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  “But you’re running unopposed.”

  The President’s smile widened. “On the Republican primaries.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ON AIR

  The producer continued the countdown with his left hand. A pair of digital clocks on the studio wall tracked both the actual time and the seconds remaining to the start of the program. Around the country, local radio stations wrapped up their top-of-the-hour news briefs. Millions of listeners heard a crackle of lightning followed by a rumbling thunderclap.

  “This is C-P-R,” the basso profundo announcer said mellifluously, “Conservative Private Radio.”

  Garr Denby bobbed his head to the opening chords of David Bowie’s “Thru’ These Architect’s Eyes,” feeling the groove of the theme song to his nationally syndicated show as he readied himself to go on the air.

  “From the heart of the republic for which he stands,” the program announcer said, “Garr Denby is on the air.”

  “Greetings, friends,” Denby began. “It is I, your courageous captain of conservatism, your ribald raconteur of the republic, here to once again discuss, dissect, and otherwise delve into the body politic. And do we have a lot of ground to cover today.

  “First off, last night’s BCS game. Phenomenal game, and that doubleovertime finish ensures it will rank among the legendary college championship games. But for me, your humble correspondent, the high point of the game occurred before opening kickoff—and I’ll tell you why in two words: coin toss.

  “Yes, the BCS coin toss, which turned out to be ironically symbolic of this failed presidency. Our intrepid leader, once again, inserted himself into a popular venue with maximum exposure and minimum risk of a screw-up. The game itself was decided in the time-honored way, with the better-performing team earning victory. But the coin toss was symbolic of this administration butting into a private exchange for the purpose of deciding winners and losers.

  “To be fair, this analogy is a bit of a stretch in that both teams represented prestigious institutions of higher learning that receive substantial amounts of government largesse in the forms of grants, subsidies and federal student loans. So, from the President’s point of view, he couldn’t lose, as most of higher academe is firmly latched onto the government teat. The same could not be said of the NFL, where the teams are privately held businesses. If the President tosses the coin at the Super Bowl and one of the team owners—I shan’t name names—isn’t a supporter of the regime, I can imagine the President using a two-headed coin.

  “Now, I don’t know who is behind these ‘Who Is I?’ attacks, but the incident yesterday was a piece of poetic genius. Cutting the power just as the President tosses the coin perfectly captures the essence of his decision-making process—arbitrary and often in the dark. I, for one, look forward to permanently turning out the lights on the President and his socioeconomic reign of terror next November. The sooner this cabal of Marxist retreads is tossed on the ash heap of history with their failed ideology, the better it will be for us all.

  “Moving on to the even bigger story of the day, the President’s road to reelection just got a little easier with the unexpected withdrawal of his lone challenger for the Democratic nomination. Pennsylvania Governor Isabelle Lynn announced this morning that she was ending her campaign for the presidency. She cited concerns over her husband’s health in light of his most recent hospitalization just a few days ago.

  “The former Senate leader’s ongoing heart woes are well known, and perhaps the strain of yet another campaign was more than he could handle. His doctors report that Bobby Lynn did not suffer another heart attack, and he remains under observation to determine the cause of this episode. I cannot fault the governor’s decision—family trumps all and I wish the Lynns the best as they deal with this matter.

  “I, for one, was looking forward to what surely would have been a bloody, bare-knuckled fight for the Democratic nomination. The President’s popularity has waned so far in the three years since he ascended to office that members of his own party see him as vulnerable to a challenge. It was 1980 all over again, with a president so ill-suited for the job that many in his own party thought he ought to be replaced.

  “Doubtless, a great sigh of relief emanated from the Oval Office and the President’s reelection headquarters as his campaign dodged a bullet. He barely beat Lynn in the last go-round and her challenge posed a serious threat to the President, as she stood a very good chance of pulling off the upset. The President recognized the danger of Lynn’s challenge and was headed into the primaries loaded for bear with a war chest that, by most estimates, dwarfed what he had four years ago.

  “I am certain the White House statement regarding Governor Lynn’s decision will be filled with praise, acknowledging her valuable contributions to the Democratic Party and our nation’s political discourse. What will be missing from this statement will be an expression of gratitude for saving the President’s reelection campaign hundreds of millions of dollars—money it can now use against whoever survives the Republican primary campaign. I say survive because there is no clear GOP front-runner.

  “And unlike 1980, when the Republicans had a charismatic candidate who could clearly and optimistically articulate the principles of conservatism as the antidote to the nation’s progressive malaise, we have a large field of decent folks that will likely cannibalize each other on the road to the nomination. Governor Lynn’s withdrawal from the race is a huge gift to the President. It allows him to conserve his considerable resources for the fall, when he will take on a battered candidate with a serious financial disadvantage.

  “Of course, idle minds are the devil’s workshop and I suspect that the mainstream media lapdogs and the political dirty tricksters toiling to reelect our dear leader shan’t be idle long. Their attention will be singularly focused on bringing forth the weakest, most moderate, milquetoast candidate in the GOP field. And you can bet the President’s get-out-the-vote campaign and community organizers will be out in force in those states with open primaries. Back in a moment.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DEVILS LAKE, NORTH DAKOTA

  “… Back in a moment.”

