The Outer Circle (The Counterpoint Trilogy Book 3) (16 page)

Los Angeles, USA

Jennifer absentmindedly put away the last of the glasses from the dishwasher and removed from the 3-D appliances printer a copy of the tea cup she broke yesterday. Two cars were parked on the street in front: a long-familiar older Jeep and an unmarked Secret Service vehicle. After all the death threats, Jeff finally agreed to accept the Secret Service protection. Jennifer brought out coffee and homemade muffins earlier and chatted with occupants of both cars. She suggested to the two supporters of Jeff in the Jeep, young guys in their 20s, that with the Secret Service now present around the clock they could take a break. The guys just laughed:
“Mrs. Kron, we have our shift and we’ll stay here even if they send the whole LAPD!”

The reception at the unmarked car was mixed, the older man in the driver’s seat stared ahead and replied politely but not in a friendly manner, while his younger partner leaned over and beamed:

“Mrs. Kron, our whole family is rooting for your husband!”

Mixed
... Yes, that was a common reaction she and Jeff were getting these days. Like during the last weekend’s neighborhood concert in the park. Some were cheering them on, others staring angrily. The neighbor from across the street demonstratively pulled “Dimon ‘24” cap on his head. The police and photographers hovering nearby were not helping either. Jeff kept insisting that they are still the same regular people, but it seemed more and more a ‘let’s pretend’ game. Sadly, the easy neighborhood camaraderie was gone and many blamed them. Was it worth it? Too late to ask this question.
Accidental politicians...

A beaten-up old Ford pickup pulled up to the curb, just like it did every week for years. One of few luxuries that they allowed themselves: a gardener. Ubaldo, in his straw hat, appeared and waved when he saw Jennifer in the window. He was accompanied by his usual helper, José, carrying a shovel and another man that Jennifer has not seen before. The man carried a potted tree – must be the lemon tree that she asked Ubaldo to plant a couple of weeks ago.

She wiped her hands and rushed out of the house, to show where exactly she wanted the tree planted. Ubaldo greeted her with a big smile showing a missing tooth in front:

“Mrs. Jennifer, how are you today?”

“Fine, Ubaldo, thank you. And you?”

“Very good, Mrs. Jennifer. This is Pedro,” Ubaldo pointed to the man with the tree, “he is learning gardening.”

“Ma’am,” nodded Pedro. Between the tree and a large hat, she could not see Pedro’s face, but he had an accent that did not sound Pedro-like.

“Nice to meet you, Pedro,” she said carefully. “And good to see you, José. Now, let me show you where it should be planted.”

She walked around the side, to the back of the house. A long time ago they wanted to put in a pool, but they never had enough money. For years, it was a playground area for their daughter.

“Here,” Jennifer pointed out to the corner across from the dining room window. “I want to see it from the window but have it far enough from the fence so as not to let it grow into the neighbor’s yard.”

“Yes, Mrs. Jennifer. Good location,” agreed Ubaldo. Pedro put down the tree and took the shovel from José without saying anything.

Jennifer went back into the house, pulled from the fridge the pitcher of lemonade she made yesterday, poured three glasses and placed them on a tray. She saw from the window that Ubaldo and José were now in front trimming bougainvillea bushes and went to see them first. A thin mosquito noise of a police drone overhead was just a familiar background by now.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jennifer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jennifer.”

She smiled. For years she’d been trying to get Ubaldo and José to drop ‘Mrs’ and just call her Jennifer, to no avail.

In the back, Pedro was digging a hole, muscles playing in his broad back.

“Pedro, please have some lemonade.”

Pedro turned around. Under a broad hat, his face looked Slavic. He took the glass:

“Thank you, Mrs. Rostin.”

“Rostin-Kron,” she automatically corrected him.

“Mrs. Rostin, please try not to show any reaction. I’ve met your father, Pavel Rostin.”

Jennifer took a slight step back.
Father has been dead for eighteen years. Pedro... this man... he looks to be thirty. Is this some kind of a trap?

Pedro reached to touch her hand, “I saw him in 2006 in St. Petersburg. My real name is Oleg Khmelco. I was fourteen at the time. I went with my uncle’s family to the Museum of Breaking the Leningrad Blockade. It was June 22
nd
. The day that the war started. We went every year. In 2006, your father came with us. We went to the Piskariovskoye Cemetery afterwards, to your grandfather’s grave.”

