Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru Page 2
“Chosen for their skills and education, these draftees are usually commissioned as officers and immediately begin within just weeks. When we come back, we'll learn the story of one these draftees standing behind me. His name is Anthony Jarman, a political consultant and campaign manager for the Progressive Libertarian Party and he's been designated to serve as an End of Life Management Officer or ELMO for short."
Roxanne shot upright and cupped her mouth to muffle her scream as Justin rolled over to catch the reporter's final words before cutting to a commercial break. “Some people call them trench killers, while others call them unfortunate saints. When we return, we'll talk with Anthony to see if he sees himself as a trench killer or an unfortunate saint."
“This is fucking political payback,” Justin spat in a disgusted tone as he quickly twisted around to seated position next to Roxanne. “They couldn't beat him fair, so now they're going to kill him."
Roxanne rocked back and forth and wept, “Oh, God! Justin, you're right. They're doing this to kill him. Remember those ELMOs in Redmond last year after the Microsoft Corporation was bracketed with Islamist dirty nukes and all those poor people in Redmond and the surrounding areas began dying horrible deaths?"
“Oh yeah, I remember,” Justin replied. “There were four ELMOs and they worked day and night performing assisted suicides for the terminally ill. Then on the last day, after that last of the assisted suicides, they in turn all declared their right for assisted suicide except for one, and he went insane."
Roxanne wept, “Oh Anthony, my dear Anthony, what have these filthy bastards done to you?” In their shock, they had let the commercial break roll on without fast-forwarding the media file, and the return announcement caught Roxanne's eye. She put her hand on Justin's knee. “They're coming back from the break."
“Rose O'Hara here at the Homeland Defense induction center in Reston, Virginia outside of Washington D.C.” She stepped aside and pointed behind her. “Behind me is a line of men and women who have just been drafted into the Homeland Defense as pre-trained specialists and will be serving in the field as commissioned officers in just a few weeks.” She took a step closer towards the camera, which pulled out to show her standing next to Anthony Jarman. He was wearing blue jeans and the classic maroon-colored Texas A rt with the letters spelled across his chest in large, bold white type.
He had been a cocky, skinny college kid during their 6-year affair at A Roxanne could see that the intervening years had pushed back his hairline a little farther than she might have expected and that they had also put a little extra weight on him, but in a flattering way. He looked both powerful and exhausted at the same time, and there was a new gentle softness in his face now, as though the years have finally managed to temper him in a more kindly way.
* * * *
O'HARA CONTINUED with the interview. “While many of the people you see behind me are the doctors, nurses, bridge builders and so forth desperately needed to fill the upper ranks of our Homeland Defense forces, the man standing next to me, Anthony Jarman, a political consultant and campaign manager for the Progressive Libertarian party, has been drafted and assigned to duty as an End of Life Management Officer. His job will be to help those who have declared their right of assisted suicide under the terms of the UNE treaty to end their lives. Anthony could have moved to another country or filed for a deferment, but he hasn't, which has left many people wondering if his call-up is politically motivated in some way. So what does Anthony think about this call up? Let's ask him.” She turned the microphone towards Anthony.
“I would have never asked for something like this under any circumstances,” he cleared his throat. “Accepting this call up has been an agonizing decision, but in the final analysis, my family didn't raise me to be a shirker. I can't say for sure whether or not this is some kind of political retaliation, as I've been in volunteer hospice work for the last few years. You know, just trying to be there when I can for the folks dying from the bugs and the bombs and all the horrible stuff going on these days."
O'Hara pointed the microphone back at herself. “But of course you do know that the odds of you completing your tour of duty without committing suicide yourself or going insane are one in ten. Given that your efforts directly resulted in a one-third increase in the size of your party, which is calling for America to abrogate the UNE treaty of 2011, do you not feel that this call-up is in some way politically motivated after all?” She directed the microphone back to him.
