BLACK PRESIDENT- Chapter 80. EVERYONE (except Rudy) expects the President to quit after the TWO vicious assassination attempts in a row. (How frantic was the MIC?).

(Don't miss playing this youtube about President Eisenhower & the MIC!): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gg-jvHynP9Y

CHAPTER EIGHTY

“No!” shrieked Sarah upon hearing the news on the morning TV show. “That’s it, Rudy! I want him to quit. Right now! Before they kill him too!”

There was no hope of resolving the current dilemma, thought Rudy. John’s mother was in a furry and couldn’t be consoled. She had already lost one son, and refused to bury another. Rudy wasn’t usually speechless, but he held his tongue on this morning. Mother Sarah wanted to hear only one thing – that President Little had resigned. With the latest vicious attack, it was clear that whoever was making attempts on her second son’s life would surely, sooner or later, succeed in terminating the man they believed was the President. And John had to know that.

John did not look forward to the several phone calls he’d have to deliver as his brother, and worried about his ability to be convincing as Jackson. How would his Presidential brother have managed to fend off those family members who now demanded his instant resignation from the nations highest office? How would Jackson have handled it? Yes, he was shaken up by the attack and certainly would have joined his dead brother if he hadn’t had the premonition.

How could he explain to Cissy that he was alive only because of a dream? And beyond that, what would she care about his and his brother’s mission to oppose the biggest military corporate entity in the world, if it further risked his life? How could one man, she’d ask, even two men if you included Rudy, expect to change anything? Was it worth his life to try? Cissy would not want to hear any of this.

Ring, ring. John heard his phone rattle with the sound of an old 1950s model like his mother and grandmother Dee had back in Chicago days. Ring, ring. Should he pick it up? What choice did he have? Since only his mother, Rudy, Cissy, and Fran had the number, he’d just have to face the music later if he didn’t. As with most things that John Little had done in his life, he spontaneously grabbed it and punched in. “Hello, John here.”

“Good God, son! I just heard the news,” said Rudy! “Are you OK? Just so relieved you’re still here! ” Before John could answer, Rudy quickly added, “I realize you need to monitor your calls, but please don’t pretend to be your brother. If you must, maybe use some other code-name. You’re mother’s here on speakerphone.”

OH JESUS, realized John with a shock. I accidentally used my real name! I lost track of my impersonation! I slipped up!

“Jackson?” said Sarah, her voice cracking.

“Mom? Hello? Sorry about that. John’s name just cropped up. I really miss him.” John gave a slight pause, then continued. “So, very sorry you had to hear about all this from someone else. Been busy here trying to allay fears that the government is affected. My Vice President is still in charge, so it wouldn’t have weakened us as a country if I’d been hurt. But, I'm just happy to be talking to you.” John felt his phone ear get hotter as his mother gave him her parental ultimatum.

“Jackson. You know I like to keep out of your business, especially since you became President. But we’ve been through a lot since you took this job. I haven’t talked to Cissy yet, or Fran. And Rudy has kept pretty much to hisself this morning, just watching TV for details. But as your mother, as someone who’s already lost a son, all I can do is plead with you to stop this insanity. I’m afraid these people will keep trying to kill the President. Poor Fran is already suffering more than any of us can imagine. She knows that without John, without a husband, her kids will have terrible emotional problems. Same as for Cissy, so…well, she’s terrified I’m sure.”

“I know, Ma. It’s a hard situation.”

John tried to prepare himself, to talk about his brother as if he was Jackson, trying to make sure he didn’t get mixed up again. “But like…John…and I pointed out when we met everyone that last time, this country is on the brink of disaster. I don’t think I can just walk away from...”

“Please son. Please just think about it. That’s all I ask.” Rudy was on the phone too.

“Hi Rudy. You’ve heard Mom’s –” John was quickly clipped by his step-father’s interruption.

“It's going to be a hard decision, I’m afraid,” said Rudy, impatient that there was no time to pussy foot around in Rudy’s estimation.. “Talk to me after you spoken with Cissy and Fran. If you can get through these calls then you'll have a chance. Until then, I’m going to keep holding down the fort. As in Knox.”

John allowed himself a smile as he signed off. He knew Rudy was giving him code for saying, I'm still on the case, and was continuing with his fact-finding missions.

On a secure line handed him by one of his Secret Service agents, John first called Vice President Holstead, informing him that he was OK after the recent attempted assassination. After a few choice words on that subject from the V.P. (Are you sure, Jackson, that it’s wise to continue on, with all these attacks?), John signed off. He knew Holstead could taste the Presidency. But as long as he an alive ‘Little,’ no one was going to take his brother’s Presidency, end the “Little” government prematurely. He then called House Majority Leader Jim Harrelson, a Republican from Delaware, chatted a bit about his close call and then issued an official directive, one that would ultimately result in a full audit of Fort Knox.

“After twenty years, Jim, doesn’t it seem like we should know exactly how much gold is left in that vault at the Fort?” Harrelson couldn’t easily disagree. That means a scratch test on those damn bars! Is how the President ended the call.

