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Overview
Ken Shufeldt's Blood of Tyrants is a gripping political thriller exploring the devastating effects that unlimited political funding, if permitted, could produce.
Backed by a secretive Super PAC, Richard Wilkes, an old money Virginia businessman, upsets the incumbent to win the Presidency. His term begins smoothly enough—until ISIS launches horrific terrorist attacks on American soil.
In way over his head, the President refuses to take action, paving the way for the terrorists to use a stolen Pakistani nuke to incinerate almost a million Americans. Fed up with his incompetence, multi-billionaire Walter Jefferson leads several high ranking military leaders and a band of patriots in a bloody coup.
After eliminating President Wilkes and almost everyone on the Presidential succession list, Jefferson proclaims himself Chancellor and begins moving “undesirables” into internment camps. He then orders the military to invade Canada and Mexico in a desperate attempt to wipe out the ISIS contingents hiding there, and to build a buffer zone around the country. There are catastrophic losses on all sides. There’s only one hope for the United States now: the last survivor on the Presidential succession list, the Secretary of State.
This edition of the book is the deluxe, tall rack mass market paperback.
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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780765394927 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 05/30/2017 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 416 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Ken Shufeldt was born in Kansas and raised in the West Texas Panhandle. He served in the US Navy for a number of years before leaving to begin a career in computer programming, where he specializes in law enforcement system software and 911 dispatch software. The author of Genesis, Tribulations, and Rebellion, he lives and works in Amarillo, Texas.
Read an Excerpt
Blood of Tyrants
By Ken Shufeldt
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2017 Ken ShufeldtAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7653-9492-7
CHAPTER 1
William Trussle, the president of the Country Club of Virginia, had been expecting a big turnout for Richard Wilkes's sixtieth birthday celebration. As the line of Mercedes-Benzes, Range Rovers, Jaguars, and Cadillacs filled the circular drive, he said, "Marty, get everybody that's not working the party out here to help out."
Richard Wilkes's great-great-grandfather had founded the club back in the 1800s, and Richard was one of its most esteemed members, so William didn't want any of his guests having a bad experience if he could help it.
Richard was a world-renowned businessman, and many of the guests had come in from all over the world to attend. Normally the club only allowed the members to book the main ballroom for parties, but due to the large number of attendees, they were using the adjoining rooms to accommodate the crowd.
There was a distinct chill in the air, and there was a light mist falling from the dull overcast skies. They had roaring fires going in the twin fireplaces, and the web of LED lights draped from the twin crystal chandeliers cast a spiderweb of light across the ballroom's highly polished wood floors.
Richard had been a member of Yale's national championship–winning rowing team, and he was on the twelve-member executive committee of the Yale Alumni Fund Board of Directors. Rachel, Richard's wife, had every room decked out with all types of Yale memorabilia, and they'd set up a small stage near the center of the ballroom where several of Richard's college teammates took turns sharing their favorite stories about him during dinner.
After dinner there had been a constant stream of guests coming by Richard's table to wish him well, but by ten o'clock the party had started to wind down. He was left sitting on the far side of the ballroom, contemplating how his life had turned out.
He'd intended to enter politics when he finished his MBA at the Yale School of Management, but his father's untimely death in a boating accident had forced him to assume the reins of the family empire. In the thirty-odd years since he'd taken over, he'd more than doubled the already vast family fortune, but he still lusted for the recognition and power that a political career might have afforded him.
Richard had been on the country club's board and membership committee for many years, and after the last of the guests had left, William Trussle dropped by to introduce their newest member.
"Richard, I'd like to introduce you to Charles Trowbridge," William said.
"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Trowbridge," Richard said. "I noticed on your membership application that you're a political campaign manager."
"I hope you're not going to hold that against me," Charles said.
"Not at all. I once considered a career in politics myself."
"It's never too late to start," Charles said.
"I'm afraid I wouldn't have the energy for it anymore."
"I hope that's not true, because that's actually why I asked Mr. Trussle to introduce us. I know that your family has made significant financial contributions to the GOP over the years, but the party is in serious trouble for the upcoming presidential election."
"How much do they want this time?"
"This isn't about money. I've spent the last six weeks consulting with the Republican National Committee to help them vet the potential presidential candidates, and we don't have a viable candidate."
"I could name at least four off the top of my head, surely one of them will step up."
"I've spoken with all of them, and none of them are willing to run against President Tidwell."
"He's a popular bastard, but I don't understand how he can still command that much loyalty considering the sorry shape the country is in."
"I know this is going to sound crazy, but given your reputation for getting things done, we think you would have a realistic chance of winning the party's nomination."
"Given the current political climate, I doubt that any Republican could unseat President Tidwell, let alone a complete unknown."
