The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE (5 page)

Lamar made a long weekend of his first trip to DC and it changed his life.

It was the fall of 2007 and the capital was filled with anti-war demonstrators who came to cheer on what was being billed as ‘the trial of the new century.’ It was America’s first double impeachment of both President and vice-President. After having swept the Republicans out of power during the mid-term elections, the anti-war movement was flexing its muscle through the new batch of Democratic legislators and the country’s first woman Speaker of the House. In power after over a decade of Republican rule, the new Democrats made ending the war and impeaching the men who started it their first priorities. They were historic and heady times for Lamar and his generation. The atmosphere in Washington was electric with the charge of hope and change. Not only was the long hoped for end of the war finally in sight, but a new, progressive era of American politics promised to change the fundamentals of American life and government forever. It was there, among the protesting masses, the bustling to and fro of lawmaking and on the cusp of a new progressive age that the young Lamar Reed plotted a life for himself beyond basketball.

As he strolled those few days through the wide streets and marbled halls of the nation’s capital, Lamar heard his grandmother’s voice. It rose from a whisper out of the somber silence under the vaulted ceilings and off the walls of the pillared chambers of power. As a child on her knee, Lamar first heard her stories of the struggles for civil rights in the sixties. She was a Baptist minister’s wife and alongside her husband and thousands of others, she threw herself into the politics of the times. Like so many others of that age, they had curses hurled and dogs set loose on them. They were swept from streets by water cannons. They suffered harassment and beatings at the hands of both neighbors
and the very police sworn to serve and protect them. They were burned out of two homes. And for their activism, she had to bear the ultimate pain when her husband paid the highest price for their cause the night he was hung from an oak tree in Atlanta.

“Sometimes there is no other way,” she said by way of explanation. “Lives must be sacrificed for change to happen.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” he protested as a boy.

“Of course it ain’t right,” she answered. “There is little that is right in this world.”

Standing before Lincoln’s Memorial the first time, looking up at the man who had sacrificed thousands of live, including his own, Lamar Reed determined that he would always seek a third way. When he returned to Indiana State, he changed his major from the liberal arts curriculum he was listing through without much enthusiasm, to the study of, the law. His new found passion endeared him to DC where he spent his off seasons and it made him the darling of the DNC. He was taken under the tutelage of Senator Duke Gordon of Tennessee who spared no effort in preparing and priming him for public service. Lamar surprised the sports world when he turned down a lucrative contract from an NBA team at the end of his time at Indiana. He told a flabbergasted media that he would instead pursue his studies at Harvard. He surprised the media yet again during his commencement speech four years later by announcing that he would run for congress right out of college. True to his grandmother’s words, no one told him that he could not do it. Reed threw his mortarboard in the air, his hat in the ring and in 2018, at the age of twenty-seven, became the youngest, and according to many pundits, ‘the most promising young man to enter American government in modern history.’

A little less than two years into his ‘historic’ first term, Lamar is still as excited as he was at the onset, but he is now, for the first time, apprehensive as well. There is something stirring in the country’s military that has people in government, those few let in on recent discoveries, very nervous. Machines and munitions have gone missing during the flurry of restructuring and base closings brought on by budget cuts. The general consensus is that they are dealing with an illegal, international arms trading operation run by unknowns within the US armed forces. The congressman hopes that is all it is. An irksome
intuition worries him that it might be more than that, a threat unlike anything the country has ever faced. Even if he wanted to leave town, Lamar cannot.

There is much work to be done.

The congressman takes a sip of his Gimlet and scans the bar. Most of the people in the room work with or for him, either directly or peripherally. They are low to mid-level workers in the various branches of the intelligence community. It is the congressman’s job to help them work together, coordinate their operations and findings as well as smooth out whatever inter-agency rivalries might rise up from time to time. Reed likes to think of his job as rather analogous to his role as point guard on the court; keep the ball moving forward and the team focused on beating the opponent, not each other. Lamar listens casually to the conversations he can hear over the softly piped Christmas music. They are trading stories of Christmases past, waxing nostalgic for friends and families obviously missed. No one is talking about work. Just as well, thinks Reed. The last three months have been particularly hard on everyone. The discovery of the conspiracy within the military doubled everyone’s work load. A night or two off would do all of them some good.