He looked down at the ground as he shuffled his feet his feet for a moment. Rather than draw the microphone back for a follow-up question to keep the air filled, O'Hara waited patiently, just as she knew her viewers would be doing, hanging on to this pregnant pause for as long as it would take to look into Jarman's eyes when and if he finally chose to answer.
Anthony looked back up and directly into the camera. He blinked a few times, as the internal conflict in his face became clearly apparent. Clearing his throat a second time, he spoke in deep, firm, measured tones that carried his words with a lasting impression. “It doesn't matter whether this call-up is politically motivated or not. After all, in the final analysis, what isn't political? So, how I got here is not important. What is important is what I will do next. Yes, I've been given a difficult job; I understand the personal risks; and my greatest concern is whether I will be able to put my life back together after this. While I really do not understand how and why fate has led me to this point, I do believe that things happen for a reason and I am confident that my enduring belief in God will help me pull through. In the meantime, this is an important job regardless of how unenviable it may be. It will require my most careful, compassionate and professional attention at all times. This is all that matters now."
She drew the microphone back for the next question. “Anthony, have they told you where they're going to send you after your training?"
He nodded slowly, “They're going to send me to New York. A lot of people are still dying from the low-yield nuke used on the UN headquarters, and a lot of them are tired of the fight."
O'Hara held up a hand briefly; “Excuse me, Anthony.” She put a hand over her ear to better hear the instructions of her producer in New York and pointed the microphone back to herself again. “Anthony, my producer tells me that callers from all across the country are simply melting our phone system. Many are asking the same question. “Will you go back into politics if you survive your tour of duty?” She pointed the microphone back towards him.
Lacking a ‘smoking gun', he had been forced to sidestep the issue of political revenge as being the reason for his call-up. However, he instinctively knew that it was precisely the cause and that now was his time to send a message back to whomever it was that was trying to destroy his future. He leaned forward into the camera lens with a fixed jaw as his steel blue eyes shot through the camera lens and into homes all across the world. Surprised by his sudden movement, O'Hara quickly reacted by learning forward as well, to keep the microphone near his face.
From the back of a darkened control room in New York, the show's producer watched his wall-sized bank of monitors with keen fascination. He rocked back in his chair and muttered to himself, “He knows he's been screwed and he probably has a good idea of who did this to him. If someone from the IRS showed up on my doorstep with that kind of a look, I'd just start writing checks until the bastard went away."
Indeed, Anthony's steel blue eyes had focused his message with a laser-like intensity that would forever be associated with him and his future accomplishments: “I'm coming back,” he said firmly. Then, as quickly as he had leaned forward, he leaned backward and stood upright. Slinging his carry bag over his shoulder, he silently strode away from the glare of the halogen lamps to find his place back in line.
Rose directed her videographer to keep the camera trained on Jarman, with her quietly standing off to one side in the foreground, as he disappeared into the background.
She watched him with her usual keen attention and knew
that this man was connecting with her audience in a big way. His story would have legs, damn long legs, and she instinctively knew it as the camera zoomed in on her for a closing medium shot. “Was this call-up politically motivated? While Anthony Jarman cannot say, he was not raised to be a shirker, as he just said, but that doesn't mean the issue is resolved by any means. In the coming weeks, we will attempt to report more about this, and if we can get permission from the Homeland Defense information department, we will interview Anthony once he is stationed in New York for his first tour of duty as an ELMO."
She put a hand to her ear to hear her earpiece. “Our producer just advised me that we've just posted a special chat room for Anthony Jarman, and that the link will appear on our home page at foxnews.com momentarily.” At the Homeland Defense induction center in Reston, Virginia outside of Washington D.C., this is Rose O'Hara for Fox News."
* * * *
ROXANNE SWITCHED OFF the HDTV and the room became silent except for the sound of her voice as she slowly repeated the words, “oh my God."
