadn’t anticipated this particular fight.
“I guess we’re paying for sending so many of our troops to Europe,” he thought.