He takes another sip of his drink and lets his sight drift to the flat screen hung over the bar’s three, mirrored tiers of bottles. Two men face each other across a desk. Behind them is a shot of Vatican City and the empty plaza in front of the church where Christmas Mass is being served. The broadcast is muted but you can almost hear the men yelling at each other despite it. The television is set on a news program and the pundits are going at it in the tiresome way networks decided was good for ratings. He watches their heated mime show as his mind drifts back hours to the White House, to another confrontation between another pair of irreconcilables.

Congressman Reed’s afternoon began with a three hour meeting with the President, his Cabinet and a handful of other advisors where ideas were bandied about for what President O’Neill referred to as the ‘issues du jour.’ As these meetings did too often for Lamar’s taste, it broke down into a heated exchange between his boss and Chairman of the Senate’s Intelligence Committee, Senator Duke Gordon and Homeland Security Chief, Earl Forrester. They wasted no time going at it when the attention moved from international to domestic issues. It began with the debate over what to do with the group the press had dubbed, ‘The Atlanta Eight,’ jihadists caught in a sting operation six weeks ago.
They were found with a partially constructed dirty bomb. Forrester pressed, as he did every week since their apprehension, to have them transferred immediately to Homeland Security for interrogation. Gordon, as always, argued against it.

“Once again, might I remind the President that such a move would be highly illegal,” Senator Gordon said in a southern drawl that rolled out of his barrel of a chest like muted thunder. The pinstripes of the dark-blue, double-breasted suit contributed to the Tennessee Senator’s barrel-like carriage. A proportionately large head sat atop the man’s broad frame with thick, jet-black hair swept back in an oil-glistened wave over bright, blue eyes. “The arraigning judge did not rule them an immediate or clear threat. As American citizens, it would be illegal to hand them over to the Chief without such a rendering.”

“A Presidential order will keep it all nice and legal,” Earl Forrester countered. The Chief of Homeland Security was much thinner than the Senator. He was older, shorter and paler. Forrester’s hair was brown and thinned to wispy strands. His eyes were green and bright. “Your office is allowed such latitude exactly for these situations, Mr. President.”

“That is political capital you don’t want to spend unless you have to sir,” Senator Gordon said. “The move could easily be spun as an example of executive over-reaching on the administration’s part.”

“The move would be readily forgiven if it turns up the missing nuclear material,” Forrester insisted.

“If there’s any nuclear material to turn up at all is still anybody’s guess,” the Senator said and then turned from the President to the Chief of Homeland Security. “I don’t understand why you’re so keen on getting your claws into them, Chief. It’s not like they’re not being questioned thoroughly.”

“They need to be
interrogated
,” Earl Forrester responded, rolling the gold, globe-topped head of his cane slowly in his liver-spotted hand. “Not merely questioned.”

“What’s the difference?”

Forrester turned his hatchet-shaped head towards Duke Gordon. His thin lips stretched in the suggestion of a smile. “You know damn well what the difference is.”

“We don’t do that anymore!” The squat, bald and round-headed Burt Owens interjected.

“Save that crap for your friends at the New York Times, Owens,” Forrester said with a contemptuous glance at the President’s Chief of Staff. “Everyone in this room knows the government still reserves the right to do whatever it takes to protect the people.”

Senator Gordon’s smile beamed sugared sunshine. “Yes, we do Chief. And I would happily see the Atlanta Eight handed over to you to hang by the testicles and beat like piñatas if the judge had designated them an immediate threat, but he didn’t.”

“The judge is an idiot,” Forrester pronounced. “He can be overruled with a simple, executive order.”

Senator Gordon returned his attention to O’Neill. “Mr. President, the Atlanta Eight will be returning to court in February. I believe failing to trust due process will create more problems for us than it will solve. I understand the Homeland Security Chief ’s concern…”

“Do you?” Earl interrupted. He did not wait for a response. “Mr. President, no one would build one of these bombs unless they had access to or were expecting delivery of some very toxic material. It is out there somewhere and while the Senator’s due process grinds on, it will become harder to find.”