  Mike Unden pulled into an angled parking spot on the street but remained in his pickup truck until the end of Garr Denby’s opening segment. He’d been a fairly regular listener of the thought-provoking and often humorous talk radio program since his first tour with the Marines. Beyond sports and family, a fair percentage of the email correspondence he shared with his father while stationed in Iraq covered topics explored by Denby.

  An icy wind blew down Fourth Street as he exited the truck, his boots crunching on the thin, dry layer of packed snow. Unden stepped up onto the sidewalk and made his way to a two-story brick office building that, according to the carved cornerstone, had stood on that spot since 1912. A brass sign by the door read:

  McGivney & McGivney

  Law and Accounting

  He stomped the snow off his boots as he moved through the vestibule into the reception area. After a bell chimed to announce his arrival, Pat McGivney poked his head out of the kitchenette.

  “Mike,” McGivney said warmly. “Just getting a cup of coffee. You want one?”

  “Yeah, sure. Black.”

  “Just head on into the conference room.” McGivney pointed to an open door. “I’ll get your coffee and grab the files from my office.”

  Unden nodded and went to the conference room. He slipped his wool cap and lined work gloves into the pockets of his heavy Carhartt jacket, then hung the coat over the back of a chair and sat down. The room was tasteful but understated, furnished with an oval wooden table and comfortable chairs.

  “Here ya go,” McGivney said as he set two ceramic mugs on the conference table, both emblazoned with a silhouette of ducks in flight. “The darker one’s yours.”

  McGivney placed a thick file and a legal pad on the table opposite Unden, then closed the door and took a seat.

  “How’re ya holding u
p?” McGivney asked.

  “Pretty good,” Unden replied. “House is quiet now that it’s just me and the dog. Work keeps me busy.”

  “Running a farm like yours is tough duty, even this time of year,” McGivney agreed. “Always something to do. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Aside from a few charitable bequests, your dad left the bulk of his estate to you. He had a couple of small insurance policies and his IRA. The rest of his estate is tied up in the farm.”

  “So what do we need to do?” Unden asked.

  “A couple of years ago, this would have been a simple matter of transferring ownership of the farm LLC from your pa to you. Same with the deeds, vehicle titles, and bank accounts. Then the death tax came back.”

  A decade earlier, the previous president called on Congress to enact a series of tax cuts to restore economic confidence in the wake of a mild recession and a terrorist attack on the United States. Congress complied, but in order to win bipartisan support it did so only on a temporary basis, with the Republican legislators thinking the tax cuts would be made permanent at a later date. The later date never came, and the current president and his allies in Congress allowed some of the cuts to expire in the middle of a debilitating recession. This inaction triggered the double-dip recession that snuffed out any faint signs of recovery.

  Among the taxes that were reinstated was the estate tax, a levy on the transfer of wealth from someone to his or her heirs. Popular among progressives, the tax effectively prevents those who create wealth from passing it on to their children and grandchildren when they die—a final punishment for having done well.

  “How bad is it?” Unden asked.

  “Bad. The tax is little over half the value of your dad’s estate.”

  “Half?”

  “I know, and seeing as most of the assets of the farm are in land and equipment, there’s little cash on hand to cover the tax. Then there’s the issue of timing.”

  “Timing?”

  McGivney nodded. “Your pa died on New Year’s Eve—which is last year. That means the death tax is due this year, on April 15. We can file for an extension, but it just pushes the day of reckoning off until the fall.”

  “Even if we have a great season, I can’t grow nearly enough wheat to cover half of what our farm is worth.”

  “The death tax was touted as a way to get fat cats to pay their fair share, and to break up huge family fortunes,” McGivney explained. “Dirty little secret is that loopholes in the tax code protect those fortunes while this tax punishes small but successful businesses when the owner dies. Back when this tax was previously in effect, I had your pa buy an insurance policy to cover the tax. It wasn’t cheap, but it protected the farm for your mother and you. Then the tax was phased out and, after a bad season, your dad let his policy lapse. He was already sick when it became clear that Washington was going to let this tax come back, so insurance on him couldn’t be bought at any price.”

  “So how does the damn government expect me to pay this tax? What am I going to do?” Unden asked.

  “There’s frankly only one thing you can do: sell the farm.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BURBANK, CALIFORNIA

  JANUARY 12

  “I’d like to welcome our first guest this evening,” Ellis Springfield announced to the television studio audience and to millions of viewers later that night when the program aired. “I am truly honored to have him here with us tonight, and his story is just incredible— Nobel Peace Prize winner Ross Egan.”

  Springfield stood and motioned to his left. The camera panned around to catch the opening of the stage curtain as the band launched into some jazzy intro music. Egan stepped onto the brightly lit stage and flashed an uneasy smile at the audience, much of which was offering him a standing ovation. He waved and then strode over to Springfield’s desk, where the host shook his hand warmly. Both men sat and waited for the applause to die down.

