Seven Unholy Days (11 page)

DAY THREE

THURSDAY

And I beheld, and lo a black horse;

and he that sat on him had a pair of balances

in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst

of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny;

and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.

Revelation 6:5-6

18

8:23 AM EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

SITUATION ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

              President Stanson was not known for early-morning meetings, but these were not normal times. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table, flanked on both sides by the upper echelon of American government. On the right side was his national security advisor, Rich Henning. Beyond Henning were the joint chiefs of staff, the top military officers from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps. Jonathan Golden, the chairman of the Federal Reserve, sat in the number one chair on the left. Past him were Keen Brandon, the director of the FBI, the FEMA director, and the secretaries of defense and state. White House Chief of Staff Arnessy paced and took notes as he listened.

Golden was speaking. “Mr. President, as you’re well aware, the U.S. stock markets have naturally been closed for the past two days. Foreign markets, however, have remained in oper
ation in an attempt to make things appear as normal as possible under the circumstances. The dollar has taken a hell of a beating against the Yen and the Euro, but nothing that couldn’t be overcome once things return to normal.

“The foreign markets themselves have suffered some pretty heavy losses, with stocks of American companies that trade on those exchanges getting hit the hardest.”

“Of course,” the president said with more than a hint of impatience. “Move on.”

“Sir, last night, about halfway through the afternoon session of the Nikkei, massive sell orders started hitting the desks for a number of major companies.”

“American companies?” the national security advisor asked.

“No. These were all Japanese giants. Matsushita, JVC, Sony, and several others. Their stock prices had already fallen an a
verage of around twenty percent over the past couple of days as a result of our troubles. We expected another round of heavy selling last night and I personally asked the director of the Nikkei to suspend trading until we could get a handle on this thing.”

“And did he?” asked the president.

“No, sir, he did not. He said his obligation was to let the traders of Japan buy and sell stocks as they see fit, period. The trading started and, as expected, the American companies got slammed. What we did not anticipate–and rest assured they didn’t either–were the enormous sell orders that started piling up on the Japanese companies.”

“Get to it, John. We have a lot of ground to cover here and most of it is probably more important than the stock markets.”

“With all due respect sir, we’ll find that the markets are incredibly important. You see, once those big sell orders started, others followed, and others, and others. Sir, the Nikkei crashed last night. Hard. It lost eighty-four percent of its value before they got it shut down.”

“Dear God,” the president muttered. “Give me the nutshell version of the immediate ramifications, John.”

“I’m afraid there’s more. The eastern markets like the Nikkei are the first ones open on any given trading day. If this had happened early in their session, the European markets probably never would have opened. But it didn’t. The sells that started the slide didn’t start executing until Europe had opened. And the panic spread, sir.”

The President was on the edge of his seat. “For Christ’s sake, Golden, tell me what happened!”

“Sir, the bottom line is that most of the world’s stock markets crashed last night. We’re looking at a worldwide economic meltdown and I believe it was orchestrated.”

“If it was, can’t we track down the source?”

“We’re already looking into it, but remember that everything is now moving at a snail’s pace. We’re crippled.”

“I don’t give a happy damn if you’re crippled. The people don’t want to hear that their government can’t protect them and I won’t accept it. It’s our job to protect and we will by God do just that by whatever means necessary. Now finish your expl
anation as to what we can expect next with regard to economic fallout.”

Golden cleared his throat and continued. “It’ll hit the more advanced areas first and hardest, but it will eventually hit ev
erywhere. Our own system was already on the edge of a cliff. As soon as the news of this filters out, it’ll fall off that cliff. There’s not much commerce taking place as it is, but what goods are being sold will quadruple in price. We’re talking twenty dollars for a loaf of bread, if you can find one left at all. And it can only get worse.

