Richard Peters
Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I
Dedication
This novel is going out to all my brothers and sisters in every branch of the military. All those that answered the call to serve without ever asking, “What’s in it for me?” Especially to the families of those that never made it back. Gone but not forgotten!
This book is intended to give a voice to all those voiceless men and women sacrificed on the altar of power.
PS. To my endlessly patient wife: I really do love you more than my computer!
The Shot Heard ‘Round the World
All the fluttering red, white and blue bunting had a nauseating effect, when stared at long enough through a 13-power scope. John Randall raised his cheek off the rifle’s stock and forced a ragged breath. He even managed to blink. The damn debate moderator kept droning on longer than expected. Well, after a month of planning another minute couldn’t hurt. Any moment he was going to make history.
Even from 400 yards away and four stories high, Randall could still hear the idiotic cheering fire up again. A wave of finality dampened his adrenaline fire as the beaming face of Senator Dimone came into focus. That rich tool was about to make the last speech of his perverted presidential bid.
Ah, but first he must shake hands with his opponent, Speaker of the House Terry Scott. The only real man on that stage. Randall’s vision blurred with a brief flash of regret. He wasn’t a complete psychopath. Deep down, he knew this wasn’t what the congressman meant by his famous campaign slogan: “Enough talk; it’s time for action!”
Sometimes though, the great men of history needed a helping hand. John had done his best the old-fashioned way, but all those long hours spent volunteering and canvassing for Scott’s campaign were just so trivial. Especially when stacked against the billion dollars poured into Dimone’s various Political Action Committees (PAC’s) by unknown donors. He shook, recalling the hopelessness of investing every spare moment of the last year in trying to save his dear country. His wife’s pitying face, even as she took his kids and left, cluttered his sight picture.
John’s teeth clacked in rage. That quack the judge ordered him to visit would probably suggest popping another pill right now. Throwing the drugs away last week was the smartest call he’d ever made. He’d never seen things so clearly. Most definitely, he wouldn’t have had the courage to deal with his enemy if still on that mind-altering crap. He rubbed his sweating palms on his pants and slid the window open.
While no one would confuse John Randall for a true sharpshooter, firing a box a day of .30–06 for a month on a 500-yard range sure builds confidence. He took up as comfortable a position as he could out on the ledge. Just like in the movies. He was even dressed head to toe in black.
The reassuring weight of his semiautomatic rifle soothed his nerves better than any drug. He had to buy the weapon with cash from some gun show, since that damn judge put his name on a list with the FBI. Like a sign from Heaven, the wind died down. Perfect. Shifting his weight, he savored the God-like sense of power from his perch. Randall drank in the grinning face of his prey at the other end of the scope…perhaps a moment too long.
With his whole world focused on the golden clasp of Dimone’s $1,000 power tie, John failed to notice some Secret Service agent near the target clutch his earpiece and shout. John sure noticed the chest-caving impact of an alert police sniper’s round ripping through his left lung a split-second later though.
His well-practiced, gentle squeeze on the trigger collapsed into an untidy jerk. John Randall’s body raced the spent casing to the ground, but he felt no regret. Relishing the fresh scent of decisive action and sweet gun smoke gave him a greater sense of peace than people would expect from someone drowning in their own blood.
Four hundred yards downrange, Congressman Scott wondered what kind of political stunt this was when someone yelled “Get down!” and his opponent shrieked like a schoolgirl. The pieces slowly came together when the craaack of something split the air, followed by his screaming rival falling backwards.
It all became crystal clear when the round missed Senator Dimone, struck an oversized flagpole behind him and ricocheted through the base of Congressman Scott’s neck instead. With the vertebrae shredded, Scott was dead before his body hit the ground. Even so, his disjointed head still made a comical bobbing motion closely imitating his famous, “Together, we can!” advertisements… all in front of the live, primetime coverage cameras.
Millions of voters watched their hopes die in high-definition detail. Thousands of filthy rich campaign donors saw a huge investment vanish faster than any stock market “flash crash.” Hundreds of other politicians witnessed the entire political landscape turn upside down. A half dozen television networks observed their ratings skyrocket.
Regardless of what each viewed from their unique perspectives, they all drew the same conclusion: whether they liked it or not, violence was now the decisive force in American politics.
It was a lesson none would soon forget.
Part I
“Society was cut in two: those who had nothing united in common envy; those who had anything united in common terror.”
Chapter 1
New York City
“This isn’t news Chris. It’s just a rumor, at best. You can’t run that!” Jessica Sinclair folded her arms and glared at her producer. The man just shrugged his shoulders and poured his sixth cup of coffee. He grinned wide, without the slightest bit of self-consciousness.
“That’s why it’ll be aired as an ‘unconfirmed report,’ and that’s why you’re going to get me some other sources.”
Jessica let go her indignation long enough to give into curiosity. “Me? Why do you want a financial correspondent to report on a political story?” Her boss gave one of his rare smiles.
“Come on, Jess. Politics, finance… if you really think there’s a difference nowadays, then maybe you’re in the wrong line of work.”
Jessica snatched her purse and stormed out, only to throw it back at the tacky faux-leather chair she abandoned.
“What I mean,” she crossed her arms and began with more patience than she felt, “is how can anyone prove overnight that Senator Dimone was behind the assassination of his rival, huh? This is just mudslinging at its worst. That’s the sort of gossip politics any loud-mouthed dick could cover. I don’t see how I can add any value.” She finally sat down with a satisfied grunt.
“Your value comes precisely from not being one of those loud mouthed dicks. No other news outlet is giving this official coverage. By giving these allegations a fair hearing, by examining the facts involved, you can add that edge of legitimacy that’ll turn readers from the competition.”
“What damn facts? That’s the one thing these claims are short on.”
For the first time he took his other eye off the TV in the corner and gave this skeptical blonde his full attention. Not a good sign. He never notices a woman unless he wants something from her.
“Jessica, do you think a newspaper, even one as old as ours, runs on facts? It runs on advertisement and advertisement runs on getting attention. In the TV age, we had the edge by offering more detail than the boobtube. Now, in the internet age, we’re even getting whooped on that front. All we can offer is speculation or scandal, same as them, but from a respected source. Even better, speculation about a scandal. Let the reader make up their own mind.”