A less perfect union, p.15
A Less Perfect Union, page 15
Hanson finished the last of his wine and considered having another, but there was work to be done. New orders. Orders that he would no doubt not complete to the total satisfaction of one Jeffrey Davis.
But there was always that chance, slim as it might be, that he’d do something to really blow his father’s mind. That day was within his grasp, and he wouldn’t stop reaching for it.
He couldn’t.
****
Paul forced his eyes open and everything was blurry. He blinked several times and a shape came into focus. A face. Smooth skin. Bright blue eyes. Chestnut waves of hair dangling over him.
A soft smile on some killer lips.
Angel.
The word flashed into his mind. Fuck. Had he taken the one-way trip up to the Pearly Gates? The last thing he remembered was the Boeing landing at a Canadian airport and an ambulance buzzing him to the nearest hospital. He recalled talk amongst doctors and his father. The words immediate and surgery had both been used.
“I’ll be right here when you get out,” his father had said.
But this wasn’t his father beside him now. No, this was a gorgeous apparition, too beautiful to be human.
“Paul?” Even the voice was heavenly. It stroked him from the inside somehow.
He closed his eyes and brought a hand up to his head, hoping to massage some clarity back to his senses. He hadn’t expected death to smell so… so sterile.
“Paul, how do you feel?” A hand rested on his shoulder. It was warm and solid, not feathery as he expected an angel’s touch might be.
“Is he awake?” Now that voice he knew.
“Dad?” The word echoed between his ears.
“I’m right here, son.”
Shuffling sounded, and Paul squinted as the angel slipped away and his father’s face came into view. The more he blinked, the clearer his father’s image became.
“Where did the angel go?” Paul wanted to thank her for letting him stay among the living.
“Angel?” His father laughed and reached back. When he leaned forward again, the angel was back, only it wasn’t an angel.
“Sheridan.” Paul felt like an idiot, but the pink tinge on the reporter’s cheeks suggested she was rather touched to be mistaken for an angel.
“Hi.” She gave him a wave. “I’ve been called many things, but ‘angel’ is definitely a new one.”
“I blame whatever drugs are pumping through this.” Paul tapped the tube connected to his IV. “What did they do to me?” He tried lifting his head, but the room swirled around him and he flopped back down to the pillow.
“They reconstructed that knee, and you’re on some powerful antibiotics for an infection. Bed rest, physical therapy, and then you’ll be up and about.” His father punched him lightly on the shoulder.
The general then looked away for a moment. That single gesture made Paul certain his father wasn’t telling him something.
“Okay, so what should we be worrying about now? What’s happening?” Paul sat up again, this time more slowly, and Sheridan quickly stuffed additional pillows behind him as the general raised the bed. “Thanks.” He wasn’t sure if he was thanking her for the pillows or for her simple presence. Though she wasn’t saying much, something about having her there soothed him.
“Hanover isn’t dead.” The general’s voice had lowered significantly as Sheridan closed the door and returned to the bedside. “Leo Michaels called me when we were still in the air. Hanover got us clearance to land in Canada.”
“The U.S. is a mess,” Sheridan added. “The military has been paralyzed, and local law enforcement has been easily out-powered. Civilian panic is causing riots and looting. Purist rebels have taken over Washington. It’s like the zombie apocalypse out there minus the zombies.”
Paul looked down to his bandaged leg. Everything from his left thigh down was numb. He tried wiggling his foot, but nothing happened. His pulse quickened as he imagined the worst. A hand over his own ripped his gaze off his immobile foot and settled it on Sheridan.
“Don’t go there. Your body will mend. Don’t let your mind get in the way.” She gave his hand a squeeze then released her hold on him.
She was right of course, but a small piece of his brain was running through all possible scenarios. He didn’t like many of them.
Easley’s phone rang. He pointed a finger at the two of them. “Play nice until I get back.” He swiveled on his booted foot and marched out, barking more orders into his cell phone.
“Sorry about him.” Paul gestured to the door.
“He’s harmless,” Sheridan said.
“Yeah, harmless as an angry grizzly bear.”
“That’s what he wants people to think anyway,” Sheridan said, “but I saw him when he thought you died in Kahil’s caves, when they wheeled you into surgery, when he waited for you to wake up. He’s not so tough when it comes to you.”
Paul’s smile faded. “Well, it’s just us. My mother passed away several years ago.”
“It’s good that you have each other.”
“What about you?” Paul asked. “Any family?”
“Not really. It’s complicated. My father died when I was eighteen. Car accident.”
“All right.” General Easley interrupted. “You need to rest. Doc’s orders.” He corralled Sheridan toward the door, but she continued to look back at Paul.
“Bye,” Sheridan managed to squeeze in before Easley shut the door.
“Bye,” Paul said though they were already gone. He glanced at the clock hanging on the opposite wall and wondered how long it would be before he saw them—saw Sheridan—again.
