NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (3 page)

At the White House, Bascom Whitfield had cobbled together an assembly of ordinary people called upon to perform extraordinary tasks. He had relied on little more than his bare instinct to fill government positions that traditionally were rewards for years of Washington ass-kissing. His temporary Cabinet bore such slight resemblance to his predecessor’s that the media had already dubbed it the “Bass Cab.”

As acting Attorney General, he had picked Lincoln “Link” Jefferson, a man who had distinguished himself as a straight shooter, incorruptible to the core. Ert and Leadoff had seen him in action and knew he was a person a man could trust, an independent thinker who would call a situation as he saw it.

When the East Texas lawyers arrived at the White House, the staff escorted them to the Situation Room, where they stood elbow to elbow with the President, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and all the new acting heads of the various departments Bass Whitfield had appointed over the course of the last three days. President Whitfield motioned them to sit one on his right and the other on his left hand and began the discussion.

“We are here to re-constitute the union,” he began. “Our enemies have sought to deliver a fatal blow to us, and they have failed. They will have hell to pay for it when the time comes. In the meantime, we must stay the course, encourage the American people, and let them know that those who oppose our democracy will never prevail by means of terror and intimidation. We will hunt down the perpetrators of these heinous crimes and make sure that they pay for their deeds according to the mandates of American law,” he said.

The room was silent for a minute before a spontaneous standing ovation arose from those around the table. It continued until the President motioned everyone to sit down.

After the mood in the room had quieted, President Whitfield asked each Cabinet member to report on the status of his or her department. He then excused them except for Ert, Leadoff, Link Jefferson, and Sherman Aloysius.

“Link, I know things have developed fast, but do you have any clue yet who is behind the assassinations?” Bass asked.

“We are working every angle to try to get to the bottom of it,” Link said. “No one has claimed responsibility, so we are assuming they want to remain hidden. We don’t have a handle on whether it is a domestic or foreign threat. However, no one could have gotten to the President without strong ties deep into the inner sanctum of the government,” he said.

“I figured as much,” President Whitfield said. “I want these two men as my personal bodyguards,” he said, handing Link a piece of paper with the names of the two young cotton farmers, BB and Nate, on it.

“I’ll get right on it, Mr. President,” Link said.

“Mr. President,” Sherman Aloysius said. “I think it is entirely possible that our present situation is a prelude to a political move by enemies of the union, people who had become disenchanted and fearful of your predecessor’s policies.”

“I’m listening, general,” Bass said.

“Nothing in the country’s history rivals these events. We have heard for months the growing animosity of those who opposed him. I firmly believe that they have orchestrated these events to create a vacuum of leadership, so that they could fill it with their own people. They have staged a coup by killing ten people rather than a million, and making an attempt to kill eleven, that would be you, Bascom,” he said. “I expect to see someone come forward soon, not to claim responsibility for the murders, but to proclaim himself as the person who can lead the country out of the slough of despond, a self-appointed savior who is probably the mastermind of the conspiracy.”

“Makes sense to me,” Leadoff said.

“To me, too,” Whitfield said. “Let’s see who comes forward and take it from there. Meanwhile, I am going to show them that even though I never asked for this job, I am up to it.”

“We have no doubt, Mr. President,” Ert said as each person in the room nodded his approval.

TWO WEEKS AFTER
the assassinations, J. Franklin Westmoreland drove to a mountain retreat near Gatlinburg, Tennessee. His host, the scion of a timber baron, met him in the driveway and escorted him, with much pomp and circumstance, into the main dining hall of his home where twenty-five prominent clergymen sat waiting for him. When they saw him enter the room, they stood and applauded. “Praise the Lord’s” filled the house. When Westmoreland took his seat at the head of the table, his face shone like Jesus on the Mount of Transfiguration.

The table was spread with prime rib, barbeque, grilled and fried chicken, boiled shrimp, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, okra, steamed and fried rice, and corn on the cob. The dessert table featured pecan pie, coconut pie, banana pudding, and everyone’s favorite—bread pudding with whiskey sauce.

