The Liberty Covenant Read online

  The

  Liberty

  Covenant

  By

  Jack Bowie

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, companies, events, or locales is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jack Bowie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written permission of the author. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected].

  Visit the author’s web site at www.JackBowie.com

  Cover design by Renee Barratt, www.TheCoverCounts.com

  To my wife Sharon, and daughters Lisa and Jennifer,

  with all my love.

  Contents

  Title

  Begin Reading

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Arlington National Cemetery, Arlington, Virginia

  Ten Years Ago

  He stood to the side, alone; shivering in the freezing rain and tensing for the next explosion. Each eruption from the seven M15 rifles shook him to his core. The solemn salutes gave him no solace, no sense of closure. They were only a burning reminder of the loss of what was, in fact, a part of him. No other human being had ever been so close; had shared the successes and failures, the secrets and desires.

  And they had killed him. Had filled his head with their appeals of duty and promises of glory, then sent him into the poisonous desert storm.

  Even as his brother had withered away before his eyes they had still denied him. Denied him the comfort of knowing it was not just “in his head”; it was not his fault!

  Lines of white marble markers stretched in all directions, disappearing into the early morning Potomac fog. Monuments not to the bravery of warriors but to the hubris of politicians and generals. His brother would be lost in a soulless geometric plane of green and white.

  He winced as the next salvo echoed over the Virginia hills. Only once more and their feigned remorse would be over. They would go back to their limestone fortresses and their manicured estates, and pretend that everything was the same.

  But it would never be the same, and he would make them pay!

  Only once more.

  PART ONE

  The Watcher

  Chapter 1

  Southeastern Tennessee

  Saturday, 10:00 p.m.

  It was Tennessee and he was Terry.

  The ten men knelt in a clearing of the dense Appalachian woods. Wind whistled above their heads, a reverent chorus to their silent prayers. They were in a circle, with hands joined and heads bent; a confusing mix of dirty jeans, stained T-shirts, and well-worn camo fatigues. Each had his revolver of choice holstered on his belt. They already knew their own parts of the mission, there would be no need for further instruction or explanation.

  Terry watched the ritual from beside a battered old oak tree, about twenty yards from the group. It would have been inappropriate to join, even though it had been his command that set the night’s operation in motion. The temperature had fallen to the forties, still comfortable for physical activity but with just enough bite to keep everyone alert. Moonlight filtered through wispy cirrus clouds; enough light to provide guidance but not identification. God was smiling on them tonight.

  He would have to commend Shepard for the use of the circle. For centuries, no millennia, the shape had been a symbol of supernatural power. The Druids had discovered its magic in the forests of primeval Britain and integrated it into their rituals and constructions. Their greatest achievement was Stonehenge, the mystical ring of stones that still rose majestically on the Salisbury Plain. He had once stood there, alone in a biting English winter night, to immerse himself in its strength. What uncountable secrets remained hidden within its circumference?

  The shape had subsequently appeared everywhere: King Arthur and his Round Table, Yin and Yang, the Circle of Changes. He had even used it, sparingly of course, in the blistering sands of the Middle East to bind his men to their duty.

  What would be his civilization’s legacy three millennia hence? Rap music? The liberal rhetoric of equality for misfits and sodomizers? Tonight would mark the beginning of a new course for his country. A return to the values on which their civilization had been based.

  After over two minutes of silence, one man broke the chain. Pete Shepard was just past forty, short and stocky, with silver-gray hair shaved close to his scalp. He had lived in this part of Tennessee his whole life. A faded red bandana encircled his neck, and a pearl-handled Colt M1911 hung prominently at his side. Terry couldn’t help but smile at the selection of weapon. The old .45 was archaic compared to modern automatics, but its combat mystique alone was enough to command the respect of the gathering. Despite the fact that this particular one was purchased at a derelict pawn shop in Nashville.

  Shepard rose to face the group. His voice cut through the cold air.

  “We ask you, Lord, to be with us tonight, as we do your work. To protect us, our families, and the Covenant. Amen.”

  The circle echoed the blessing. Their leader gave a nod and the men disappeared into the night.

  “Nicely done,” Terry said as he approached Shepard.

  “Thanks, Terry. The boys’ll get in line when you lay it out square.”

  “They’ll follow through all the way?”

  “It was tough. They’ve got families too. But yes. They will.”

  “You’ve always known how to lead, Pete. That’s why we came to you.”

  “I’m mighty proud. You’ll tell ‘em that?” Terry nodded understandingly. “Don’t know what happened with Will. He always was a little slow, but never did nothin’ to hurt anyone. I figure his wife put him up to it.”

  “That’s probably it. But he talked to that reporter. Talked about us.” Terry turned away and looked into the darkness. “You’re sure everyone is in there?”

  “Yup. Kappy’s been watchin’ all day. They’re all there. You figure we have to do ‘em all?”

