A Special Preview
by Hank Silverberg
Please read the excerpt, enjoy it and at the bottom, there will be instructions on how to order the book if you wish. It's available in hard cover, soft cover and E-book.
The Campaign
The Campaign
Prologue
“This is the WBN Evening News with John Conner.”
The highest rated anchorman on American television turned
to the camera. His scowl quickly turned to a look of concern as the red light
on the camera went on, and the broadcast began.
“Good evening. We begin our broadcast this evening in the
Middle East, where both sides in the conflict with Iran are marking the second
anniversary of the war with a broadside of rhetoric and offensive movements on
the ground.”
The viewers at home see video of American soldiers in
armored personnel carriers, Humvees, and A-1 tanks moving swiftly across an
open desert, kicking up dust as they go. The anchorman continues, in an
authoritative voice. Off camera, as he reads over the video, he runs his hands
through his thick hair, recently dyed black again, quickly glancing at the
in-house monitor to make sure there is no hair out of place.
“Much of the fighting continues around the southern border
between Iran and Iraq as it has for the past two years. The Iranians continue
to send thousands of men and machines against US forces with little progress.
American and allied forces have pushed them back, but have made little progress
in advancing.
“On Capitol Hill, critics have begun to compare the
fighting to the trench warfare of World War I a hundred years ago, though
casualties on the allied side have not been as horrific as they were in that
war. Iran is not talking about their losses, but some experts say they are
high. Reports from the front, increasingly negative, have increased opposition
to the war here at home. Melanie Harrington reports from the Hill that there is
an effort to cut off funding for the war.”
A young woman appears on screen, standing in front of the
US capitol’s west side, the dome behind her well lit against the evening sky.
Her cameraman has set up portable lights to illuminate her dark black skin. Her
earrings, which have become somewhat of a signature often noted in the trade
press, are dangling off both ears. This evening they are wooden parrots painted
yellow and blue.
“There is more evidence here tonight,” she begins, “that
President Freeman faces stiff opposition to his war strategy, with more than
three hundred members of Congress approving a resolution that calls for a
pullout from the Iranian conflict. Congressman Joe Bennett of Missouri,
mentioned as a possible candidate for president in next year’s election, has
been leading the effort, and he has been joined today by Senator Al Brockfield
of Wisconsin, a member of the president’s own party.”
Conner zoned out during Melonie’s report. He had read the
script, something he rarely did on any story that did not involve the war. He
checked his suit in the monitor hooked up to a camera that was always focused
on him even when something else was on the screen. His workouts at the gym were
paying off. The fat around his middle had turned to muscle. That makeup woman
the network had brought in at his request continued to make him look much
younger than sixty-one. The camera’s red light went on again.
“There are new economic forecasts for this month that
appear to indicate a slight downturn in the economy . . .”
He kept reading from the teleprompter in front of him with
little idea of what he was saying. He didn’t really understand economics.
* * *
The President of the United States threw a pen he had been
writing with at the TV. It bounced off the flat-panel plasma screen hanging on
the nearby wall, leaving a little dent in John Conner’s on-screen face for a
moment before falling to the ground. Andrew Freeman was not a happy man. At
sixty-two, his once thick brown hair was now totally gray. Three years in the
White House had made it that way. The coffee he had been drinking, one of those
fancy lattes, was now cold and had a bitter taste. He had sent one of his aides
to get it from a coffee shop on Sixteenth Street, despite a White House kitchen
that could prepare anything he wanted. His doctor said he was gaining weight
and should stop drinking anything with caffeine. But nineteen-hour workdays
made that impossible.
I’m
in trouble, he thought to himself as he watched Bennett and
Brockfield pontificate some broad view about more diplomacy and better
equipment for the troops. How did I get into this mess? Freeman pushed a button on
his phone.
“Nancy, I want a meeting in fifteen minutes with Abe
Silver, Marta McBride, and the vice president. Oh, and Clark Freisling too.”