****
Reporting that Hanover had eluded them hadn’t been a pleasurable job, but it was done and plans rolled on. The real Hanover wasn’t in Washington and for now, that was all that mattered. Civilians had filed out of the Lincoln Memorial area in a systematic fashion. The order of the Purist movement was already being felt, and those that didn’t comply were… taken care of. Roy didn’t ask how. Didn’t want to know how. That was not his part in the mission.
He had no idea what was happening directly outside of D.C., but he was curious. Did the public know Hanover was still alive? Had Washington been secured by the Purists yet? How were citizens outside of Washington reacting? He wished there had been more communication between battalions.
He thought of Jim Faywood’s son and all the other United States soldiers who had died senselessly in battle in the Middle East. He hoped there were no senseless deaths here on American soil due to Purist Party initiatives. Realistically, he understood some lives had to be lost in order to improve the nation, but as his son, Matty, had pointed out with the innocence of a child, killing was wrong. Would he be able to sleep at night if too much bloodshed occurred on his watch? Would the Lord forgive him if he fought for a righteous cause?
Would his spot in Heaven still be waiting for him when the time came?
“Campbell?” a voice crackled in his earpiece.
“Campbell here,” he replied.
“Signal the officers with you to exit the Lincoln Memorial and head to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. You’re needed there.”
“Roger that.”
Roy held up a hand in signal to the troops before him. He circled his fist and pointed to the exit. Their booted feet came together in one synchronous movement then they marched out, two-by-two, their steps echoing against the concrete. The rhythm of it captivated Roy for a moment as he watched them leave. The order. The perfection. The predictability.
That was what the Purists were about. That was what Roy was about.
Inhaling a fresh breath, he filed out behind the last of the troops. They marched down Pennsylvania Avenue, and he was pleased to find the silence continued out there, although the din of something in the distance reached his ears on the slight autumn breeze. Muffled and fading in and out, the noise wasn’t identifiable, but Roy knew it signified a struggle of some kind. Resistance was a large part of the American spirit. The Purists had known that fact going into this strike, but resolve wore down under the right circumstances. He just hoped Purist resolve remained the mightier force.
As they neared the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, he was surprised to see armed American troops guarding the area.
“Campbell reporting in,” he said into his mic. “American soldiers are outside.”
“They’re with us,” came back the reply. “Many military forces have joined us. They see the merit in our cause.”
“The Lord is truly on our side.” Roy waved his hands up to the sky in gratitude.
“Some people know a winning team when they see one.”
Roy was glad to be on the winning team, the team that was taking matters into its own hands.
“Though Hanover didn’t go as planned, you did well at the Lincoln Memorial, Campbell,” the voice said. “Clean, organized, low casualties.”
Casualties? Other than the bullet fired into the Hanover decoy, Roy hadn’t heard any other shots.
“Campbell? You still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m on the front steps of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. Do you see me?”
Roy got on his tiptoes to see over the troops gathered in front of him. He was still a good distance away from the building, but his eyes quickly picked up the waving hand of a figure on the steps. He was too far to see who it was though.
“Yes, I see you.”
“Good. Head toward me. I’ll see you shortly.”
The communication ended and Roy navigated through the troops. As he passed, he got a few pats on the back from ranking officers, both Purist and American-turned-Purist. He accepted their compliments and pushed ahead toward the office building where the United States government had been housed since the terrorist attack on the White House.
At the base of the steps, men from his own Charleston-based militia greeted him with cheers.
He climbed the steps, his rifle still slung across his chest, his uniform moist with sweat from the day’s exertions. No one was waving to him now, but several important-looking men and women stood in a circle by the front doors. When the circle broke, Roy’s mouth opened at who was at its center.
“Mr. Jeffrey Davis,” Roy said, feeling as if he should bow or kneel or something. Of all the names he’d heard tossed around during his time with the Purists, Jeff Davis was always said with a sharp brand of reverence. Technically, Roy didn’t know who “ran” the Purist Party, but all fingers pointed to this man.
“Pastor Roy Campbell.” Davis extended a hand. “Pleased to finally meet you in person. Your work in convincing Jim Faywood to take action against Henry Solomon was pivotal in getting things started and today’s success. The Purists are honored to have you on our side.”
“It’s me who is honored, sir.” Roy glanced around at the other folks nearby, but didn’t recognize any of them.
“Washington is ours thanks to your efforts to help the movement, Roy, and we need a moral figurehead.”
Roy was about to congratulate Davis on his presidency—for surely he was the man for the job—but before the words could leave his mouth, something reached his ears.
A word. A single word. Chanted over and over again. Growing in volume. Thunderous within seconds.
“Roy, Roy, Roy.”
One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes a revolution in order to establish a dictatorship. ~ George Orwell
Chapter Eleven
“Me?” Roy searched the faces of the Purist Party members gathered around him.
“You’re hearing what we’re hearing, aren’t you?” Davis threw a hand out to the troops at the base of the steps. There was no mistaking the name they chanted. “The people want you, Roy. A man of God who can help make our vision a reality.”