Young waitresses with southern European accents served carafes of red and white wine to the preachers who drank from large silver goblets. In the background, a famous southern gospel quartet performed a list of their greatest hits.

When everyone finished eating, the host introduced Westmoreland, who stood at a lectern to address the crowd.

“Brothers and sisters, it warms my heart to see you here this evening, not to honor me, but to honor our Lord Jesus,” he began.

Amens.

“From my conversations with many of you, I know that in recent months and years we have all shared a fear that our beloved land was slipping into the hands of the Enemy. I am here to announce to you this evening that we are going to reclaim it for the Lord.”

Louder amens.

“The Lord has revealed to me that those of you sitting around this table will soon sit at another one, a table from whence we will rule this country for God and proclaim His law, and His law only, the law of the land. We will not rest ’til justice rolls down from these mountains like a mighty stream. Are you ready to dedicate yourselves to the task, to bring in the kingdom of heaven?”

Westmoreland watched as pandemonium erupted. Spontaneously, the band struck up
Onward, Christian Soldiers
. People broke into a chant: “Christian Militants, Christian Militants.”

Throughout the night, Westmoreland met with groups of his followers, developing a strategy. In a session of the top leaders, late in the evening, a young minister from Houston’s largest church rose to ask a question. At a scrawny five feet five inches, Leon Martinez looked more like a banty rooster than a powerful, political influence.

“Brother Westmoreland,” he said, “What course of action do you have in mind? It seems obvious to me that President Whitfield, regardless of how questionable his ascent to power may have been, will not simply step down and hand you the highest office in the land.”

The room fell silent while Westmoreland paused.

“If he will not relinquish control of the land God has given to us, his chosen people, then God will be with us as he was with the children of Israel when they crossed the Jordan and took the Promised Land away from the heathen Canaanites. We come in peace, but we will raise the sword of the Lord if our enemies require it,” he said.

Martinez wasn’t through. “Brother Westmoreland, I am on your side, but you realize that the existing authorities in Washington will see this sort of talk as treason. If we go down this path, there is no turning back.”

“You are absolutely right, Leon. There is no turning back. That is why we must carefully lay our plans, count the cost, and ensure that we do what the Lord requires of us to get ready to man his army.”

Later, Westmoreland approached Martinez in private. “Leon, you have to learn that there is a time for talk and a time for listening,” he began. “We can’t squelch the movement before it gets off the ground. I’m not talking about a raid on the White House next week, for God’s sake. I’m talking about political power in the hands of the right people, us. If things must turn violent, we will cross that bridge when we get there,” he said.

“If you’re expecting Texas to follow you down this road, we will need some assurances,” Martinez said, playing his own hand.

“Don’t worry. You have one of the main seats at the table. There is plenty to go around for all of us,” Westmoreland said.

“I need to have a little more detail than that,” Martinez said.

“Let’s take a walk and iron out a few issues,” Westmoreland said, placing his arm around Leon’s shoulder like the Prodigal Son’s Father welcoming him home from the far country.

ON MAY DAY
, race riots broke out in Los Angeles, Detroit, Atlanta, and Dallas. That same day, Link Jefferson convened the heads of the agencies investigating the assassinations for a summit.

“What do we know and why don’t we know more than we do?” he began.

The director of the FBI went first. “Obviously, all these killings came from a central conspiracy. The fact that other attacks haven’t come yet leads us to conclude that it is a domestic group, seeking to de-stabilize the government, but for what ends we don’t know.”

“The President’s death and the Speaker’s had to come from within the Secret Service,” the head of that agency said. “All evidence points to Ithurial Finis, our top man, as the shooter. He vanished April 11 and hasn’t surfaced yet, despite our efforts to locate him. I would never have thought he could be compromised.”

