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The Second Civil War : Chapter One

Updated on January 20, 2017

Chapter One: The Beginning

This is a serialized novella which was originally published on Smashwords and achieved quite a following. It's frightening how some of the scenarios what I wrote (before Occupy) bear a resemblance to what is happening today.

That said, it is strictly a work of my imagination. It would fall into a political action thriller and each hub will be a different chaper until the story concludes. I will list the chapters here so that you can come back to this hub to click on to the next chapter of the story.

Please be kind enough to let me know if there are any typos, etc. Thank you. The link to the next chapter will be at the end of the chapter, and so on.

Chapter One: The Beginning : Below.

Chapter Two: Nightfall

Chapter Three: Day One

Chapter Four: Biological Warfare

Chapter Five - Madame Le Guillotine

Chapter Six - The President

Chapter Seven - Neighbor Against Neighbour

Chapter Eight - The Pentagon Vs The People

Chapter Nine - Death is Cleansing

The Second Americal Civil War
The Second Americal Civil War

Chapter One: The Beginning:

Mid August

Ginger Pike was speechless. It wasn’t often the Speaker of the House was speechless. Then again, she had just watched the congressman put his fist in the face of the president. The silence that followed the right jab was absolute, and then a mighty furor broke the sound barrier as security pounced on the offending congressman and removed him bodily from the palatial room.

“Order! Order!” Above the din, Ginger Pike could not be heard. She heard snippets of conversation here and there. “Bloody fool deserved it!” “Typical of the GOP. More brawn than brains.” “This is an outrage.” “What is happening to the American people?”

Ginger Pike also wondered what was happening to the American people. She had tried to intervene in the increasingly incensed diatribe between the Republicans and the Democrats Tempers and distress were at an all time high. Once more, big business had come to Congress to ask to be bailed out, and this time the number was so immense that it was inconceivable.

The House was in turmoil. There was intense anger on both sides. She saw the Secret Service surround the president, check his eye for damage, and hustle him out as quickly as the crowd would permit. The noise volume was still pitched so that nothing could be heard above it. She thought for a moment, then looked around to see if she could see a security guard or a secret service member, but the service was fully occupied with the safety and well being of the president, and she rather ruefully remembered that for the past two or three years, there had been continuing cuts for the Capitol Building. Many guards had been dismissed.

She attempted once more to bring order to the house but her voice, again, was lost. She glanced towards the exit door on the far right, then slowly circled the room to see if she could catch any available security guard, and as she did so, she saw a face that she couldn’t quite place. Something tingled, as if she had just seen something very dangerous, but she shook herself. And then, as suddenly as pandemonium had reigned, it grew quiet.

Ginger had only one thing to say, and she said it loudly.

“Congress is in recess. We will convene promptly at seven the day after tomorrow."

With that, she picked up her alligator purse and marched in her alligator clad feet to the exit.

And as she made her way to her offices, the grey haired preacher man whom she had glimpsed for only a moment, muttered softly into a mic, “Hook, line and sinker." He smiled as he said it. “The drug given to the Congressman earlier has done exactly what was expected of it” With that thought, he turned and went his way.

***

For a bunch of unschooled militia men, they were pretty impressive. Big Bill Muchoo looked over the new recruits and wondered how raw they were. He saw young Reilly, the kid brother of his son’s best friend. He’d known the young man since he was six years old and watched him grow into an angry young man. He was all of twenty now and had still not found work. He did find a car wash weekend job, but it wasn’t enough for a young man who had once had dreams. He had watched the young boy deflate and slowly morph into a rebel with a cause.

Alan, Reilly’s older brother, had died in Iraq. That was a blow to the family. Their father had died young, the victim first of obesity and then diabetes. Reilly blamed it on the food. He didn’t think the food was any good. Just starch, starch, and more starch. The human digestive system, he believed, wasn’t supposed to eat that much starch. His anger at the grain industry for bribing the food authorities into making grains the principle component of a healthy diet was well known to all. And that was just one of his gripes.