“Manufacturing is at a standstill. Food and perishables were already in bad shape and now they’re going to be worse. Iron
ically, the population will for the most part deem traditionally expensive items like cars, appliances, and electronics to be meaningless and those values will deflate. It will quickly deteriorate into economic chaos. Mr. Henning can probably give you a pretty good prediction of where things will go from there.” Golden closed his folder and leaned back in his chair.

“Rich?” the president said.

“Mr. President, economic chaos will turn into social chaos and it will happen almost immediately. People will sense that things are out of control and do almost anything for them and their families to survive,” Rich Henning said.

President Stanson turned his attention to Bill Fremont, the director of FEMA. “Bill, how are operations holding up?”

Fremont looked down at his notes and spoke quietly, “It’s not going very well, sir.”

Stanson slammed his fist down on the table, rattling water glasses. “The entire reason for FEMA’s existence is to be pr
epared for something like this. Explain to me why the hell your agency isn’t doing its damn job!”

“Nothing of this scale was ever considered a possibility. We’re woefully short on resources. We had five thousand gas-powered generators. We need a hundred thousand to effectively provide services. We’re commandeering more, but that’s not going well. People aren’t keen on turning over their private property to the government.”

“Commandeering? Are you telling me that you’re going around this country taking generators away from the citizens who own them?”

“Yes sir. We have no choice. Hospitals and law enforcement must take priority.”

Stanson shook his head and rested his forehead on his hand, speaking into the table. “God help us. We sound like communists.”

No one said anything. “I want specific recommendations right now. The floor is open to you all,” President Stanson said.

The chairman of the joint chiefs of staff spoke next. Admiral Bradley Stockton looked as lean and crisp as his heavily decorated dress blue Navy uniform as he snapped up out of his chair and looked directly at the president. “Mr. President, sir, I believe we must declare martial law immediately.”

“Brad, how did I know you might say that?” The president attempted a smile and most of the others followed suit with half-hearted attempts to do the same. The moment of forced le
vity faded quickly.

“I’m a military man, sir. My colleagues and I are in unan
imous agreement. Looting is rampant. Police departments are outmanned ten to one by thugs and formerly decent people who are being turned into criminals by fear. If we could flip a switch right now and return everything to normal, it would still take months to repair the property damage that’s already been done. Who knows how long it will take to rebuild the confidence in our infrastructure and our ability to provide the ‘domestic tranquility’ we’re so fond of.”

Henning was rapping a pencil on his knuckles, head tilted to one side. The president read him. “Rich, what’s on your mind?”

Henning turned to Admiral Stockton. “Admiral, you know I’m an ex-military man myself, and you and I agree more often than not. With that said, though, are we at a state of military readiness to accommodate martial law?”

“Of course we are, Rich. We’ve been looking at the possibi
lity for days. Our forces are more than up to the job.” The general in Army green was nodding.

“How much of the Army would it take?”

“It’ll take all of it. Keeping two hundred fifty million people in line will take a lot of manpower and a lot of logistical resources.”

“And if we do that,” Henning said, “how prepared will our borders be to resist compromise? There exists the possibility that we’re being set up, distracted as a matter of strategy.”

The president looked to the Defense Secretary, Jonathan North, and arched his eyebrows. “I’ve seen no intelligence to indicate possibility of invasion,” North said, to the agreement of the admiral and three generals.

Henning glanced from man to man, and finally to the pres
ident. “Sir, with all due respect to these men in whom I have a staggering amount of confidence, not a single one of our intel sources had the first blip on their screens to suggest that we would be sitting in the mess we’re in right now.”

“Good point, Rich,” Stanson said. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the joint chiefs, “I’m definitely not ruling out the po
ssibility of martial law, but I need a few hours to think this over. This nation has never had tanks rumbling through the streets. I want to be sure there are no alternatives left.”

“I understand, Mr. President,” Admiral Stockton said.

The president turned his attention to Brandon. “Keen, what’s the progress on finding this lunatic?”

