In ancient Rome Julius Caesar defiantly crossed the Rubicon River signaling his intent to overthrow Pompey and become leader of the Roman Empire. This symbolic act led to world domination and forever changed the landscape of nations and men. Two thousand years later an international cabal crosses The Last Rubicon and take its own irrevocable steps toward absolute power. In a chilling scenario one man races against time to stop the simultaneous assassination of the President of the United States and the Premier of China-an act which will destroy two governments and leave its people teetering on the brink of chaos. But can he do it?
The Last Rubicon
By Lance ZedricAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Lance Zedric
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-1677-7Chapter One
Somewhere in Montana 0730 Hours
It was the bluest sky he had ever seen. From atop a spotted Rhone the steely-eyed shooter peered down the barrel of his weapon into the endless expanse of sky. He blinked twice and placed a thick index finger on the custom silver trigger. The shooter drew a deep breath and exhaled, calming his nerves. The horse did the same. Moments later a clay pidgin sliced through the crisp morning air and disintegrated in a puff of red smoke.
Congressman Harlington Walls, nominee for Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, stood in the stirrups and braced himself against the horse's thick neck anticipating his next shot-a simultaneous release.
Walls shouted the command. "Pull!"
Like two miniature flying saucers, the four-inch platters crisscrossed in mid-air and accelerated in opposite directions. Walls drew a bead on the one to his right and squeezed the trigger destroying his inanimate prey. He then swung 180 degrees and quickly zeroed in on the second tiny disc. It was a long shot-but Walls had made a career out of them. Even at sixty-five the charismatic and popular Montana congressman's star was on the rise. Over the years he had earned a reputation as one of the most honest and capable members of Congress, garnering the respect of republicans and democrats alike. Now he was being rewarded. When the sitting Speaker of the House retired unexpectedly, Walls was everyone's first choice. Some said that it was his uncanny resemblance to Teddy Roosevelt that made him so appealing. He was a dead ringer for the former president right down to his round spectacles and gap-toothed grin. Others claimed that he was the archetype poster boy for America's grandpa; the fatter, wiser, more congenial father of Uncle Sam. The perception of an older, more trustworthy politician appealed to the scores of disenchanted voters who had suffered through the public sex scandals of their elected leadership all the way to top, even to a former sitting president. Although Walls had not expressed interest in seeking the presidency, many insiders believed that the Oval Office was his if he wanted it. But right now it was the farthest thing from his mind.
Walls leaned forward as if to shorten the distance between his barrel and the fleeing target. He calmly squeezed the trigger. The weapon's breech recoiled abruptly against his cheek, reminding him of the lethal instrument he wielded. Like a child at Christmas, his bright blue eyes sparkled as the brittle target of limestone and pitch exploded in the distance. Walls eased back into the saddle and savored the moment. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. His nostrils flared at the heady mix of saddle leather, gunpowder and clean Montana air. Walls grinned at his well-dressed aide kneeling in the bed of a dusty white pickup preparing to load another trap.
"God, I love it out here! Give me an honest shotgun, a good horse and a fat-bottom woman and I could die here! You can have D.C. What'd ya say, boy?"
The aide didn't answer. It was obvious that he would rather be anywhere but here, but he couldn't refuse a personal request from the office of the president. The president's top advisor had personally asked him to spearhead Walls' transition team, and as much as he detested being an errand boy, he knew that eventually he would be rewarded for tackling the unenviable assignment.
Walls sensed his aide's growing indignation.
"What's the matter, boy, too dirty out here for ya?"
The aide stood and pushed his stylish black sunglasses high on his nose, then glanced at the Cartier watch that his father had given him for graduating from Harvard Law. He then placed his hands on his hips and glared defiantly at the old man. "Let's make this the last one, Congressman, what do you say? You've got an important meeting at the capitol in an hour and we can't keep ..."
Walls raised his right hand and cut him off in mid-sentence. "To hell with the suits in Helena. They've kept me waiting for years. Now it's my turn."
"But Congressman ...!"
"Don't but me, boy."
The aide backed off. He knew better than to push Walls any harder. Despite his gentle public persona, he had an explosive temper and the young aide wasn't prepared to be on the receiving end of one of the Congressman's infamous tirades. "Of course not Congressman-whatever you say."
Walls rested the shotgun on his lap and glared back at the cocky understudy. "Son, how old are you?"
The question surprised him. He had worked for Walls for almost a month and it was the first time he had asked him anything personal. "Twenty-six, sir. Why do you ask?"
Walls smirked. "Twenty-six? Holy shit, son, you're fresh off the tit!"
"Excuse me?"