  “You have to send a message, Pete. For all of us. We can’t have anyone breaking the Covenant.” He put his hand on Shepard’s shoulder. “Von Clausewitz said that ‘Out of a thousand men who are remarkable, . . . perhaps not one will combine in himself all those qualities which are required to raise a man above mediocrity in the career of a general.’ I know how tough it is to be a leader. You can become that general. You know what’s at stake.”

  “Yessir. I do. We been waitin’ for this all our lives.”

  “I know, Pete. We’re gonna change this country. Beginning tonight.”

  A soft tapping broke the stillness of the night and the men’s eyes moved down to an invisible log cabin nestled at the edge of the woods. There was nothing to see yet, just the sound of wooden wedges being driven into jambs.

  “Have you started on those plans yet?” Terry asked.

  “Yup. Got the boys goin’ on ‘em yesterday. We should have the molds in a week or so. What do ya want with those things, Terry?”

  “That’s great, Pete. Really great.”

  At first it was just small bursts of light, like window candles welcoming a tired traveler. The traitor had built the home himself. It had taken him three years to construct it for his family. The inferno reduced it to ashes in less than three hours.

  The screams from inside had only lasted a few minutes.

  * * *

  Back in his motel room, Terry hunched ove
r the small Formica-topped desk and slowly pecked the message into his cell phone. His joints ached from standing in the cold, damp evening, but he shrugged the pain away. His employer demanded prompt updates.

  When he punched “Send,” the custom iPhone app encrypted the message with AES and sent it into the Cloud.

  The Advanced Encryption Standard was the latest cryptographic magic used to keep Uncle Sam’s top secret messages safe. Ironic that the Commander was using the same technology to protect his own communications.

  Sanction completed. Tennessee is secure.

  ALPHA teams in place. Coordinated action possible.

  Operation HALFTIME initiated.

  Chapter 2

  Tyler, Georgia

  Sunday, 5:00 p.m.

  The AFTERNOON sun was slowly disappearing over Providence Ridge filling the Georgia sky with broad brush strokes of sparkling crimson. FBI Special Agent Derek Thomas squinted in the light, then collapsed his secure cell phone and settled back into the makeshift blind he had constructed in a depression on the hillside. He grimaced as another scrub pine needle jabbed into his backside. The damn needles had left permanent puncture marks in the most uncomfortable of places. It would make for interesting discussions with Laurie if he ever got back home.

  When were they going to let him off this goddamned mountain with its prickly pears, voracious fire ants, and carnivorous flies, to do some real investigation work?

  It seemed like all he had done on this assignment was wait. He had spent the last week camped on the side of the ridge, watching the activities in the valley below. The object of his attention was a nondescript Georgia farm, which, according to one of the Bureau’s informants, had become a center of local militia activity.

  Thomas’s initial research had been intriguing. Halfway between Atlanta and Columbus, the property was convenient to both cities, yet remote enough to assure privacy. Four hundred acres of pristine Georgia farmland, about half cleared, the other half in heavy pine woods. Seemingly perfect for farming, yet apparently unused for years. And its ownership was a lawyer’s delight, a nexus of interlocking corporations that, so far, even the Bureau’s investigators couldn’t untangle. These results had prompted his supervisors to give him the go-ahead for the next stage—surveillance. Unfortunately, in the Georgia countryside, you couldn't very well just sit in an air-conditioned rental and take pretty pictures.

  So here he was, legs aching from fatigue, sitting on the hillside, huddled under camouflage netting and broken branches, taking his notes. He had cataloged visitors to the farm—there didn’t seem to be any permanent residents—and mapped the movement of people and materiel among the old farm structures. There was no question the informant had been correct: there was a local militia cell using the property as a base of operations. He had watched as lines of pickup trucks brought fatigue-dressed males to late night meetings and crack-of-dawn exercises.

  Binoculars in one hand, pen in the other, he had recorded the movements of people he knew only by their physical appearance: Gimpy, an old veteran with a bad right leg, Beau Brummel, with a swagger and perpetually ironed fatigues, Baldy, whose head reflected the sun like a mirror, and Walrus, the overweight apparent leader of the group. They had become his distant friends, these faceless creatures: his only contact with the rest of the world.

  He prayed for the call that would let him escape from his woodsy prison, meet his adversaries face-to-face and find out what was really going on. Before the goddamn chiggers ate him alive.

  * * *

  “How was your weekend, Mr. President?”

  Joseph Matthews looked up from the State Department’s latest Mid-East advisory and saw Chad Dawson, his Chief of Staff, taking his seat in one of the Oval Office’s plush, easy chairs. Dawson had requested the late afternoon meeting only a few hours before.

  “Excellent, Chad. Excellent.” Matthews closed the files, rose from his desk, and walked toward the sitting area. “Having the kids come down from school was wonderful, but they drove Margaret and me crazy. Maybe being President of the United States isn’t the toughest job in the world.”

  Dawson began to respond but Matthews raised his hand as he sat across from his Chief of Staff. “Let’s hold off for a minute. I’ve asked Steven to join us. I’d like to get his opinion on the results. I trust that isn’t a problem?”