A Navy steward walked in with a tray of fine china cups and a steaming pot of Navy-made White House coffee, purported by many to be the best there is. The young man went about his d
uty quietly with obvious pride, and all those at the table welcomed the coffee. Sleep was in short supply in Washington and caffeine was becoming even more of a staple than normal.

Brandon inhaled the aromatic steam and took a sip. “Sir, we have an incredible amount of manpower on it. At this point, we’re working these emails, the one sent to us and the one sent to Matt Decker.”

“And what progress have you made?”

“Not much but we’ve narrowed the origin of the emails down to either New York or Los Angeles.”

“Well how very helpful that is,” the president said.

“It’s all we have, sir. I’m sorry—”

“I do not want to hear that you’re sorry. For God’s sake, man, our nation is in a state of catastrophe and the whole damn world is right behind. Do not tell me you’re sorry. I’m going to start making calls to my contemporaries in Europe and Asia, and assure them that we are going to find and stop this bastard. And I want exactly that to happen. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir,” the room answered in near unison.

Chief of Staff Arnessy stayed behind when the others left. “Hate to bother you but there are a couple of housekeeping issues to tend to, sir.”

“Make it quick.”

“The press are clamoring for a conference.”

“For what? They’re all shut down.”

Arnessy shrugged.

“Denied. Have them pick a representative and I’ll give fi
fteen minutes of face time. What else?”

“Do you remember Doctor Chaim Hilton?”

“The Israeli professor who helped us with our earthquake readiness research in California?”

“Right.”

“Yes, I remember him. Delightful old fellow. What of him?”

“He was kidnapped about a month ago, and his body was found this morning in the Negev desert. I think it would be a good idea for you to make time to call his family.”

“Of course. Any idea why he was kidnapped?”

Arnessy shook his head.

“What a shame. Anything else?”

“No sir, that’s it.”

19

8:45 AM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

YELLOW CREEK

              Tark and I were the first ones awake. Even Abdul had finally given in and was sprawled across one of the mattresses on the floor in the lounge. We quietly brewed a pot of coffee and headed to the Control Room.

“Matthew, something’s been bothering me and I can’t get it off my mind. Why don’t you believe in God?”

I was still on my first cup of coffee and he caught me off guard. What the hell. “For what it’s worth, I used to believe. I finally saw the evidence that he’s not that different from an imaginary friend that a seven-year-old might conjure up to keep from being lonely. I saw the light, as you Christians might say.” I sat back and waited for the sermon.

“What kind of evidence?”

“My father was a preacher, Tark. He stormed around his pulpit and scared everybody half to death talking about hellfire and brimstone. Then he’d talk about the wonders of God, how he’d never let you down. Jesus was love, he’d never forsake you, nosirree. Just like most people in that little church, I believed what my father said.

“My mother died giving birth to me, so I never knew her. My father explained that while it was painful, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Being an organ donor, her death gave life not only to me but to others, as well. It was a stretch, but it was plausible coming from my father, as everything always was. Dad really was a great father, everything a boy could want, and he was all I had.

Tark was listening to every word, and as much as I hated this subject, for some reason it felt good to be setting him straight on the matter. Who knows, maybe he’d wise up in the process and reconsider the fairy tale, so I continued. “Dad preached Jesus and I believed. I sang in the youth choir. I talked less fortunate friends—ones who got the hell beat out of ‘em by their fathers, ones who were lucky to get a decent meal a day—into coming to church with me. There they learned from my father that they weren’t alone. Jesus was with them. He’d always be with them. It never did quite make sense to me why Jesus would stand by and watch some asshole beat up a kid, but Dad always found a way to twist it around so it made sense.

“When I was thirteen, my father was on his way home from visiting a local nursing home when a drunk in an eighteen-wheeler hit him head on. It was then that it became evident to me that there is no God. If he did exist, then why the hell would he let that happen to my father, one of his own, a man wholly devoted to the cause? The answer of course is that there is no God. There’s only this right here, and we’re in control. Good people, bad people, drunks in eighteen-wheelers. It is what we make it, nothing more. Last I heard, the drunk got religious and became a preacher, if you can believe that one.”