His personal secretary was on the phone dialing before the
president’s receiver hit the cradle.
Chapter 1
The Setup
It was a cool April evening along the Blue Ridge in
Virginia. The buds on the trees were beginning to turn to leaves. The ski
slopes had all closed. The summer season had not yet begun, so most of the
hotels and quaint country inns were flashing “vacancy” signs. There was a smell
of early spring in the air.
He sat in front of a TV screen in one of those nearly
vacant hotels, watching reports of the war that continued to rage in his
homeland and the rage within him grew. The man known only as Ishmael was
frustrated. It had been two years since his triumph in New York. The confusion
and blood he had left in that small town upstate had been very satisfying. Nine
people had died by the time it was over, and the media coverage had been
worldwide. He had struck the infidels hard and escaped, spreading fear that he
would strike again. The man he had duped into activating the bomb and the
money-greedy American he had paid to help him get the explosives were both
dead, but it was clear to the whole country that they had another accomplice.
Since then he had been living day to day, never staying in one place for more
than a few days. Twice he thought he had another attack set up, and twice he
was thwarted by some dumb cop who had found a clue, or some stupid American who
saw something strange and reported it. Both times he escaped. The second time
in Los Angeles, the police had rounded up some of his supposed coplotters,
brother Muslims whom he had used to protect him or hide him or finance his
plan. They were mostly dupes. Only two had actually been aware of what he was
planning. And they had all died in a Federal detention center under what the
media was calling mysterious circumstances. He knew better. He had learned fast
in this country you could find someone willing to do anything for money.
Now an election year was ahead. He was carefully reading
all he could about it. There were at least three people who were running for
president and there would be more soon, including the criminal who had invaded
his country. One of them would be his target.
Ishmael looked at his reflection in the mirror. His beard,
longer than most Americans would wear theirs, would have to go. Allah would
forgive him. He would lighten his hair color, make it more brown than black. At
thirty-nine, he was not showing any gray. Perhaps he would wear a mustache. A
little makeup could lighten his olive skin and make him look more Caucasian.
He would strike in June or July or maybe August. It would
take some time to set up. He wanted to hit where he thought it would have the
most effect. It had been over twenty years since his brother and young nephew
had been killed by the dirty Americans.
They had shot down a commercial airliner over the Persian
Gulf. The American government had called it a tragic accident, but that didn’t
matter. An eye for an eye he had been taught, and he had more gouging to do.
* * *
John Conner finished his broadcast, walked out into the
newsroom, spoke briefly to his producer, and then quickly left WBN’s New York
studio. He had plans for tonight. Conner was six feet tall, broad shouldered.
He looked much younger than he was thanks to that hair dye and those few hours
a day at the gym. The gym membership had been part of the new contract he had
negotiated after his network took off in the ratings and in revenue as a
result. Of course, he knew deep down that he had only a little to do with his
network’s rise to the top of the rating heap, but he was still going to bleed
it dry. He was the face of the network even though it took hundreds of people
to make it what it was. As long as his face and delivery stayed on target and
his reputation stayed clean, he was fixed for life.
Even before his nightly broadcasts had moved into the
number one spot in the ratings, he had attracted women. He knew he was just a
famous face to many of them. Now that he was number one in the news wars
though, he was attracting a different kind of woman. No more bimbos. Now many
of his conquests had brains and looks, and that was much more fun.
He hailed a cab, leaving his limo and driver, provided to
him by the network, sitting in a Manhattan parking garage. No one needed to
know where he was going.
* * *
Clark Freisling could see the look on the president’s face
when he arrived at the Oval Office. He had seen it before. There was that day
in Newark four years ago when the polls had Freeman down by fifteen points and
the campaign contributions were starting to dry up. He braced himself for a
blistering diatribe from the boss.
Freisling had been with Andrew Freeman for twenty years.