“We would be risking a PR disaster, Mr. President,” Burt Owens warned from O’Neill’s side.

Forrester didn’t bother to look his way but kept his eyes fixed on the President. “Would you rather risk another nuclear attack?”

Senator Gordon shook his head and sighed. Burt Owens rolled his eyes. It was a running joke between the two, guessing how many times Forrester would say ‘nuclear attack’ in a single meeting. Owens began their private joke by comparing the Chief of Homeland Security’s use of the term to the frequency with which the impeached President Bush had used “9/11” during his administration. Gordon and Owens considered Forrester’s constant referencing to the 2012 attack on the Panama Canal as nothing less than fear-mongering. They felt Earl used it to wrest ever greater power for his agency and himself.

The room was quiet as the President removed his horn-rimmed glasses and considered the matter while he polished the lenses. “Sorry Duke, but if the FBI’s questioning hasn’t turned up anything in the last month and a half, it isn’t likely to produce anything in the next six weeks. We have to give Earl his piñatas.”

The President waited to get the Senator’s grudging nod of assent. He put his glasses on again and turned to the Chief of Homeland Security. “Try to keep it from the press as long as possible, Earl.”

Forrester flashed one of his rare smiles as he handed O’Neill a folder out of his attaché. “I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse, sir.”

The President bent over the transfer form, signed it and returned the folder to Forrester.

“And while we are at it sir,” Earl said, as he slipped the file into his attaché. “I would also advise the immediate raiding of the offices of the Atlanta chapter of the Nation of Islam.”

Senator Duke Gordon snorted sharply. “You can’t be serious?”

“I am indeed, Senator,”

“I really must protest that course of action, Mr. President,” Owens chimed in.

“Keep in mind Mr. President,” Forrester continued. “Three of the Atlanta Eight are connected with that office.”

“Barely,” Gordon scoffed. “One of them worked in the mailroom and the other two volunteered with their substance abuse outreach program.”

“It’s a question of perception, Mr. President,” Burt Owens added. “Fairly or not it would be seen as an attack on a minority religious body; a minority,
Muslim
, religious body. Mr. Forrester may have forgotten the riots of 2015, but I hope you haven’t. There were hundreds of deaths and hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of property damages across a dozen states because the government raided the New York offices of the Council of American Islamic Relations.”

“And why was that office of CAIR raided?” Earl asked Owens. When the Chief of Staff didn’t answer, Forrester turned his attention back to the President. “The funding for the Carnival Carnage was funneled through that office. That’s why it was raided.”

“We’re well aware of that, Chief,” the President said. “However justified that government action may have been I must take a more panoramic view if I’m to be sure that nothing my administration does sets off a firestorm of rioting.”

“Nuclear explosions also set off firestorms, Mr. President,” Forrester said flatly. “And while we’re looking at big pictures, let us recall that Ali Allam, public enemy numero uno, also worked out of that same Atlanta office for years.”

“It would open us up to all sorts of legal action,” Duke Gordon said.

“Yes,” Owens agreed. “If we raid that office we would be accused of impugning the reputation of a peaceful religious body based on the action of a few of its members.”

The Chief of Homeland Security let out a short, humorless laugh. “These pious ministers of the religion of peace are proselytizing all through the penal system. That office in Atlanta is where the prison ministry is coordinated. And I assure you, they’re not exactly preaching peace, love and brotherhood. They’re preaching jihad and armed resistance.”

“They’re just words,” Owens said.

Gordon shrugged. “They’ve got the same right to free speech as you and I.”

Forrester ignored them and continued to address the President. “Allam trained nearly every one of those recruiters in that very same Atlanta office. Two of the Atlanta Eight converted to Islam while serving sentences for gang related crimes, for
violent
, gang related crimes. Their Imam was the very same, Ali Allam. And while he may have since fallen off our radar, there are hundreds of others just like him raising an army right under our noses. Between them and the enemy combatants introduced into civilian prisons when you dolts shut down Gitmo…”