He let go of her hand and with the other one gave the glass back to her.

“Thank you for the lemonade. We should not talk here any longer. There is something very important that you need to know. For a month, we’ve been trying to figure out how to safely get in touch with you. After we leave, come check the tree. There will be a message.”

Jennifer went back into the house, slowly as not to betray her trembling knees. She anxiously pattered in the kitchen, drank a cup of coffee while watching Ubaldo and José work on the bougainvillea. Pedro... no, Oleg... came out to the front with a shovel on his shoulder. All three gathered their tools, got into the Ford pickup and drove off. Jennifer, trying not to run, went into the backyard and pretended to inspect the lemon tree. Wedged into one of the branches was a rolled-up small piece of green paper. She carefully lifted it, looked at the tree some more and walked into the house.

A few hours later, the Secret Service car was replaced by another one. A man on the new shift asked:

“Anything unusual today?”

“No. She offered us coffee and muffins. A gardener came with his crew, they trimmed bushes and planted a tree. A neighbor stopped by later.”

Beijing, China

General Wu Cao loved the view from his corner office. No matter how busy he was, at least once a day he would tell the secretary to hold his calls and stand by the window, meditating on his good fortune. Vice Chairman of the Central Military Commission... he clawed his way up from humble beginnings, just like his country. He enjoyed the power of commanding others. He did not want to lose it. He did not want for his country to lose it.

The phone buzzed. Cao grimaced at being interrupted, then remembered that it was time for his meeting with Admiral Kaiping Li of the PLA Navy. That was the reason for his anxiety.
We’d like for you to give stronger consideration to the views of Admiral Kaiping Li
, said the man on the phone. The Admiral then knows that he, Wu Cao, is being controlled. Of course, the Admiral himself must be controlled by the same man.

“Good afternoon, General Cao,” nodded the Admiral politely.

“Good afternoon, Admiral.”

They have exchanged pleasantries, talked about their families, all the while physically feeling the unease of what must remain unspoken. Cao’s secretary brought their tea. It was not the first such conversation they had, but the edginess was always there.

Finally, Cao turned to the topic at hand:

“Admiral, I appreciate our discussions. One can’t overstate the importance of bringing Taiwan back under our rightful control. Last time we talked, you were going to work some more on the plans and the timing of the operation from the Navy’s perspective. In particular, the role and the importance of the Russian Pacific Fleet.”

“Yes, the Russian Fleet,” the Admiral sipped his tea. “I’ve had extensive war game simulations and discussions with my senior officers. We concluded that the highest probability of success in crippling the American 7
th
Fleet lies in using the Russian Pacific Fleet as a bait.”

“A bait?”

“Yes. We hope to deny the Americans ability to enter the East China Sea, primarily using our edge in missiles. But we can’t be assured of success, especially at such a long distance. We have to plan for the scenario where the 7
th
Fleet breaks through and approaches Taiwan. If the Russian Pacific Fleet is positioned in the East China Sea, say about two hundred miles south-east of Shanghai, the Americans will have to attack it. They won’t risk having two hostile aircraft carriers in their back.”

“And we will direct the Russians to come close to the shore so we can protect them with our land aircraft and ground-to-air missile batteries,” nodded Cao.

“Not quite, General. If the Russians are close to our shore, the US 7
th
Fleet won’t send most of their aircraft to attack them. The Americans will not risk their pilots and they won’t see the Russians as much of a threat if the Russian Fleet is far from the action.”

“But the 7
th
Fleet is much stronger, it will annihilate the Russians!”

“Yes, capability-wise the American Fleet is at least three times more powerful. They will sink the Russian carriers,” agreed the Admiral.

“And how do we gain from this?” Cao could not hide his bewilderment.

“We will strike the 7
th
Fleet at the moment when most of their capabilities are deployed against the Russians. We will hold enough missiles, airplanes and submarines in reserve to deal them a deadly blow. This is the ideal scenario for us: with both American and Russian fleets destroyed, we are the ones left standing,” the Admiral took another sip of tea, his face showing no emotion.

Cao stared at Admiral Li for a minute.
I have to watch my back with this man. He is smart and has no scruples.