Walls scowled at him. "You heard me you spoiled little prick. I was in Congress when you were shittin' your pants and I haven't been late for a meeting yet, so don't lecture me; don't patronize me, and don't fuckin' wet nurse me. Just load up a goddamn pidgin and let it fly!"
The aide felt his blood boil. He knew that Walls wanted to draw him into an argument, but he would not respond. Instead, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, expelling carbon dioxide and the desire to beat the fat old bastard to death. There would be time for payback later. There always was in Washington. The aide raised his hands and smiled meekly. "My bad-you're the boss."
Walls grinned smugly and waited for him to load another target. "Pull Goddamnit, pull!"
Walls strained back in his saddle and drew a bead on the rapidly ascending target. He waited for it to reach its apex then placed his finger on the trigger. A single blast followed. Seconds later the target spiraled to earth intact. The aide allowed himself a surreptitious smile, but it belied his cold, lifeless eyes. He nimbly jumped from the tailgate and landed cleanly on the ground, barely dusting his soft Italian leather shoes. He brushed off his pants and ran his fingers through his short black hair. Like a defiant cock rooster, he strutted the ten yards to Walls' body lying in the red Montana dirt. The combat loads from his double-barrel shotgun had ripped a gaping hole in Walls' upper chest and throat. The massive Rhone lay beside his master panting heavily from a mortal wound to its tiny brain. There was blood everywhere; so much blood that the aide couldn't distinguish between horse blood and human blood, but not that it mattered. Blood was blood. The aide casually slung the weapon over his shoulder and watched his victims slip in and out of consciousness. Together, man and beast struggled for life, each in their own way trying to understand what had just happened, but no answers were forthcoming. Walls tried to focus on the approaching figure, but the thick spatters of blood on his spectacles prevented him from his seeing. The aide stood over him and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He squatted and carefully wiped the blood from Walls' glasses.
"Is that better, Mr. Speaker?" he asked smugly. "Good, because I don't want you to miss this."
The aide stood and chambered another round then pressed the shotgun against Walls' forehead. "Who's shitting his pants now, Mr. never-going-to-be-Speaker of the House?" he said coldly.
The aide casually flicked a piece of lint from his shirt. "And since we're on the subject, would you like the honors or shall I?"
Walls groaned and closed his eyes. He knew what was coming.
The aide smiled. "Very well, but don't say I didn't offer ... Pull!"
The aide tucked the shotgun under his arm and punched a number into his cell phone. He waited for a single click and abruptly hung up. According to plan, two unmarked Apache helicopters rapidly descended from the horizon. Within five minutes, all evidence of the murder was erased. Officially, it never happened.
Chapter Two
Washington, D.C. The next day 0800 Hours
The elevator lurched under the weight of a single man. Like most old elevators, the higher it climbed the more it labored, but that is true of all things. The commander of the newly-formed Special Intelligence Directorate inhaled deeply and tried to clear the butterflies from his stomach, but it didn't help. It never helped. The elevator slowed then abruptly dropped six inches before settling at the top floor of building 10B. The man took another deep breath and waited stoically for the familiar bell to ring. The door opened with a clank.
Colonel Michael Quinn tugged firmly at the bottom of his Army dress green tunic with both hands ensuring that he looked presentable. He held a small, black attach case in his left hand and stepped cautiously into the hall. His dark eyes darted left then right. All clear, he thought. Quinn pivoted sharply on the ball of his left foot and performed a sharp ninety-degree right turn-the same kind he executed flawlessly as the top cadet at West Point over thirty years ago. With his eyes fixed ahead he walked briskly down the long, colorless hallway impervious to the rhythmic clicking of his shoes on highly polished floor. A second turn, this time to the left, led him down another faceless corridor.
From twenty feet away the security counter reminded him of the long bar at Lee's Tap in Seoul, but the closer he got the more it resembled the sterile military guard post he had come to expect. Two security cameras mounted high on the wall followed every step. At this point he wasn't sure if B Wing was being protected from the outside world or if it was the other way around. Quinn stopped at a yellow line on the floor and waited for the cameras to scan him. Moments later, a muscular black captain carrying a sidearm emerged through the metal door. He glanced at Quinn's name tag. Silently, he logged his arrival and handed him a white security badge. Quinn clipped it to the breast pocket of his uniform and passed through the metal detector. In the shadowy world of intelligence everyone had to have a badge. It was law-and color was everything. A white badge allowed free and open access, while a yellow one restricted movement to designated sectors. Those with a red badge couldn't piss without an armed escort. But a red badge had never been worn in building 10B. They simply didn't exist.
The captain pressed a button on the side of the counter and the door buzzed open. "Follow me, Colonel," instructed the captain, as he led Quinn into a small room. "Wait here."