“I assume your father was killed?”

“No, he’s lying in a long-term-care ward in a nursing home, in a coma. As soon as my finances permitted, I had him moved from a state-run hellhole to Alpine Village, the finest facility in the Northwest. I’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on every kind of treatment available from the best neurologists in the world. All for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t call it nothing. You’ve tried. What happened to you after your father got hurt?”

“Uncle Seth, my father’s brother, took me in. He didn’t have a pot to piss in, but he took care of me, and we got along pretty well. He didn’t go to church, didn’t judge people, and didn’t sit around waiting on things that were never going to happen. He taught me that we’re responsible for ourselves, period.”

“How’d you get involved in computers?”

“That’s an odd story. Uncle Seth liked to hang out at this l
ocal gym where a few wannabe boxers trained. He loved to bet the fights and thought he could get a better insight into who to put his money on by watching them up close. Well, I naturally hung out there with him quite a bit, and wound up taking some martial arts classes over on the other end of the gym. Turns out I had a knack for it, and I moved through the belts pretty quickly; I was pretty advanced by the time I was fifteen.”

He smiled and patted his belly. “Unlike me, looks like you keep yourself in good shape. You still do it?”

“Just enough to stay loose. Anyway, I fell in with a couple of other guys in the class who were pretty rough. The ethic of never using our skills for anything other than sport or self-defense didn’t appeal to them. They were dirt poor and didn’t want to stay that way, and I’d gotten pretty tired of it myself. We started our own little gang, called ourselves Trinity. Pop would’ve loved that if he had ever awakened.”

“We started out small, doing a little shoplifting here and there, selling our wares on the street. We were afraid the me
rchants were getting wise to us, though, so we changed our approach. There were quite a few gangs roaming the streets, so we’d intentionally invade their turf and start a ruckus. They’d jump us, we’d kick their asses, then take every dime they had right out of their pockets while they laid there. The beauty of it was that we knew they’d never say a word about getting creamed by three guys because their respect would be crap.”

“Good grief, Matthew, didn’t they have guns?”

“Yeah, some did. Guns, knives, knucks, you name it. Youth knows no fear, and none of us ever got shot or stabbed. We took many a gun and knife, sold them on the streets. We were doing pretty well, knocking down a lot of cash. We also had a great time with the girls of the conquered gangs. Not forced, mind you, we weren’t like that. Girls that hang out with gangs are turned on by power, and to the victors go the spoils, including those of the flesh.”

“This is all interesting, Matthew, but I’m still waiting for the computer connection.”

“Bear with me,” I said, “I’m almost there. We picked out a new gang on the other side of town for our next conquest and strolled into their neighborhood. Started talking trash like we always did, but they never would make the first move. So we made it for them. It felt weird the whole time, because they didn’t fight much at all. As soon as I reached in the first leather jacket and pulled out the guy’s wallet, cops poured out of the woodwork. That new gang was a gang of cops. We fell right into the sting, like criminals always will if they push the envelope long enough.

“So there I was, sixteen years old, in jail, charged with strong-arm robbery among other things. I agreed to plead guilty in exchange for them treating me as a juvenile. I got sentenced to three years suspended, but I had to go to a rehabilitation ce
nter three times a week. Part of the rehab was learning a skill, and I chose some computer courses. I picked it up pretty quickly, and seventeen years later, here I am.”

“Good to hear you turned your life around, and no one can deny that you’ve made something of yourself, Matthew. That’s quite a story. Does Potella know about your arrest record? That might be part of what’s in his craw, too.”

“Nope, he has it in his head that I’m working with arms-traders, which is pure bunk, but he knows nothing about the travails of my youth.”

Tark shook his head and smiled. “You made your record go away, didn’t you? Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll let this be our little secret, okay?”

“I’d appreciate that, Tark.”

