BLACK PRESIDENT-Chapter 100. It now comes to a head... for imposter-President John Little. (That's a wrap for my KENNEDY'S TWINS mini-series! Thanks to subscribers/all others for taking a look).

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May 17, 2024

CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED

After he cut off the internet, the imposter-President pressed himself back against the comfortable leather seats of the SUV and tried to enjoy the ride back to the White House. Surrounded by men in plain-clothes, but supplied with military gear hidden around their person, rolling along in matching SUVs fore and aft, the caravan gave John the impression that he was in a war zone. People around DC were used to seeing a Presidential motorcade, so the flow of traffic continued in their favor, due to a great extent from the cooperation of local police vehicles. All roads between Fran’s house and the gate of the White House had been sealed off and cleared for the journey.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, two identical black SUVs shot out of side streets, slamming almost instantly into the center Presidential armored SUV that held the President. Both outlaw vehicles struck the sides at exactly the same instant, trapping inhabitants President Little and three others inside, giving John and the agents a bone-wrenching jolt as all three autos screeched to a halt.

In front, the point SUV with a second car-full of Secret Service snipers slid to a halt, but not quickly enough to avoid a pocket of space between them and their Presidential payload. Before Little could get his thoughts straight, he watched helplessly as two other vehicles collided with that group, also sandwiching them in. Where are the police? John wondered. Why aren’t they stopping this? Of course, who would have thought that the White House Secret Service detail could be that easily compromised.

While President Little and inhabitants remained trapped inside, two terrorists, one on each flank, suddenly approached with what appeared at first to be bulky machine guns. Placing the wired points against the limo doors, a series of flashes revealed that the men were using portable arc welders to seal the metal. Quickly, then, a copper-mesh cover had been thrown over the President’s limo and two guard vehicles, camouflaging the contents while jamming all phone and communication frequencies. So, aside from the few homeless witnesses in the financial district on that deserted Sunday afternoon, no one in government was aware of the ongoing abduction of the President of the United States.

How their route was discovered, and how the well-orchestrated attack was planned was anyone’s guess. The pertinent fact was that the President was in a car suddenly being towed up onto a flatbed truck that seemed to appear out of nowhere. John Little’s driver was still conscious, as were the Secret Service agents, but there was nothing any one of them could do while locked inside. They certainly couldn’t fire their guns out through the thick bulletproof windows of the Presidential vehicle - thus checkmated by that circumstance. Ricochets could kill the very person they were sworn to protect.

In the partial darkness caused by the metallic net enclosing the SUV, John could only imagine where the ride was taking them. He could feel his elevated pulse rate and made an effort to breath deeper to bring it better under control. The driver and two agents seemed to be discussing what to do next, although there seemed really no action was possible. Soon the shaky ride came to a halt inside a secret D.C. garage.

Vice President Holstead was among the first to be notified of the abduction. It was clear that some sort of emergency involving the President of the United States was in progress. Since there was no means of direct contact with the President known as Jackson Little, the hjghest US office was summarily transferred to Vice President Holstead. By the end of his CIA briefing regarding the President’s disappearance, Holstead was notified that the original lead SUV had been discovered, their occupants rescued. The snipers and their commanders in that lead car had not been injured, but merely disabled by containment. The men were released from the vehicle once the welds were broken and the doors pried open. Vice President Holstead refrained from going public – certainly no TV appearance or other announcement would be forthcoming until his office heard from the kidnappers.

A mere four miles from the White House, John Little sat in the sealed up SUV with three agents. All they could do was wait for someone – their captors – to make the next move. Finally, out of nowhere, a man emerged from the shadows. He was tall, perhaps six feet, hooded, and walked in a stately manner. And he was carrying what looked like a two-foot square cardboard poster on a long stick. Once he had reached the side of the flatbed where President Little was located he rotated it so that the large black words could be read by the Commander-in-Chief and his guardians.

PLEASE DO NOT WORRY.
PLEASE STAY CALM.
YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED.

Back at the White House there was no calm. Holstead was talking to the Presidential advisors: Secretary of Defense, Secretary of State, Chief of Staff, Head of Homeland Security, Joint Chiefs, Council of Foreign Relations, and of course CIA and FBI. Obviously, the fact of a missing U.S. President had ramifications worldwide, with everything from foreign relations to financial markets ready to be stalled, certainly panicked if and when the news got out. Any breach of the news would almost immediately be splashed across electronic front pages, the internet of the known world––U.S. PRESIDENT KIDNAPPED or however graphic it took to market the news in salable forms. What no one knew, either speaking to VP Holstead or to his hastily collected group of advisors, was that causing the world’s headlines to change was the whole point of the exercise by the perpetrators. A magician’s trick of the highest order.