Reilly had never said anything about his older brother’s death but had silently begun training himself in the martial arts. At sixteen, he had been a skinny kid, tall for his age, but within a few months, the weights, the Krav Maga training, and the slow seeping bitterness in his soul changed the child into a man. At twenty, Big Bill Machoo was glad to have him in the militia. There were tough times ahead and few would survive the coming years without being scorched by the approaching bloodshed.

***

Jennifer Goodman was out of her mind with worry. Along with too many people to count, she was standing outside the bank waiting for the doors to open. Her common sense told her it was too late. The banks had no money and unless the president gave the Federal Reserve permission to print some more, no more would be forthcoming. She couldn’t understand where her money had gone, but she knew enough to know that it had been converted in some way into someone else’s wealth.

She took out her phone and scrolled through the tweets on Twitter. The president had had his eye poked by a right jab from Congressman Peter Allen. She didn’t know whether to applaud or cry. Allen had spent years trying to close down the Federal Reserve, saying that it was a private for-profit organization, and it had no business printing the money of the American people. Some called him a conspiracy theorist, but she could see there was some truth to what he was saying.

The bank held Jennifer’s last funds. There had been enough to tide both herself and her aging parents over for the next two months and she had hoped that she would find employment during those two months. Yes, she had been drawing an unemployment check for the past twelve months but it barely paid the rent for the three of them. Her parents’ pension was eaten up by medical expenses, and the money she had so carefully saved towards her dream home was now all but gone. A year without a job had seen to that.

She wished now that she had listened to their neighbor, Reilly. He had warned them that hard times were coming and that the day America lost the Reserve Currency was the day that the value of the American dollar would disappear. He had insisted that the currency wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on and had encouraged her to begin growing her own garden. Of course, that was not why she had planted a potato bed and groomed a tomato bush. They had been short enough on the pennies and every bit of money not spent on food was extra money for the medication her parents so desperately needed.

She glanced at Twitter again and the words she saw now made her heart skip a beat. “The president has declared a State of Emergency.” She thought of Reilly. And suddenly she thought that he had been quite insightful in what he had told her. She looked at the closed doors of the bank. She looked at the long lines waiting for the bank to open. She thought it would be a long wait and that she’d be better off spending what little cash she had on supplies. Wasn’t that what Reilly had told her? Yes, he had said, “Prepare for war.”


How the Reserve Currency Gives America Power

The GOP headquarters was in an uproar. Divisions were forming quickly. The leader of the Republican party, Jack Jones, signaled for silence, and, surprisingly, received it. “What Congressman Allen did was not an acceptable expression of opposition and it's time that talk of this nature ceased. The events of today probably cost us the next election―” They were the last words Jack Jones ever spoke.

The shot wasn’t particularly loud – just deadly. It entered dead center, between his eyes, the place where the pineal gland resided. Blood splattered over his face and down his shirt. Then he collapsed on the floor, as dead as a cow in a butcher shop. Once more there was that silence that precedes the storm. Then a woman screamed, a man was heard to use profanity, and somewhere someone said, “What’s happening?”

At the rear door, a man laughed softly, his long grey locks looking quite elegant for someone dressed so simply. The walking stick which had pointed a moment before to Jack Jones now tapped lightly on the floor as he, too, professed to look around for the gunman. Then, with perfect glee, he muttered into the mic that lay hidden under his collar, “It has begun.”

***

The president insisted that it was not a mortal wound, and that he was quite capable of continuing to run the government. He also told the people that things happened for a reason and that it would all come right. There were those who had grave doubts. How was it possible that the banks had once more collapsed and demanded money from Congress? Again. Yes, the banks demanded it. The threat was implicit. If the money was not given, then the people of the USA would find that there was no money in the banks, and they would be penniless. The president saw nothing for it but to accept the advice of the Federal Reserve Chairman – print more money and pay off the bankers.

Now, as he sat on the chair in his oval office, he turned gravely to the members of his cabinet, “Gentlemen, it is a little bit more complex than that. Printing money is just a short term solution. There is a bigger shock coming to the American people, and when it comes, there truly will be no money. This country will then be on rations, and we need time to prepare for that.”

