The Blackfire Protocol by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 37

Life was going well for Frank. He owned a Victorian house near the outskirts of DC, having avoided the high cost of living in the city, and his career at George Washington University was bringing in a stable paycheck. But teaching wasn’t enough. He still craved the power of a political position—maybe an elected office. One day, the men who had visited him in college picked their way through his front door and sat waiting for him. It had been a few years that he had been a professor of constitutional law, but now it was time for the next step, and the men were quick to remind him of this. The next election was only a year and a half away, and Frank, according to their plans, would run on the Republican ticket. Money would not be a problem, as the group the men represented was planning to fund his campaign completely. The amount would be in the millions, and they considered him to be an investment for an agenda they had not yet revealed.

He was not surprised by their sudden appearance, yet they always seemed to startle him. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “What do you want now?”

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It was only moments after his question that he noticed one man holding a briefcase. This prompted another question.

“What is this?” he continued. “More money?”

“Not this time,” the man replied. “Have a seat, Frank.”

He began to feel suspicious, not knowing the contents of the briefcase, and sitting on the couch, prepared himself for what might be an unpleasant surprise.

With his tension displaying itself in a sudden sweat, Frank waited as the man sat next to him and, placing the briefcase on his lap, took notice of the stress now written across his face.

“Frank,” he said. “Take it easy. Do you think we’re going to kill you or something? Trust me. We only do those things when it’s absolutely necessary.” This did not make him feel any better, but he sat watching as the man opened the briefcase and removed what appeared to be government forms. “You got a pen?” he asked.

Quickly studying the title, Frank realized the forms were from the Federal Elections Commission. “Um, yeah,” he answered.

Removing a pen from his pocket, he asked what he was signing. He had already surmised that upon signing the paperwork, he would be officially running for a seat in the Republican senate. But seeing the paperwork in front of him caused him to feel slightly dizzy, and putting a hand to his forehead, he was able to recover quickly in spite of the concern of his mysterious visitors.

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“Frank,” he said. “You okay? Come on, Frank. Snap out of it. It’s not like you’re running for president – yet.”

Now, the growing reality of his situation was becoming obvious. He had spent so much time getting to where he was that he began to lose sight of what he really wanted. He also believed that another reason for the men’s occasional visits was to remind him of his eventual path and where it was leading. But out of curiosity, he inquired about where things were going—the outcome of their efforts and the plans developed by the group they represented. “I thought we went over that already,” the man said. “Frank, you’re being groomed for the presidency. Don’t you remember? I know it’s been a while but couldn’t have forgotten.”

Frank did not forget. In fact, the memory of that particular conversation had stayed with him throughout the last few years and had become something he could not escape.

As he signed the paperwork, Frank felt his reality change. Only moments ago, he was a professor of constitutional law at one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Now he was a candidate for the U.S. Senate. He suddenly realized how many things needed to be done and the people he would need to hire. But the man sitting next to him had anticipated these issues and tried to put him at ease by reviewing what was already being done. “Frank,” he said. “I know you’re nervous, but everything is being handled. We’ve already hired the people you’ll be working with—a speechwriter, a campaign manager, a psychologist, and an image

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consultant. Everything is being taken care of. You will, however, have to do some of the work, and you’ll probably have to quit your job.” This was something he didn’t see coming. He didn’t especially love teaching. In fact, he had at some point reached the conclusion that there was more to life than standing in front of a roomful of students trying to convey a set of legal principles that were not only vague but were no longer in use. But there was something else. Frank felt like a hypocrite. He had been teaching something he wanted nothing to do with. He wanted power—the power to wage wars with the stroke of a pen. He wanted to be in a position to profit from arms dealing and overseeing the trafficking of heroin from Afghanistan. These things had gone on for years and right under the noses of the entire country, and he wanted in. But he did not want to lead the country as other presidents had. He wanted to rule, and suddenly realizing where his path was taking him, he felt a surge of something he had never experienced—greed. But satisfying this need would have to be done with great care, and he would likely wait until he was voted in. The nervousness that had moments ago nearly overwhelmed him was gone, and what took its place became obvious to his unannounced visitors. The man with the briefcase suddenly spoke up, pulling Frank back into his current reality. “Frank,” he said. “You with us?”

Snapping himself back into the moment, he took a breath and, looking down at his signature, smiled slightly, knowing he was on his way to what could become a very profitable future. Seeing the change in his expression, both men also realized what Frank

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wanted, but they would have to keep him on a leash of sorts. He would have to be kept under tight control if he was to progress into the country’s highest office. This would be done through coaching. His attitude, behavior, speech, and even his mannerisms needed to be refined so as to present a convincing performance for those who would later cast their votes. Frank would quickly learn that there was only one thing that drove the American people to the polls—likeability. He had to get people to like him.