Roy squinted at the troops. They risked their lives for the cause. Surely he could do his part as well. He’d led his congregation at Christ Arising Church for years now. He had the skills, the compassion, the wisdom of the Bible, and the support of the Lord. What better way to make sure Lizzie and the children had the future they deserved than to lead the country on this most important endeavor. Could there be any higher calling?
Here am I; send me.
“If I am their choice, I will accept.”
“Good man.” Davis clapped him on the shoulder and ushered him into the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.
They rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor with a small group of Purist Party members, then Davis led Roy into a sparsely decorated, yet large, office. The wall behind the room’s only piece of furniture, a simple walnut desk, was adorned with a wood cross, a silver ichthus, and a painting of the archangel Michael thrusting a spear into a serpent at his feet. To the right of these items hung a new version of the American flag where the blue background behind the stars was changed to red.
“What do you think of it?” Davis pointed to the new flag.
“Bold.” Roy raised his thumb.
“And seven red stripes.” Davis was still admiring the modifications. “We’re taking this nation back, Roy.” He walked to a window, motioning for Roy to follow him. “Earlier today, it was a hurricane out there. Now the winds are calming. That is our influence. It is the order we can bring to all corners of this nation. The order we will bring. Some citizens may think they don’t want what we have to give, but they will come to see, to understand, to believe.”
Roy was moved by his passion. Here was a man who saw how God and government could work together to achieve the perfect balance. The two did not need to be separate. That was how evil wormed its way in.
“And you, my friend, will help deliver the message to the masses.”
“I will.”
After a heartbeat of silent observance, Davis turned away from Roy and said, “Sophie? Where’s Sophie?”
A young woman with long, blond hair and red, square-framed glasses wiggled out of the group of Purist Party members. She wore a crisp, white shirt neatly tucked into a brown-and-white checkered skirt. The skirt, Roy noticed, reached down to her knees, exactly where a true lady’s skirt should reach. Her shoes had a sensible heel too, and her makeup was nearly non-existent.
“Sophie,” Davis said, “give Roy the speech and let in the press.”
She held a tablet out to Roy.
“Press?” Roy took the tablet and briefly scanned its contents.
“A select group of press,” Davis said. “Nothing to worry about. Read this and you’ll be great.” He tapped the tablet and gestured for Sophie to open the office door.
Another member emerged from the group with a dry cleaning bag hanging over her bent arm. “Pastor Campbell, would you like to change into something a little more executive-worthy.”
Roy looked down at his sweat-stained shirt. “Probably a good idea.”
He followed the member into a small side room and quickly changed into a powder-blue shirt, a burgundy tie, and a navy suit. A small golden cross had been affixed to the lapel of the jacket, and he fingered it as he took a few deep breaths.
“Lord, if this is your will, I gladly surrender myself. Fill me with the courage and knowledge to be the leader we need.”
With a sign of the cross and a glance toward Heaven, Roy came back into the office. Camera flashes immediately assaulted his retinas, and he stumbled back a few paces.
“This way, Pastor Campbell.” Sophie appeared by his side and guided him over to the desk. Once he was seated, she pushed the tablet along the desk until it was in front of him. “Good luck, sir.”
Roy looked from the tablet screen to the members of the press standing across from him. They resembled a photograph: poised, waiting, frozen in time. Beyond the press, Davis and the other Purist Party members also waited. Roy decided right then not to disappoint any of them.
“My fellow citizens, we have taken back the American future. Our great nation was tainted. With greed. With immorality. With lies. It was becoming a less perfect union. We could no longer sit back and allow the Devil to divide our country and rape the minds of our children. The wickedness infecting the United States must be eradicated.”
He paused, visualizing Lizzie’s smiling face. Was she watching this? Was she proud of him? It was all for her and the children. All for them. Always them.
“Those in power expected we would simply close our eyes and accept it as ‘business as usual.’ Not this time. Not when the lives of our American military were treated as pawns in some greedy money-making scheme.
“The Purist Party is now in control of many strategic locations across the country. A new era is beginning. For our nation to succeed, we need to move back to the fundamentals of our Constitution, back to one nation under God, back to pure hearts and wholesome minds. The Purist Party can rebuild a United States you will be proud to call home.
“I am Roy Campbell from South Carolina, pastor of Christ Arising Church. I want to lead you into the golden light of a new era. Take the journey with me.”
Roy touched the tablet screen to scroll down, but the speech ended there. He leveled his gaze on the press still standing silently as if wanting more.
“May the Lord see the sincerity of our intentions and may our faith in Him carry us to our greatest potential. He walks beside us always and through Him all things are possible. Amen.”
The applause that erupted within the room filled Roy with something more potent than he’d ever experienced as a pastor. Something more urgent.
He felt as if he’d just fulfilled his life’s purpose.
****
“Roy Campbell.” Hanson Davis studied the pastor’s image on the screened wall of his underground bunker. He had to hand it to his father. The man knew how to put lipstick on a pig. The determination and honor on Campbell’s face was the real entertainment. He actually believed he’d been chosen to lead the new government.