When the hooded and half-camouflaged man approached the President’s SUV a second time, he had no message card. What he did next though, was of great shock to John Little. As their captor removed his hood, he revealed himself as John Benton, the man whom John and his dead brother Jackson had met with on many occasions. Benton was their version of the 1970s “Deep Throat, a friend and confident from whom they had shared the most intimate thoughts on the interior politics of America, from the founding fathers forward to the most recent secret trends in governments. Now, obviously, Benton was operating as much more than some historian, but suddenly taking some kind of personal action. But what was it, whatnwas the objective? And was it the CIA or some other intelligence entity who Benton had recruited for such a dangerous move, with such precision and control, who operated outside of normal channels.

As John made eye contact with Benton he hid his shock from the men seated beside him. He simply allowed himself to become subtly relieved, and even tried to shield that particular emotion from the men. Whatever Benton was up to, John had faith that it was not only in his best interests, but also helpful to the United States in some way.

Cissy was among the first to get the frightening news that her husband had been abducted. Rudy had been the one who called it in. He had quickly arranged to speak with her in private, not fully trusting the so-called secure lines of either the White House or of his residence. A second appointment was immediately set at Fran’s as soon as possible.

“Cissy, first of all you need to know that it isn’t a real abduction. Cissy looked relieved, while a bit confused, as Rudy continued. “John is safe, and he’s in the hands of John Benton, who headed up this thing. I’ll see Fran next, to let her know the real situation. I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t dawdle.” Cissy gave Rudy a big kiss on the cheek and watched as he exited past the second floor agent station, down to his car. At Fran’s, Rudy repeated his story, to a second very relieved mate of the President.

Benton watched as the two-man team ground away at the spot welds that held the President’s SUV doors closed. Only when the three agents accompanying him stuck out their hands to shake Benton’s as they and he emerged from the vehicle, did John begin to understand. They all seemed to be in on the charade.

“Yes, Mr. President, we did know in advance of this operation. If we hadn’t, there would have been some stronger resistance. I’m sure you know we’ve been breathing air from your limo’s self-contained tanks ever since the SUV was tilted up for the flatbed truck ride. That’s just one of the many protective devices at our disposal. The car also has various methods of attack, but we didn’t access those because of the true nature of the operation. No sense in incinerating our friends in the CIA!”

Just as John Little gave a smile toward Benton there was the sound of muffled gunfire, the hiss of bullets passing through silencers. The three agents with John were instantly hit, dropped to the cement floor like action figures in a deadly computer game. Benton’s head had turned toward the action just in time to receive his own kill shot. John cried out in horror as his friend of many decades was terminated right before his eyes. What was happening was beyond comprehension.

Encircled by men who John first assumed to be other CIA agents under Benton’s control, he was escorted away from the horrific scene, quickly brought to a small office nearby, and seated. An older man, heavily armed, entered the room and grabbed himself a chair at the small desk.

“Very sorry you had to witness that, Mr. President, but the plan has changed. I realize you knew Benton, so please accept my sympathies. It was, unfortunately, necessary. He knew, as well as anyone, how things work around here.” Upon hearing some kind of stupid rationale for murdering his good friend, John became totally incensed.

“What the hell is this? You kill a bunch of people like they’re nothing and then try to soft sell it to me! FUCK YOU!” As Little tried to leave his seat he was pushed back down by the attendants.

“I realize that you’re upset. Anyone would be. But here’s the score. We are holding you here, and expect to receive certain concessions for your return. We now control the executive office of the President, all the financial markets, and we have the power to reverse the 100% double-taxation you are writing into law. You won’t be released until this folly is put to rest. There are a great many individuals who found your approaches to government to be – well – treasonous.

“So by holding the President of the United States hostage, we can accomplish all the necessary tasks of our agenda. That’s why we found it necessary to take such imprudent action with your friend. It was clear that he was not backing our agenda as we would have hoped. He would never have agreed to our more wide-ranging objectives. To ultimately save the full operations of government, not weaken out international military defenses, this action was deemed appropriate. and necessary.”

“Illegal, that is! You’re murderers. Common criminals. And I can guarantee that nothing you’re doing will change anything I’ve done, reverse any tax laws or change the Little administration’s priorities in any way. You’re going to fail.”

“We have the President, Mr. President. We have you, the Commander in Chief of the United States military – Leader of the Free World – so, yes, we will succeed.”

“This order has come down from some of the most powerful men and women in the world, people who control the flow of assets from international banks. This is not a spur-of-the-moment operation. It has been months in the making and approved at many high levels. The collateral damage has been approved and accounted for. We in the intelligence community know what we’ve signed up for. We just follow our orders.