He had run some of his campaigns for Congress, the first one for governor of
New Jersey, and then served as a political operative in the last presidential
campaign. He had cultivated big donors, enticed mayors from big towns and small
to jump on the bandwagon, and even slid a few dollars in a few palms to get a
few things done. It had been easy to buy loyalty and a few votes when they were
needed. He had broken more than one law to get Andrew Freeman into the White
House. The president, of course, could always say he had no knowledge of any of
this. That was the way it was set up.
Few people liked Clark Freisling. He had a sinister look
about him, always lurking around, listening to other people’s conversations.
His hair was always out of place. He was short and overweight. He would sweat
all the time even when he wasn’t exerting himself. He combed his hair over the
bald spot on the top of his head. He knew many on the White House staff joked
about his comb-overs behind his back, but he didn’t care.
He watched as the others came in. He loved to watch Marta
McBride walk. She was in her fifties but was still a fine-looking woman who
dressed in professional but well-fitting clothes. As the president’s press
secretary, she was the one who had to go in front of the cameras every day, and
looking good helped with that. Her hair was still blonde and she didn’t dye it.
He watched her firm backside as she wiggled past him into a seat to the
president’s left.
Abe Silver was there also. The president’s chief of staff
was a former senator from New York. He was over six feet tall and distinguished
looking. He was considering a run for the White House himself four years ago
even though he was sixty-six. Then all of a sudden some pictures showed up of him
in a Manhattan hotel with one of his female senate staffers. The pictures
reached Silver’s desk just as he was getting ready to declare his run for the
White House. They were never made public. Freisling had seen to that
personally. Shortly after the pictures mysteriously got lost, Silver, to the
surprise of almost everyone in politics and in the media, announced he was not,
after all, going to run. The president, of course, did not know about any of
this. He liked old Abe and was delighted when Silver decided not to run. He
invited him to join the campaign as manager and Silver had run it so well and
raised so much in donations that he ended up as chief of staff when Freeman
entered the White House. Silver was technically Freisling’s boss, but those pictures
still existed, providing Clark with some job security. They had an
understanding.
The vice president was late. She was always late. Freeman
looked annoyed, but offered everyone some coffee and bagels while they waited
and chatted about things that really didn’t matter. Everyone took a bagel and
coffee except the president. He didn’t want them to see him cheating on the
diet his doctor had laid out for him.
Amy Roosevelt came in about ten minutes later. She was
dressed in jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, with a North Face jacket that she
handed to an aide as she approached the president’s desk. She made no apology
for being late. She had been on her way back from a weekend at her cabin in the
Shenandoah Valley when she had gotten the president’s summons.
Roosevelt, the former governor of Indiana, was a distant
relative of FDR. Her grandfather had been Franklin’s second cousin once
removed, or something like that. Only a genealogist could figure it out. But
she had the Roosevelt name. She had been a big plus in Freeman’s campaign with
her startling auburn hair, blue eyes, and beauty-queen-like figure even at
forty-five. She had good name recognition because of her family connection and
because of two outstanding seasons as a guard with the national champion Lady
Hoosiers in college. Freisling was convinced she had nothing between the ears.
She had majored in physical education after all. Freeman liked her because she
talked and thought like the average housewife instead of like one of those
Ivy-League pinheads that always seemed to show up in the cabinet. And she
looked good standing next to him.
They were all there.
* * *
I hope you liked the sample. Here's how to order "The Campaign." If you like to deal with online bookstores it is available through Amazon.com or BN.com. You can also order at hanksilverbergbooks.com.
If you want an AUTOGRAPHED copy you can send me an email at the address listed below and I will give you more instructions on how to get it directly from me.
It is available in hardcover, softdcover or E-book.
"The Campaign"
Copyright 2017 by Hank Silverberg
ISBN Hardcover 978-1-5434-2261-0
Softcover 978-1-5434-2260-3
e-Book 978--5434-2259-7
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