“I like this plan. I hope we manage to keep the 7
th
Fleet far away from Taiwan, but if we can’t, this could be a blessing in disguise. But what if the Russians don’t join?”

“I am afraid that without them, if we can’t deny the Americans from entering the East China Sea, and if they get close to Taiwan within the first ten days of the conflict, our chances of successfully concluding the operation decline to perhaps fifty percent.”

“The
Politburo
won’t accept such risks,” Cao shook his head.

“No, they won’t. But I’ve heard that the Russians will soon change their policy direction. Some fresh blood with fresh thinking... Have you heard the same?” Kaiping Li looked at Wu Cao with an open, innocent expression.

“Yes, I’ve heard it too,” granted Cao unhappily.
Does this jerk has to rub in that he knows what’s going on behind the scenes?

The Admiral made some noises about taking too much of his host’s time, started getting up, then remembered:

“Oh, the timing... We recommend that the operation be conducted in January.”

“Why January? I thought we’ll be ready by November.”

“I don’t want to underestimate how long the preparations will take. When the logistics department gives me a date, I always add a couple of months to it. Plus, the Americans are now on alert with all the demonstrations the Party organized in front of their embassy. Let things die down a bit, let them think everything’s back to normal. Also, if we do it right on the day they change presidents, that’ll hamper their decision-making, perhaps buys us a couple of critical days. Once we occupy Taiwan, our military position gets much stronger.”

General Cao rocked in his chair, not convinced he wanted to wait that long.

“It was suggested to me that we should wait to attack until January,” repeated Kaiping Li. His expression left no doubt about the source of the suggestion.

I hate this man
, thought Wu Cao.

Washington, D.C., USA

A bespectacled man in a business suit with a cravat stood on a podium in the middle of an empty stage. He cleared his throat:

“Welcome! I am Chris Meadow, editor of
USA Daily
. We are the largest old-fashioned newspaper in the country. ‘Old-fashioned’ because, unlike everyone else, we still distribute a paper edition. So I think it’s quite symbolic that I get to run the largest virtual presidential townhall meeting ever! The actual physical stage around me is empty and will remain so. John Dimon, the leading presidential candidate – and the rest of the country, at least those with the modern TV sets – will join me in an immersive experience that will feel like we are all in the same giant room. Of course, this is not new for most of you; immersive virtual meetings and townhalls have been going on for a few years now. But this is the first time the technology is being applied on this scale to a nationwide audience.”

Meadow took a drink of water and made a broad sweep of his arm:

“We will fill the virtual room with five hundred viewers that enabled the ‘immersive interaction’ on their sets and gave us permission to use them. We had hundreds of thousands of willing viewers so the selection was done randomly. And then we, of course, filtered the selected pool,” Meadow laughed politely, “to avoid the episodes of nakedness or inappropriate behavior. We employ a slight delay so any misbehavior can be removed before it becomes offensive. I know some programs encourage their immersive viewers to act in a lewd or improper manner, but not us. Bring in the audience, please!”

The screen filled up with hundreds of cheering people dressed in all manners of clothing and in all environments. Those that ended up immersed next to each other would shake virtual hands and introduce themselves. Almost immediately, a few of the people disappeared – undoubtedly for ‘inappropriate behavior’ – and were replaced by others.

After a minute of din, Meadow raised his hands palms up:

“Let’s settle down and get to the main event. Please meet John Dimon, nominee of the
Spirit of ‘76
party and the current leading candidate for the President of the United States, joining us from his headquarters in Denver!”

A fog machine filled the stage with vapors and out of it ran a tall, rugged-looking man in a denim shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. He held a football in his outstretched hand that he threw at the audience. Some instinctively ducked, forgetting that Dimon was many miles away. The audience laughed.

Dimon ran over to Chris Meadow and gave him a virtual pat on the back, making Meadow squirm a touch. Upon recovering, Meadow spread his arms:

“What an entrance! Feels like we’re at the Super Bowl. What else would we expect from a flamboyant, decisive, man’s man from Colorado!”