“Maybe after this blows over you’ll see our side of things a bit more clearly. Some of the reasons our way of life in America runs so smoothly is directly related to this kind of operation.”

“Bullshit.” You make up your own rationale. Killing Kennedy, his brother too. Allende.” John couldn’t continue. He couldn’t have conceived of being so trapped, so snared by forces in government who opposed his plans. The thought that ‘I should have seen it coming’ was making him sick inside. What didn’t he understand? Didn’t he realize that same-thinking people around him - he himself - were vulnerable to personal attack? Hadn’t he learned from the Kennedy deaths? Decent people could be permanently ended if they dared oppose the hidden people who ran things, controlled the government and its services from the shadows. He had gotten hit with the full force of his naivete.´

Back at the White House, Rudy joined First Lady Cissy Little in the private quarters. He first tried to comfort her, saying that he knew John/Jackson would be fine. Benton had assured Rudy that the operation was “no risk, ” so why weren’t they hearing directly from John that everything was OK? Both Sissy, and Fran were barely handling the emotional strain as their loved one continued to be entangled in some sort of political exercise. One thing Rudy and Cissy decided, though, was that Fran and her son needed immediate protection. Vice President Holstead agreed, and six agents were immediately dispatched to guard her residence in her absence. When the phone call finally came in from the President, with certain demands, it was directed to Rudy. He, as well as Cissy, were somewhat astounded that the President’s one phone call had gone to his living quarters, not to the Joint Chiefs, the V.P., or some other important government official.

Rudy heard the words, “A call from the President,” and shot a look toward Cissy. As he grabbed the White House receiver spoke the word, “John?”

“Rudy?”

“Hello, son! ”

Rudy could hear the relief in his stepson’s voice. Each word that the President said was precise, a little too stilted, like a haiku poem for which he was trying to reach the proper literary expression.

“Please listen very carefully, Rudy,” he began. “I can only speak for a minute.” (he sounds like a robot, thought Rudy. What was the reality going on?)

“I’m being held for ransom. My captors are trying to reverse all of my – yours and my agendas – repealing the new double -tax, raising military spending, lowering minimum wages and so on. They’re letting me tell you this because they know you'll want to see me alive.

“OK,” said Rudy,. “I understand. (Getting more worried…) is Benton there. We were told…”

“No, he’s not part of this. What I need – with your help – is a DNA sample. Cissy’s upcoming baby - or our children…tested - can prove that I’m really President Jackson Little.

There was a sudden interruption. Rudy could hear arguing at the other end. In the background, someone shouted, NO! Just follow script!

Finally the ruckus ended and John returned to the line.“As you’ve heard, I’ve been warned to not vary from their text.”

“OK!” returned Rudy, anxious to do whatever kept his son from harm. He repeated “OK” again for safe measure;

John continued, speaking slower as if reading from a page.“Give the DNA results to Vice President Holstead. He can verify the veracity of any document I sign as President. It certifies that hey are, in fact, holding me – JACKSON LITTLE - not some imposter.

“You can get DNA from Fran’s kids too–”

“HEY!”

Rudy again heard arguing, accompanied by the sound of struggle. “Quit it!” exclaimed John, his voice less distinct, muffled. During the disruption it dawned on Rudy what his stepson was up to.

“So I’ll get your kids sampled for DNA,” said Rudy, to prove you’re Jackson Little, Speaking into the phone before completely sure his son was back on, he waited. He was relieved when he finally heard John’s voice.

“These people want to stop my programs; eradicate every future issuance of mine, everything. And they know the only way to reverse all that is by forcing a duly elected, legitimate President - me - to cancel these documents with signatures. That's why they grabbed me. For my Presidential power. They say I'll be released afterward, after proof of my identity rolls in.”

“Are we good?” John sounded more together to Rudy then he’d ever been before.

“VERY GOOD.” Rudy did understand. “I get it! ” “

Thanks again for everything, Rudeworth. You’ve been a great dad and dear friend. I love you. And give all my love to Fran, Cissy, the kids.”

A click ended the call.

Rudeworth Tempers couldn't remember the last time his stepson had called him by his formal first name. It seemed like a positive sign as well – a signal – indicating that everything would be OK, that John had figured out a way to be back in control of the situation.

As Tempers and the First Lady sat together in the White House parlor, silently trying to comprehend all the ramifications, a smile suddenly crossed both their lips simultaneously. Fran was surprised at their momentary upbeat personas - they filled her in a moment later. Meeting each other’s gaze was reassuring.

Finally, thought Rudeworth, it all makes sense.

Let the Revolution begin.

———

Rick’s Substack

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