When Cissy had been awakened by an early morning phone call, informing her of the attack –they blew up half the hospital, but missed the President, explained the Presidential Secretary – she, too, found herself insistent that her husband step down. She immediately called his personal cell phone, the call coming in just as President Jackson/John had dressed in suit and tie for the first time in three weeks. He quickly told his wife he was all right and that he would call her back in fifteen minutes, cutting whatever words she was trying to interject.

It took just that long to collect his personal items, bag them up and meet a waiting car in the basement of the hospital. He had informed the doctors that he was ready for discharge immediately and they found themselves agreeing with his authority. How could they fight the argument that he was in greater danger there than anywhere else? Plus, they worried that the rest of the hospital might be brought down around their ears if he continued to be in residence.

Surrounded by twelve Secret Service agents, in half as many cars, the President entered an unmarked limousine, fully-equipped and armored, and cruised out of the hospital’s back parking lot, heading for Pennsylvania Avenue. After a block or so he called his wife back.

“Cissy! Sorry to have put you on hold, but had to get myself out of the target area. Obviously, by now you’ve heard all about my little incident on the news.

“Are you really OK?

“Yes, and I’ve told Mom that. Haven’t caught up to Fran yet, though. How are the kids handling it?”

“They never got to school today. They’re with me and we have security people all over the place. Honey, I’m scared. How can we keep doing this?”

Cissy was being exceedingly diplomatic, thought John. How could he dismiss her gently-proposed question about quitting? “I’ll be home soon, honey. I’m in a cruiser heading back to the White House. Can we wait until then to talk?”

“Of course, dear. See you soon.”

Sitting down with Cissy on an antique couch in the second floor White House living quarters was the most bizarre situation in which John had ever found himself. First, it was the hard kisses and hugs from his brother’s wife that he had to contend with. To protect himself from detection, he had set up an internal code, to evaluate his performance. On a scale of one-to-ten, the first kiss had been an eight. The hug also eight. Good job, he thought, I must try to enjoy the martial part of the impersonation or it won’t work!

“Now, come on in kids!” The two girls ran up and hugged and kissed their uncle/father as he embraced them, kissed them, teased them and shooed them back to their rooms and playthings (score: a nine).

“Ok, sweetheart,” said the First Lady, “now tell me why you decided to relocate your hospital room just before the missile hit? How did you know?”

John realized that somewhere on the news it was discussed how he had evacuated part of the hospital just before the explosion. Cissy explained that the question had been posed during the CNN coverage she’d been watching, when they commented on how no one was killed or even injured by the huge blast that took down half the hospital. Knowing the real crux of her questioning – her priority-one concern that he end his Presidency – John didn’t mind putting off the final showdown.

“If I said that I had a dream about it in fairly exact detail just moments before, would you believe me?”

Cissy just nodded. She remembered how Jackson had had the premonition of earlier assassination attempts, and that she’d heard stories about the twins extra-perception abilities from their mother. She knew all about the “twin hiding behind door” trick, where one guessed the other’s location. He husband’s perception of danger had served him well at the hospital.

“Yes, I guess I do believe it. Or else you would have joined John. And we can’t afford to lose you, too!”

As Cissy carried on, speaking about “John’s death, ” him being “a fine man” and all, labeling his death “a horrible tragedy,” it suddenly struck him. He hadn’t really had time to mourn Jackson, or come to grips with the fact that his brother was really gone. He’d been too busy being Jackson. John held back the tears. He caught himself being jolted by Cissy’s use of his name instead of Jackson’s. To retrieve control of the situation he quickly gave himself a score – 6.5 – for temporarily getting emotionally discombobulated.

He was now Jackson. John was gone. Dead and gone. That was all there was to it. And if he had to have sex that night with the beautiful woman before him, who believed herself to be his wife, then that’s what had to happen. For his brother’s memory, for all the plans they had had made for getting the country back on track, he needed to succeed. To honor Jackson’s wishes, that he carry on the work of government, he would stay the course, no matter what. He couldn’t allow his brother’s death to be in vain.

***

“How the fuck could you have missed him!” shouted Amir Benefitus, an Algerian operative hired to kill the American President. He couldn’t believe that hit man, code name “Spider,” could have failed to terminate the target with a Stinger missile, a black market item that had cost the organization over five million dollars to purchase and smuggle into Washington, D.C.

“None of us are going to be sanctioned until that man is dead like his brother! This city already has a full-scale manhunt going and we’ve been ordered to close down the operation until September. So, let’s get these crates loaded and wipe down the surfaces for fingerprints! And keep shredding those files!”

The four men in the sleeper cell had all called in sick to their jobs – their covers – that day, and were hours away from leaving the country. What they didn’t know was that the investigative arm of the National Security Administration, at the order of President Little, had waged an immediate search, city-wide, for all such unusual, or even slight coincidences, and had connected the dots. Computers had done their work and red-flagged the four, based on their aligned “sick day” calls and racial profiling, though that process had been deemed illegal by both the 4th and 14th Amendments of the U.S. Constitution.