“What about the men killed in the gunfight at the cotton patch?” Link asked.

This time the director of Homeland Security spoke up. “We haven’t been able to identify the bodies. BB Butler said one gunman had a slight foreign accent, maybe British. We found a pamphlet in their lease car that looks like it came from a religious group that works the Houston airport soliciting donations. We are questioning as many of them as we can find to see if anyone can give us anything that might help. The would-be killers were definitely professionals who knew how to cover their tracks. I don’t think they expected to have to deal with a couple of armed, former Special Forces guys in the cotton field.”

“But they also weren’t afraid to risk their lives. Neither was Ithurial Finis. No one could expect to shoot the President in the White House and walk out without being detected. All these men had to know that they had signed on for possible suicide missions,” Link said. “The guy who got the Vice President and Secretary of Treasury took it all the way. The conclusion I draw is that the conspirators believed they were doing what was right. They acted on behalf of what they considered a higher good, a noble calling, willing to lay down their lives to accomplish these killings. In my experience, that usually means that God is somehow tied up in the deal. When your folks talk to those cult members from the Houston airport, be sure they run this thing all the way to ground.”

Before Jefferson could continue the briefing, his secretary entered the room and flipped on the large screen TV. CNN had pre-empted its coverage of the riots to carry a live feed of a press conference from Nashville. J. Franklin Westmoreland had just begun his remarks from the steps of the Parthenon.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the United States, today’s lawlessness in the streets, coupled with the assassinations of three weeks ago, demonstrates beyond any doubt that our country is in the greatest moral crisis in its history. We suffer not only from violence, but from a lack of faith, a moral vacuum that has been a long time in the making. We have retreated from the values that made the country strong and rushed to embrace those that have led us near to ruin.

“I stand here today to announce a reversal of our bad fortune. We are placing our feet firmly back on the biblical moorings of our forefathers. I am calling on all god-fearing, Christian people within the sound of my voice to join us in the Christian Militant movement. Over the next few weeks, we will announce state conventions across our land to chart a strategy to bring us out of spiritual and political bondage into the liberty God has promised us as the New Israel, the next best hope for mankind.”

When he finished, he pointed to the grounds surrounding the famous replica of the Greek temple of Athena where a cast of celebrity preachers, movie stars, musicians, and other notables stood holding hands in a sign of solidarity. Despite shouted requests from reporters, he took no questions, but turned sharply on his heel and walked off the platform, his gray hair blowing in the spring breeze.

“Did you see that, Mr. Attorney General?” the head of the Secret Service asked him.

“What?”

With his index finger he touched the screen where a mountain of a man stood clearing the way for Westmoreland’s exit through the crowd. “That’s Ithurial Finis,” he said.

WITHIN MINUTES, FEDERAL
agents from the FBI, Homeland Security, and the Secret Service swarmed the Parthenon. They locked down the entire crowd, searched every vehicle, rifled through offices in all the surrounding buildings, in a vain attempt to arrest Ithurial Finis for the murder of the President of the United States.

Minute stacked on minute, hour on hour, until they had to report to Link Jefferson that Finis had eluded them, that he was nowhere to be found.

“It’s like he vanished into thin air,” the lead agent on the scene said.

“Search everything again,” Link told him. “A two hundred and fifty pound man doesn’t sprout wings and fly away.”

“Yes, sir.”

While the search was underway, Link made his way to the White House to report the latest developments to Bass Whitfield in person. When he entered the Oval Office, the President was watching news reports of the race riots, talking on the phone one by one to the various mayors of the beleaguered cities. Ert and Leadoff sat huddled in one corner of the room, watching General Aloysius as he drew a chart of some sort on a piece of paper laid out on a coffee table.

When the President hung up, the Attorney General explained the situation to him and told him that Ithurial Finis was still at large. Half-way through Link’s briefing, the President interrupted him for a minute.

“General, it looks like I may have to call in the National Guard to help the mayors maintain peace in their communities.”