  “Uh, of course not, Mr. President,” Dawson replied flatly. “I have an extra copy of the report here.”

  Matthews smiled at his aide’s obvious discomfort. Dawson was the ultimate facilitator and detail man. He had no time for the brusque, sweeping pronouncements of General Steven Carlson, the Director of National Intelligence. Still, the conversation affected them both. They could manage to put up with each other for a few minutes.

  Carlson appeared at the famous “invisible door” and marched into the room. His uniform had changed from dress blues to custom-made silk suits, but the ex-Marine looked just as prepared for battle as he had been at the height of his military career.

  Matthews had known Carlson since their days at Annapolis. They had both come from Mountain states and found they shared many of the same goals and values. They had toughed-out plebe initiation by drawing strength from each other, then sailed through the next three years finishing first and second in their class—Carlson had gotten the final nod based on his unequaled physical prowess.

  After their initial tours, Matthews had jumped and returned to the family ranch in Wyoming where he executed well-funded campaigns for State Rep, then Governor. The clear-speaking, good-looking veteran then attracted the attention of the Republican National Committee and continued his ascension first to the Senate and now the Presidency.

  Carlson had stayed in the Marines, advancing to a four-star, before retiring to a comfortable position at a Fairfax beltway bandit—at least until his newly-elected friend had nominated him for Director of National Intelligence.

  Over the years, they had shared their lives: loves gained and lost, enemies engaged and vanquished, positions offered and accepted. Matthews relied on Carlson’s counsel for nearly everything. The Marine was his sounding board, his advisor, and his confessor. But most importantly, he was the monitor of Matthew’s political health.

  The DNI strode across the tufted Presidential Seal to the sitting area. Even at sixty, he looked like he could play tight end for the Redskins. His five foot ten inch frame was straight as a spear, his gray hair still military-short, and his neck and shoulders thick with muscle. His face was as craggy as the Rockies, and the jagged scar along his jawline only gave it that much more character. He had gained a bit of girth, but Carlson still pitied any man that got in the General’s way.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President,” Carlson said cheerfully, pulling over another of the chairs. “You too, Chad.”

  “Good afternoon, General,” Dawson replied without looking up from his papers. “Here are the results from J.T.’s latest poll. He just sent them over.” Dawson handed a folder to Matthews, then one to Carlson.

  Matthews thumbed through the results. J.T. Wells was the administration’s political analyst. In reality, their head pollster. Matthews’ existence was dictated by polls: What did the populace think about his legislative agenda? About his trip to Mexico? What he had for dinner? It was a never-ending game of chasing their own tails.

  And now it would get even worse. Just two weeks ago, at a noisy, obscenely-expensive New York City national convention, he had been named as the party’s candidate for the upcoming election. The selection had been a foregone conclusion, so he had been spared the pain of primary battles, but now the cold, hard political winter would start. Ironically just as D.C.’s sultry August rolled in.

  God, he hated the battles that he knew were ahead. The negative publicity, the begging for more and more money, the backroom deals and equivocations. Three and a half years of debilitating work reduced to three months of sound bites, sore hands and empty smiles. But he had no choice, there was still so much he needed
to do. And he knew he was the one to do it.

  The two men before him were here to make sure it happened that way.

  “Mr. President,” Dawson began once Matthews’ eyes had lifted from the papers, “These results show you are in a very strong position entering the general election. Approval ratings on trade and the global environment are all well over seventy-five percent. The public is pleased with your handling of the Turkey intrusion and foreign terrorism concerns have abated.” He paused and managed a nod to the DNI. “Fiscally, as long as Jamison keeps the Fed in line, we should have no problem in this area as well. Finally, the signing of the intelligence exchange agreement with NATO in a few weeks will be an outstanding PR event. All in all, a very rosy report.”

  Dawson stopped and all eyes turned to Matthews. It sounded like an enviable position, but Matthews hadn’t gotten to the Oval Office by believing everything his staff told him.

  “Thank you, Chad. That does sound quite positive. Steven, any comments?”

  “Actually, yes, Mr. President,” Carlson replied, stretching even taller in the sofa. “Chad has summarized the positive findings very well. But I believe there must be some negatives. Politics are never this rosy. Is there a ‘however’ we should be aware of, Chad?”

  “Chad, is there more?” Matthews asked.

  Heads now turned to the Chief of Staff.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Dawson answered. “There is one area that requires some attention. I believe it has ramifications for the re-election campaign. The polls suggest you are vulnerable on domestic policy.”

  “How can that be?” Matthews responded. “We’ve nearly balanced the budget and still kept taxes flat.”

  “Ah, that’s fiscal policy, Mr. President.” Dawson’s voice exhibited a well-developed deference. “It’s the quality of life that seems to be the problem. With the threat of foreign terrorism reduced, the population begins to worry about more mundane issues like employment and public safety. Your continuing education plan was soundly defeated in the House, the crime rate has started up again, and Henneberry is crowing about the drug problem. These are not positive trends.”