***

Ronald Rodrigues cocked his M24 rifle. It was loaded with magnum bullets and he was pretty sure that he would be able to hit both his targets. He had less than fifteen seconds to accomplish his task, as did the other five gunmen who were on the same mission. Between the six of them, they would take out the dozen most prominent men of the Federal Reserve. It was time, he thought, that the people spoke, and it was time that people controlled their own money - in more ways than one. He was tired of being robbed, of working his life blood to the bone and having nothing to show for it.

***

Joy Brown was dancing a jig of happiness. The ring on her finger had long been sought, and the Democratic senator had at last proposed the obvious. They had been on vacation in the Caribbean, and she had insisted that for the full ten day duration of their cruise on the senator’s yacht that there would be no cell phone contact with anyone. There would be no television, no radio, and nothing that would interrupt their special time together.

She was a keen diver, as was he, and it was their love of the deep blue which had first drawn them together. Of course, the senator would have said that it was her curvaceous body, her long legs, and her ample bust that had been the initial draw, but as time had passed, he had seen her for a bit more than her body, and this last week, had indeed been bliss. There really was something in Mother Nature that healed and soothed the soul of man.

Now as Joy traipsed down the gangway of the 524 foot yacht, she couldn’t wait to tell her friends and family. The downside of not having the senator have constant contact with his office was that she had been obliged to leave her cell at home as well. That was their agreement. What was good for the goose was good for the gander. Thus it was that neither Joy nor the senator had any idea of the events of the past week.

It was, perhaps, a few seconds before Joy realized that there was something different about the Miami yacht club. It seemed over-quiet, a tad too empty, and it shouldn’t be. While it wasn’t quite the height of summer, she had never seen it this quiet. She felt Senator Tom Grey behind her. “Where are all the people?” he asked. Her thoughts, precisely.

“Senator Grey, there’s a call from your office on the main yacht phone,” the Captain spoke behind him. Of course, now that they were in port, there was no more ‘radio silence.’ For a moment he thought, rather cynically, “Back less than two minutes and already there’s trouble on Capitol Hill.” He dropped a light kiss on Joy’s shoulder and said, “Be back in a moment. See if you can organize a cab.”

***

The general was looking at his death sentence. “Where does this come from?” he asked the young lieutenant who hand handed him the missive. “Intelligence saw it on Twitter.”

“It can’t be real.”

“Can’t afford to take a chance, General. It’s your assassination they’re talking about.”

“Why would anyone want to kill me?”

The lieutenant was silent because he rather thought it might be a rhetorical question, but the general continued to stare at him.

“Perhaps, General, those who have seen the wealth of this country spent on weapons feel that you have had something to do with squandering the wealth of the nation?”

The general noticed the tone of the young lieutenant and said, “Is that your feeling, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, I have no feelings,” was the quick retort.

“Well, I’m safe enough in the Pentagon,” said the general with an air of disdain.

“Not really, Sir,” responded the young man before him.

“And why is that?”

“Because, Sir, the bullet can come from those you least suspect.” And with that, the young lieutenant, one of the fastest guns in the military, drew his weapon and shot the general. The gun had a silencer so there was no loud shot to alert anyone else. The young man looked at the dead senior officer and said, “That’s for all the men you sent to die.” Then he closed the door, walked down the passage, turned right, a quick left turn, and then another right. He exited, climbed into the neatly parked Humvee and, flashing ID, drove out of the complex.

A few hours later, he made a call. “Muchoo,” he said. “Mission acccomplished.”

***

The man with the grey locks wiped his feet on the welcome mat before entering the 40s art deco cottage. He entered the bathroom, and there he stripped off the grey beard and removed the wig with the pretty locks. Beneath it, his hair was an almost white blond, perhaps bleached by too many hours in the sun, except that they had the glint of silver sheen which was not common to hair bleached by too much sun. Then he peeled off some latex from his face, emerging from his graying years as a young man of exceptionally good looks.