Justin rose to his feet and paced the floor back and forth in front of the coffee table until he finally turned and faced Roxanne with a stiffened jaw. “All these years, I had hoped you would tell him that Russell is his son. You had no moral right to bear a child by him without telling him. All these years, I'd let you talk me into remaining silent, so who am I to criticize, but things have just changed. This man is very well walking to his death now. Roxanne my love, he has got to know. Not only for his sake, as I hope it will give him something to hang onto, but for Russell's sake as well."
She turned her face away from him. “I've told you a hundred times Justin. It is not about morality. You know about my past and that sometimes, even the most precious things in life must remain precious.” Tears began to stream down her face. “Honey this is hard for me too, but we cannot tell him—especially now that powerful forces are aligned against him and determined to destroy him.” She looked up into his eyes. “Please honey. You've got to trust me on this. When the time is right, Anthony will be told, and so will Russell, but not now! Not this way!"
“Damn your reasons Roxanne! If you can trust your brother to know who Russell's true father is, then Anthony Jarman has the right to know."
Roxanne could see a terrible fight brewing, one that would tax all of her persuasive powers to their farthest extremes. It would be a terrible evening and she would have to manipulate a man she loved and respected even more for his integrity.
The ring of the front buzzer suddenly interrupted the tension of the living room, gratefully so for Roxanne. “I'll see who it is,” Justin said in a highly agitated tone.
On the digital touch screen next to the front door, Justin could see the lone visitor standing under his porch. It was one of his new teaching assistants, Eddy Abubakar from Lagos, Nigeria. He could see that the tall thin 24-year old TA was wearing a surplus Army poncho, now popular with the students on campus. While his dark face was difficult to make out, his pearly white smile and booming friendly voice was unmistakable. “Please, Dr. Taylor. I know this is late, but I have an urgent matter to discuss with you, professor, about the papers you've given me to grade."
“If it isn't one thing, it's another,” Justin sighed as he unlatched the door. “Come in, Eddy,” he said as he opened the door. While the young man removed his poncho, Justin fished out a pair of house slippers from the hutch in the foyer and handed them to Eddy. “Take off your shoes and put these on so you will not ruin my carpets."
The teaching assistant smiled wide as he unslung his bulging backpack. “Of course, Dr. Taylor."
“When you're ready, I'll be waiting for you in the living room. And, Eddy, let's keep this short, OK?"
“Of course, Dr. Taylor.” Eddy could see that Justin was deeply troubled by something and straining to be polite. “I'll be right along,” he said as began to untie the laces on his soaking wet high-top sneakers.
Holding his backpack in his left hand, Eddy paddled into the living room wearing the undersized house slippers. It was immediately apparent that Dr. Taylor's wife Roxanne had been crying. There was a distinct air of tension in the room, and it troubled him. He had expected them to be relaxed mood. Things would be more difficult now.
“Eddy, you must be chilled from the rain,” Roxanne observed. “Why don't I make you a nice hot cup of spiced Chai?"
“Thank you very much for your kind offer, Mrs. Taylor, but I'll only be here for just a moment. I just came by to drop off the papers before leaving town for a while. You see my parents back in Lagos want me to stay with my aunt in Atlanta until this Planet Nibiru crisis has passed. She's very worried, you know."
Seated next to his wife on the couch, Justin answered, “I understand, Eddy. Now what do you have for me."
“Oh yes, Doctor,” Eddy replied with a toothy grin. He unzipped the backpack and reached his hand in but it wasn't a stack of graded papers he withdrew. Justin and Roxanne suddenly found themselves looking down the barrel of a silenced Beretta 9mm semi-automatic pistol.
“Cooperate, Doctor, and nothing will happen to you or your family,” Eddy commanded in a very determined voice.
“You arrogant, little shit,” Justin hissed. “How dare you hold a gun on me in my own home?"
Eddy hefted the pistol, “I'll use this if I have to, so again, Doctor, I am asking you cooperate for the sake of your family."
Justin's hands trembled with rage as his eyes beamed in on the dark Nigerian holding a gun on him. “What do you want?"