Four men of foreign origin had been ill the exact same day, almost to the hour, in Washington, DC. A six-man Delta team of fully armed personnel had been dispatched to each of the men’s last known address, had broken down doors when necessary (none had been home at the time), and conducted a thorough search on each of the premises. Because less than nothing was found – spaces too clean – suspicions were elevated to the highest levels. A phone call to President Little informed him of the ongoing investigation and potential targets.

“Mr. President, we think we have a lead in the bombing,” said Joe Haller, NSA chief for the capital city. “Four men at four different addresses have the same MO, so we’re widening our the search after raids on their home locations. I’ll keep you posted. Hopefully we can end this nightmare for you and your family.”

“Thanks so much, Joe, ” said John Little, and hung up. Looking over at Cissy, he simply said, “They’re on the trail of the killers. Maybe we’ll get lucky!”

***

Rudy had wasted no time delving into the Fort Knox investigation. It was the least he could do for his surviving stepson and President. They had lost Jackson and now it was full-out war, as far as he was concerned. After hearing the news about the hospital bombing, and getting word that John had survived, he had first calmed his wife as much as possible, mostly to no avail. Then he had helped John get through the call with his furious mother, had accompanied her through dinner and afterwards, finally tucking her in around 11 PM. At that point, after a quick shower, Rudy had locked himself in his office and removed his .45 caliber service pistol from the small strongbox where he kept it. His Vietnam war trophy, of sorts, had been well oiled and stored those many years, and now he felt compelled to prepare it for battle. He re-oiled it, counted out the ammunition (48 rounds), inserted a full clip keeping a second at the ready, holstered it under his arm, and tried to get a sense of the danger.

A quick military tally, like he’d kept in the jungles in Southeast Asia, seemed to calm things. One son down, one having survived a recent attack. Family members still unscathed. How long could he personally stop an army of assassins? The hard and heavy metal of the gun hanging over his T-shirt, concealed by his robe, gave some assurance that he’d be prepared, at least to protect the President’s mother.

Back at the computer, Rudy clicked the mouse and continued his Fort Knox investigation. Data seemed to pour off the screen. Supposedly four thousand six hundred tons of gold was in Ft. Knox. At a price of $1750/oz., a ton was worth $56 million. Clicking on the computer’s calculator, and multiplying 56,000,000 by 4,600, Rudy got the figure 257,600,000,000 – $257.6 billion dollars worth of the precious metal at the Fort.

Next, Rudy wondered how much gold was held in other storage centers around the world. Wikipedia quickly supplied the answers. A long list of gold holdings of various countries caught his eye. Scanning the chart, Rudy tried to make sense of the political ramifications of gold storage, and how it affected world markets. Even tiny countries like Cyprus had gold reserves, Rudy discovered, almost 14 tons in that particular case. How big was Cyprus? The Internet supplied the answer; an island 149 miles long by 62 miles wide. It was the third largest island in the Mediterranean, but a pretty small country. Even they had tons of it.

Taking a fast spot check, Rudy saw that Poland had 100+ tons, New Guinea just two tons, France 2,400, Italy the same, with Germany 3,400 against the whopping 8,100 tons of gold throughout in the USA. Where was the rest stored?

How much did the Federal Reserve have stashed away? How much was in jeweler’s and coin collector’s safes? How much of it was actually still within the borders of the US? Again, the Internet was helpful. The amount of gold listed with the FED was 7,000 metric tons – over 300-billion-dollars-worth, all stashed eighty feet down, in vaults at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. How could that be? The math was obviously off somewhere. The kicker, thought Rudy, was that they didn’t really own the gold, but just kept it in their possession. For whom? For what? The Wikipedia posting said that the gold was owned by other nations, banks and organizations around the world. Still, thought Rudy, why did the FED have it in its possession? What kind of powerful persuader was that, to keep all the world’s marbles for safe-keeping? The article said it kept the bullion“as a guardian of the precious metal,” and as “a goodwill gesture.” And it was “protected at no charge.” Duh! They had the world by the balls!

***

The first night John Little slept in his brother’s bed with his brother’s wife was a daunting one. While Cissy seemed to make cuddling her priority – she was aware of her husband’s recent injuries – it was clear to John that she yearned to have sex. And she was a sexy woman. He had always admired his brother’s choices in women and she had been no exception. But John found himself caught up in the morality of the situation, and for that, he realized, it would be a very difficult part of the impersonation. How could he reconcile the breach of trust? If they had sex, and she got pregnant, then where would he draw the line? What would happen to the child if he, the supposed father, was ever found out?

And Fran. At home without him, without a husband. How long could he balance the idea of doing what’s right for the country at her expense? How about his kids? The damage there could be irreparable. Fran would certainly never forgive him if Cissy got pregnant with his child.

Cissy moved in closer to the man she knew as Jackson and placed her hand softly on his member. And he began to enlarge. Oh my God, thought John. She’s arousing me! Before he knew it, Cissy had mounted him, brought him in, and with very few gyrations of her hips, made him climax. Now the line had been crossed forever.

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