“Not a problem,” he said as he left the room to refill his co
ffee cup.

I sat there by myself in the Control Room, already hot and soon to be hotter as the merciless sun made its morning climb. I hadn’t planned to blab my background to anyone, much less a Bible-thumper like Jimmy Lee Tarkleton, but it felt good. I had spent my entire adult life fighting to conceal that past, to mai
ntain my entrepreneurial image. Letting go and telling someone the truth felt good, like a dark cloud lifted that I didn’t know was there. And I wasn’t worried about it going any further. Tark said it would be our secret and I believed him. He stuck his head back into the room and said, “Come to the lounge, Matthew. I think you need to hear this.”

The Fox anchor was on the screen, looking haggard and sounding spent. “Fox financial correspondent Bart Brann is here with me now. Bart, with the U.S. already in a state of crisis, how will these foreign market crashes affect us?”

“I finally managed to get a friend in London on the phone a few minutes ago. He’s describing the situation over there as chaotic. The only thing we really have to compare something like this to is the twenty-nine crash, and our current situation is far worse than that.”

“How so?”

“The first infamous Black Thursday crash took place on October 24, 1929, when the New York Stock Exchange went through a selling frenzy that shaved four billion dollars off the value of the exchange. Despite this colossal selloff, news spread much more slowly in those days, and so did the effect of the crash. In more rural areas of the country, where people’s livelihoods were more dependent on their own food and livestock than on external factors, it took as much as a year for the effect of the crash to trickle down and make an impact.

“That’s not the case now as we deal with a brand new Black Thursday. When something happens in the twenty-first century, the world knows about it instantly and people react quickly. Major financial events start feeding on themselves, spiraling i
nto a vicious downward cycle within hours or even minutes. That’s what’s happening. The Nikkei crash began and instantly carried over into the European markets. The news was immediately disseminated to the people in those countries, and panic buying of food and other essential items set in. Sellers knew what was going on and began raising prices, some out of sheer greed, some because they had already gotten word from their suppliers that replenishment goods would come at substantially higher costs. In the same way that the downward spiral of stock prices took place, prices for basic goods were accelerating upward within hours. What we have in the end is hyperinflation on a worldwide scale.”

“Can you give us any examples?”

“Gasoline in England is going for the equivalent of thirty U.S. dollars per gallon. A loaf of bread is fifteen dollars, a gallon of milk nine dollars. And all these prices continue to rise as people pay the prices and sap the dwindling supplies of these goods.”

“What can we expect here at home?”

“It’s going to be worse here because the United States was already in dire straits. Manufacturing is shut down. Deliveries are all but impossible because refueling of trucks can’t take place. Planes have of course been long since grounded. Los Angeles, a major hub of American commerce, is in shambles as they struggle to deal with the horrendous loss of human life. And finally, let’s remember that the power is still off and we don’t know when it will be back on. Parts of the country were back in operation for a brief period, but the power went back off without warning. It’s rough out there.”

“Okay, thanks Bart. We appreciate the update and we’ll no doubt be calling on you again as this crisis continues to deve
lop—”

I turned the volume down on the television set. “There’s a pattern to all this,” I said. “Black Thursday nineteen twenty-nine. Black Thursday now. History repeating itself. There’s something here we’re not catching, hidden clues we aren’t se
eing, a method to the madness.”

“Nothing new under the sun,” Tark mumbled.

“What?” I said.

“It’s from Ecclesiastes chapter one, verse nine.”

“What’s the whole verse?” He had triggered a new line of thought. It was vague at the moment, but it was a beginning.

“That which has been is what will be, that which is done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun. What are you thinking?”

“It’s a book full of patterns and recurring themes. And you already think the guy is a religious nut. Abdul, I need your help.” I was already on my way out of the lounge, headed to the Control Room.

“Matt Decker, I am pleasing to help you but my Holy Bible knowledge is most poor.”

“Don’t worry about it, just come with me.”

“Yes, Matt Decker.”