Eddy knelt down slightly and laid the backpack on the floor. Rising back up, he wrapped both hands around the pistol grip. “We want your son, doctor, and no harm will come to him. In time, we will return him to you."
“I have no reason to believe you, so you can go to Hell as far as I'm concerned."
The calm Nigerian raised his chin. “If a demonstration is necessary my good doctor, then so be it."
Roxanne studied Eddy carefully and determined that he had been trained as an intelligence operative and not a professional hit man. Otherwise, they would both be lying dead in their own blood right now. No, whoever had sent him wasn't interested in drawing blood just yet, but in time, they would be. They most always do. “Eddy, let me help you,” she said in a soft comforting voice as she slowly placed her hand upon Justin's leg.
She turned to Justin and nodded once. “Do as he says, Justin, and call Russell down from his room."
“But, but...” he stammered.
“Please, darling. Do as he says. Above all, please don't do anything rash or sudden. I beg you."
Justin bit hard and giving Eddy a hateful glare turned his head toward the head of the stairs. “Russell!” He shouted in an excited loud voice that shook the glass in the china cabinet. “Russell, come down here!"
As Justin repeated his calls to Russell, Roxanne's eyes remained fixed on Eddy, who now focused entirely on Justin. Whoever sent him should have trained him better, Roxanne concluded. With a bit of luck and timing, she would have a chance to drop him with a kill shot before he could react.
The moment Roxanne hoped for finally came as the young boy appeared at the top of the stairs rubbing his eyes.
As Eddy looked up at Russell, Roxanne smoothly shoved her extended hand between the side of the couch and the seat cushion and wrapped her fingers around the small grip of her small yet highly lethal Kimber Ultra Carry EC10 .45. The welcome buzz in the handle told her that the electronic safety system of the lightweight semi-automatic recognized her fingerprint and had just released the safety.
She continued to study Eddy's face in an unassuming way, waiting for her moment to strike. Undoubtedly, Eddy would turn to face Russell as he approached and would, she hoped, turn his back on her for a split second. It would be all the time she needed. The only thought that haunted her was that her son would have to watch the Nigerian's face explode after the hollow-point bullet tore through his skull. Fate had been doubly cruel this evening.
The frightened young boy stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes darting back and forth between the gunman and his parents. “Come to me, son,” Justin said cautiously. Russell obediently shuffled slowly across the carpet towards his parents on the couch.
At that moment, Eddy chose to speak his first words to the boy, who now eyed him great alarm. “We're going to take a little trip, Russell and I'm going to give you all the ice cream you can enjoy on the trip. Wouldn't you like some ice cream, Russell?"
Russell took a step back; appearing to ready himself for flight, and Eddy turned the pistol on him. It was the exact moment Roxanne had been waiting for, so she drew her Kimber .45 out from between the arm of the couch and the seat cushion. To her dismay, Justin had also been studying Eddy closely and sprung up from the couch, lunging clumsily at him. In that moment, he not only threw his own life away, but also had unknowingly blocked Roxanne's line of sight on Eddy.
The moment the Nigerian caught sight of Justin leaping at him from out of the corner of his eye, he instinctively whipped around and shot. Justin grabbed his chest and stood there for a moment in the realization that he was mortally wounded. His jaw moved and he tried to speak but couldn't form any words. Then, his knees buckled and he fell forward over the coffee table causing it to tip forward.
As Justin's body fell, Eddy could see Roxanne rising from the couch and taking a bead on his head. Turning his pistol towards her, he squeezed the trigger a tenth of a second before his own head erupted in a blinding flash of light, as Roxanne's well-aimed .45 shredded his brain matter like a subsonic meat grinder.
While her shot had brought instant death, the Nigerian's shot had also found a mark, striking Roxanne in the right side of her abdomen. Stunned by the impact of the bullet, she fell backwards into the couch as her breathing became shallow and forced.