Quinn nodded and sat stiffly on the edge of a gray folding chair. He checked his watch. Ten minutes passed; then twenty. Quinn's frustration mounted. He hated to wait, not only because it was contrary to his aggressive nature, but it was also rude. But with him he had expected it. "Go ahead and play your games," he muttered to himself. "And I'll play mine."
The aide opened the door and gestured him inside. "The General will see you now."
Quinn followed the captain into the room and saluted the emaciated figure in the hospital bed before him. "You wished to see me, sir?"
The patient waved a frail hand at the captain as if brushing mosquitoes from his face. "Get out of here, dismissed!"
The aide rolled his eyes and closed the door. He often regretted not taking the special ops assignment at the Pentagon or even the field command in the Arctic. Like any soldier, he chose the assignment that he believed would best advance his career, but how was he to know that he had hitched his wagon to a falling star.
General Samuel Quinn was dying. An invasive stomach cancer was slowly wringing the life from his body like water from a dishrag. As a veteran of three hot wars and scores of cold ones, he had seen plenty of death. As a soldier, he could accept death from the hands of an enemy; it came with the territory. But to waste away from sickness, he could never accept that. Better to catch a bullet between the eyes and have it done with, he thought, than to rot away in a hospital bed. Quinn wasn't afraid of death. But dying was a bitch.
Samuel Quinn rose through the ranks the hard way, enlisting in the Army as a seventeen-year-old private the day after Peal Harbor. He was the second man from his hometown to join up and the first to enlist from his senior class. Before the war most townspeople in Bridgeport, West Virginia thought he would be the next Red Grange. At six-foot-three and two hundred twenty pounds, Samuel "Bam" Quinn had a rare combination of size, speed and agility. While most running backs with such physical gifts sidestepped would-be tacklers, Sam preferred to run over them. He was proud of his reputation as a hard-nosed, blue collar guy who earned every touchdown. His hard-work ethic endeared him to a town that had never fully recovered from the Depression and was tired of handouts. His gridiron heroics restored a small measure of pride to the good people of Bridgeport and gave them hope that one of their own might escape the crippling poverty that had stripped them of everything but their most basic dignity, and in some cases, even that. But they hadn't counted on a Japanese bayonet carving a four-inch chunk out of Quinn's thigh or a 7mm bullet shattering his collarbone-and neither had he. The standing joke in Bridgeport was that Quinn's wounds might have cost him a professional football career, but it cost six of Tokyo's best their lives.
Quinn was a natural at combat and his record proved it. After his first taste of action on Guadalcanal he was awarded a battlefield commission. From there it was on to more campaigns in New Guinea and another promotion. He later served in the Philippines with the elite Alamo Scouts, a top secret intelligence and raider unit that few people even knew about. It was there that he shined. At barely twenty-one he was promoted to major and became of one of the youngest field grade officers in the army. But when the war ended Quinn realized that without college his chances for promotion were slim. Like others in his position, he would likely toil for the next twenty years in a variety of mundane staff positions, perhaps making full colonel by retirement. The smart move would have been to get out of the army, attend college, and live a normal life. But the lure of generals' stars was too strong to ignore. Besides, his Medal of Honor had to count for something.
Michael took a hard look at his father. He barely recognized him. The cruel effects of the cancer had robbed him of whatever vigor age had not. It had been six years since Michael last saw him and three since they had last spoken. Michael didn't know why he had gone so long without seeing him or even calling, especially in his condition, and Sam wondered the same. But whatever the reason, both men assumed it was justified. Michael cracked the thick silence.
"How are you feeling, General?"
Sam looked away. "Never mind me, Colonel. Did you bring it?"
Michael's face hardened. His prominent cleft chin jutted out like it was daring to be hit and his ears turned fire engine red. His father always knew which buttons to push to set him off. It was a skill he had perfected over the years, and one that he delighted in honing at every opportunity. Michael looked through him. Always playing the General, he thought. Even now. Michael hoisted the briefcase to his chest. His reply was cold. "What now?"
Sam pointed a chair next to the bed. "Sit," he commanded.
Michael clenched his teeth and obeyed without comment. At times his father reminded him of the actor George C. Scott. Maybe it was the hawkish nose and prominent brow, or perhaps the same burning eyes and intense expression. Whatever it was, he couldn't get the image of Patton out of his mind.
Sam retrieved a non-filter cigarette from under his pillow and defiantly lit it.
"Should you be smoking?"
Sam blew a long stream of smoke into the air. "Since when are we married? I'll do as I God-damn please."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Last Rubiconby Lance Zedric Copyright © 2009 by Lance Zedric. Excerpted by permission.
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