Dimon bowed his head to a thunderous applause, spreading his arms as if to embrace the audience:

“My fellow citizens! My fellow patriots! Please allow me to say a few words before we begin. I am humbled standing here before you. I am grateful for the trust that you have given me. It was less than five years ago that I quit politics as usual and joined the
Spirit of ‘76
movement. And it is a movement, not a party in a traditional sense: we are young and we are open to everyone who believes that America is the greatest country on the face of the Earth!”

Dimon masterfully paused to let the applause rise to a crescendo, lifting his arms with palms pointing up and then turning them over and lowering to bring the applause down. He looked like a skillful conductor managing his orchestra.

“We did not start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign did not originate in the politics-as-usual halls of Washington. It began in this country’s heartland and spread east and west, north and south. It was built by working men and women, not by the power brokers from Washington and New York. This is not my campaign, this is your campaign!”

Dimon allowed another round of applause. There was a sudden commotion in the audience: the editors missed, by accident or on purpose, one young couple quickly shedding their clothing and the viewers and other audience members were treated to a few seconds of intercourse. The video snippet would instantly end up on YouTube and social media networks and have seventeen million hits within four hours. The couple would be identified as Kimberly Johnson and Rick Spruce from Sacramento. Within the next twenty four hours, they will be contacted by forty six companies offering them money to promote or endorse products ranging from condoms to mattresses. Kimberly and Rick would end up making a porn film that would flop. They will be forgotten after a week.

Dimon smiled tensely:

“Well, young people will be young people. It’s good to know that my followers bring so much enthusiasm and vitality to this townhall. But let us get back to the matter at hand. It’s not an accident that we call ourselves the
Spirit of ’76
movement: we are a party of patriots! For many years have we been spreading freedom and democracy throughout this planet. Without American leadership, we face international anarchy. Yes, we believe that America is exceptional, that it’s been born to be exceptional, to rise and to continue as the most prosperous and powerful nation on Earth!”

Dimon spread his arms to welcome another round of applause.

“We are an open and welcoming party. But if you don’t believe in this country’s greatness, if you blame America first, if you believe that we must lower our ambitions, then we don’t want you! If that’s what you believe, if you don’t love this country unconditionally, then why are you here? Go to places that suits you better; we don’t hold anyone, our borders are open.”

Dimon clenched his hands into fists and brought them to his chest. He took a deep breath as if letting go of the emotion.

“For too long have we allowed our enemies to attack and undermine us without consequence! For too long have we allowed our jobs to be outsourced, our industries to be undermined by unfair trade agreements, our markets to be flooded with illegally subsidized goods! Our goodwill and openheartedness have been turned against us. And I say, no more! We will no longer let the foreign nations subvert us. Our military is the most powerful in the world. As Teddy Roosevelt told us over a hundred years ago, we speak softly but we carry a big stick. And if I am elected to lead this country, my administration will not shy away from using it! We are not looking for a fight, but if the fight is taken to us then fight we will!”

This time, Dimon allowed the applause to go on until he saw his campaign manager Jonathan Morton making a downward movement with his palm.

“But not all of our problems come from abroad. Some are of our making. We have executives stealing tens of millions going free, but we throw someone in jail for stealing food. This is not fair! This is not the American Way! When I am the President, I will stump out the corporate crime by imposing such penalties that any white-collar thief would think twice before robbing even a penny from his workers!”

Dimon clasped his hands in front, his facial expression turned contemplative:

“A few days ago, I gave a short speech on the field of Gettysburg. I was humbled to stand on the same ground where Abraham Lincoln stood a hundred and sixty years ago, the ground that’s been hallowed by the brave men of that time. Like then, we are engaged in a great war. Only this time, the battlefield is much larger. Like then, we are not sure whether this nation, under God, will survive. In times like this, we need a strong government, a strong leadership, to protect the people and to help them. Let us resolve that we shall submit to the providence of the Lord, because his judgments are true and righteous, and that we shall fight together to give a new birth to freedom like our ancestors did.”

The applause was deafening.

Robert Treadwell and his production team were watching in their New York studio. Treadwell clapped his hands:

“OK, people, to work! We don’t have to wait for the Q&A part. Take Dimon’s speech, cut it up into video and text snippets. Make video versions from eight seconds to two minutes, nothing longer than that. Text editors, transcribe and pick out fragments of ten to twenty words, I want you to show me your list in fifteen minutes. We’ll pick a few and flood the social media with them.”