He glanced down at the picture perched on the bathroom basin. It had been a fine imitation. Some would surely remember him, and blame would be apportioned. Yes, everything was going according to plan. It was the beginning.

***

The media went crazy. Gone were the sleazy scandals. Not only was the American currency system in grave danger of collapsing – if it hadn’t already done so, but someone had poked a hole in the president’s eye and lived to tell the tale. The congressman, the media said, had been taken to jail, but they had been unable to establish which one. In addition, a general had been shot in the supposed safety of the Pentagon and his side-kick Lieutenant was missing. Foul play was suspected. Then the death of a dozen senior members of the Federal Reserve Bank – which, it turned out, wasn’t a bank at all - was announced in somber tones on television stations that were all focused on the day’s events. Lastly, Jack Jones, the leader of the Republican party, had been shot.

The media let it be known that the president would speak to the nation at six in the evening and with a few more hours to go, the people bought what groceries they could, then rushed home, not knowing what either the president’s speech or the following morning would bring.

***

At another militia camp, this one a thousand miles south, in north Texas, battle ready men were seated around a twelve foot table. Several maps were scattered and a half dozen laptops and tablets were tracking some vehicles. “They should be here within the hour.”

“Are you ready to move out, Captain?” the senior officer asked the twenty something young man.

“As ready as we’ll ever be.”

At six in the evening, some 250 million Americans was waiting for the President’s speech. He ahhed and ummed for a moment, then looked the camera in the lens, and started his prepared speech.

“Fellow Americans, we live in the greatest country in the world and as we face these challenges we will overcome.”

The words were smooth. But while they might have been soothing once upon a time, nobody believed that America was the greatest nation in the world anymore. How could they be when they were all about to be stone cold broke? Still, the American president thought it sounded pretty good and so he continued with all the usual clichés.

The president seemed nervous. And it was fifteen minutes into the speech before the answer came.

“I have something of momentous importance to announce. While I understand that printing more money does not resolve our currency issues, it may well need to be a short term solution to compensate for another set of circumstances which will be announced by the World Bank as I make this speech.”

The president took a deep breath.

“As of one minute ago, America is no longer the holder of the Reserve Currency, and we can, therefore, no longer print money to which the world will adjust the value of their currencies. Nor can we any longer set foreign exchange rates, and we are, therefore, at the financial mercy of the international community. We may now be paying much more for imported goods, for gas, and many of our other necessities.”

The president paused. It might have been for effect, but it was probably because he was searching for words so that the anger which would be coming his way might be softened. “We are a brave people,” he said, “and we will need to be brave as we build our nation again. The sad truth is that we have no more money. The banks will not open again. We will need to be kind to each other and help those around us when they are hungry and in need.”

The president could, of course, not see the response to his words, but it was to be expected that it would not be a happy response. He saw panic as many did not wait for his speech to run its full course; they simply ran for their cars. He assumed that they would attempt to buy the last goods left in stores. And so it was that many missed the most deadly part of the president’s speech. It came five minutes before he was due to finish.

An Aide approached him with a note. The president read its contents and paled. Then he stepped down from the podium and conversed with the vice-president who was seated somewhat to the side. And when the president walked up the podium again, he seemed to have aged visibly from the time he walked down a podium a scant moment before.

“Twenty minutes ago, four electromagnetic pulse bombs went off – in New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Houston. The cities are in darkness and anything with electronic components is no longer in operation. This includes those with pacemakers in their hearts. Emergency services in those cities are in disarray because all components of modern life is controlled by electronics. FEMAis currently being mobilized and other emergency services are on route to these cities.

The president’s preplanned speech seemed to be forgotten, and he looked quite lost for a moment. He paused again, taking a deep breath, and then he continued. “These acts of terror have not been wrought by some energy outside our borders. They came from within. We have entered a time of war amongst ourselves. May God be with you.”

Again the president paused. He looked at the media throng surrounding him, and then almost whispered, “Pray for America.”

Then the president exited.

For the next chapter: Chapter Two - Nightfall

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