  “Ross,” Springfield began, “a year ago almost to the day, you were in the African jungle, on the border between two nations on the brink of war. You’re an American, and I’m thinking if it was me, I’d have been on the first plane out of there. You stayed—and given the way things turned out, thank God you did—but I have to ask: Why?”

  “To honor my wife’s memory,” Egan replied.

  “How does sitting on a ticking bomb honor your late wife?”

  “Maggie dedicated herself to bettering the lives of the people of what is now Dutannuru. She gave her life to that cause.”

  “What do you think Maggie would say about all that’s happened?” Springfield asked.

  Egan glanced down for a moment, and then looked back at Springfield with a smile. “She’d tell me not to get too big a head over my Nobel, but she would be happy that the people of Dutannuru now enjoy the fullness of liberty. As she hoped, life in Dutannuru is significantly better.”

  “I read your book over the weekend, which I must say was riveting.” Springfield held up a copy of The Dutannuru Miracle as the number-two camera zoomed in on the cover.

  “Thank you. President Mensah and I were lucky to work with a talented writer and great editor. They helped us tell the story well.”

  “So, describe The Dutannuru Miracle.”

  “To be honest, what happened in Dutannuru wasn’t a miracle. The men and women who framed Dutannuru’s constitution simply built on the genius of our nation’s Founding Fathers, and the results they got were what they expected. It may sound corny, but it’s hard to go wrong when the people are guaranteed their rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  “But what about the assassination of Cudjoe?” Springfield asked. “That caught the world by surprise. Doesn’t that qualify as a miracle?”

  “Not if you think about it as the natural reaction of an individual given the choice between liberty and tyranny. The United States exists because thousands of men and women acted just as Tanu Baafi did,” Egan explained. “They chose liberty and staked their lives and fortunes to win it for themselves, their children, and all of us.”

  “So, you were a guest at the White House recently. How was that?”

  “Incredible. The President and First Lady are very gracious hosts and visiting the White House during the Christmas Season is …” Egan paused, searching for the right words. “The pictures I’ve seen of that night don’t do it justice. Honoring President Mensah with a full state dinner was symbolically meaningful to Dutannuru and really classy on the President’s part.”

  “Over the past few weeks, this Who Is I? thing has popped up several times, but I understand the first time was actually at that state dinner.”

  “Several people, including my guest, got that odd message on their cell phones,” Egan replied.

  “Did you?”

  “Later. I didn’t bring my phone to the White House, so I got it back at the hotel.”

  “There are rumors in Washington that you might become the next ambassador to Dutannuru.”

  Egan chuckled. “That’s all they are.”

  “You haven’t been asked?”

  “I don’t think that kind of offer would come until after the election.”

  “What about politics? Do you see a future for yourself there?” Springfield asked.

  “I can honestly say I have no interest in seeking any political office.”

  “Will you return to Dutannuru?”

  “At some point, but I have no immediate plans,” Egan replied. “President Mensah and I will be lecturing at college campuses in support of our book over the next few months, starting with my wife’s alma mater—Hillsdale College. That’s about as far out as I’m planning for the moment.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AMES, IOWA

  JANUARY 16

  Lydia Hill entered the Clifford Y. Stephens Auditorium with a group of her fellow College Democrats. Clearing security, they quickly found a block of seats and settled in. Half of the 2,700 seats were already taken and the crowd
streaming down the aisles would soon fill the room to capacity.

  Six identical wood lecterns bearing the crest of Iowa State University stood on the stage, arranged in a shallow arc so the candidates could see each other as well as the moderator and the audience. Stagehands rechecked connections and put the finishing touches on the scene. Around the auditorium, strategically located cameras were manned and ready to capture the debate for viewers nationwide.

  An announcer asked that everyone inside the auditorium switch off their cell phones to avoid interference with the broadcast. Hill complied.

  COPPERHEAD, MONTANA

  Homer Hopps perched on a high back bar stool with a guitar across his knee and watched the off-air feed from Iowa. The stage stood empty awaiting the candidates and, off to the side, he espied the moderator chatting with officials from the host university. Deb McColl and her band of rogues had tapped into the twenty-four-hour cable news channel at their New York studio, just ahead of the satellite uplink. In the corner of the large flat-screen display, a digital clock counted down the time to broadcast.

  “Deb,” Hopps called out. “Do we have a lucky winner for our Golden Ticket?”

  “We do,” McColl replied. “GPS on her phone places her inside the auditorium.”

  “Excellent. Buttrey, are you and your spiders ready?”

  Ken Buttrey swiveled around from his station to face Hopps. “The site is locked, loaded, and ready for prime time.”

  “And what say you miners?” Hopps called out.

  “The databases are waxed and stacked,” Harry Dailey reported, “and the parsing engines are stoked hot enough to flash fry an elephant.”

  Hopps smiled and strummed a few chords with a Spanish flair. “Ladies and gentlemen: ¡Viva la Revolución!”

  With the audience seated and the doors to the auditorium closed, the house lights dimmed and the stage became an island of light inside the cavernous space.