"Would you at least consider it?"
"I'd be seen as some sort of Don Quixote."
"I promise we wouldn't let that happen."
"It seems like a fool's errand to me, but give me some time to think it over," Richard said, even as his heart raced at the thought of it.
"Of course, but don't take too long. The longer you wait the harder it's going to be."
Three days later, Richard Wilkes sat down at Charles's table while he was eating lunch at the club.
"I'll do it," Richard Wilkes said.
"Great."
"Will you be my campaign manager?"
"That's up to you. I've managed a lot of senatorial campaigns, but I've never run a presidential campaign."
"I've done my homework on you. You can do it. Give me a call when you're ready to get started."
"We can get started this afternoon."
CHAPTER 2Four months later, Richard had been named the GOP's candidate, and he was on the road, hustling between a grueling series of campaign stops. Charles had hoped Richard's campaign might catch fire after the convention; however, the latest polls showed that his numbers were continuing to decline.
Richard had just finished a major outdoor event at Klyde Warren Park in Downtown Dallas and was on his way back to the airport. When the black Lincoln limo stopped at the side entrance to the Signature Flight center, Special Agent Taylor, the head of Richard's Secret Service detail said, "It's going to be another half hour before we can take off. Does anyone need to use the facilities?"
"I sure as hell do," Richard Wilkes said.
The driver got out to open the door, but Richard was already out the door and heading inside with his four-man Secret Service detail following closely behind.
When the ground crew finished loading their luggage, chief pilot Pete Dawkins asked, "Is everyone ready?"
"We're all here," Special Agent Taylor said.
Pete motioned to the girl behind the desk, and she hit the button to unlock the door to let them board their aircraft.
They had to be escorted by one of the flight crew, but the FBO patrons didn't have to go through the formal TSA security check.
Pete Dawkins was giving them an overview of Richard's new aircraft as they made their way to the plane.
"This is just the second Global 8000 that Bombardier has delivered, and we just got back from picking it up from the plant in Montreal," Pete Dawkins said as he led them up the aircraft's stairs. "It has a range of seventy-nine thousand nautical miles and is designed to cruise at an altitude of fifty-one thousand feet at five hundred and seventeen knots. It can hold up to nineteen passengers, but this one is configured to seat ten, not counting the flight crew and the cabin attendant. The chairs are flat, fully electric and are managed by an aï-zen remote-control panel. We have the newest version of Gogo's high-speed satellite Wi-Fi, and all of the wing tables have an iPad mounted to them for Internet access and to control the in-flight entertainment systems. This is the forward cabin, and it has seating for four, along with the bar, the forward bathroom, and the galley," Pete said as they continued aft. "This is the middle cabin, which also seats four, and on this bulkhead there's a small conference table that can be folded out when needed."
"You were a Yale man?" Special Agent Taylor asked Richard.
"And a member of the national championship Bulldogs rowing team."
Richard's lean, muscular, six-foot-one frame looked like he could still row a few miles. His sandy blond hair was starting to thin, but he was holding up pretty well for sixty years old.
The captain glanced at his watch and said, "We'll be taking off in a few minutes, and so if the rest of you will follow me, I'll show you to your seats."
After Richard and Charles had stowed their carry-on bags, Richard noticed that Janice Peoples, the cabin attendant, had left the latest issue of The New York Times on his seat. He was about to pitch it in the trash when he noticed that his picture was on the front page.
Shortly after takeoff Charles reclined his chair to try to catch a quick nap.
As Richard started reading the Times article he was half expecting a hatchet job, but to his surprise, the article was lucid, well researched, and surprisingly balanced. The in-depth article was four pages long, and it detailed Richard's family history, his academic career, his tenure leading his family's corporate empire, and finally the brutal rounds of negotiations and deal making at the GOP convention that had led to him winning the nomination.
The final two paragraphs detailed the challenges Richard faced trying to defeat the well-heeled incumbent and the disaster of a platform that had come out of the convention.
Charles was asleep when Richard nudged him.
"What's up, boss?"
"I just finished an article in the Times, and they're saying I don't have a chance in hell."
"Good, something finally got through to you. You've got to go after Tidwell with all guns blazing, and we've got to partner up with some of the super PACs so we can get your agenda in front of the American people."
"I don't want to owe those bloodsucking bastards if I win."
"Then you're going to lose."
Richard closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. After several seconds, he opened his eyes and said, "Fine, who would you suggest?"
"Larry Ragsdale's group, Conservatives for America, is still calling."
"See if you can set something up."
Charles tapped the screen of the iPad mounted to the table and started typing.
Twenty minutes later it chimed as the response to his e-mail came in.
"Larry Ragsdale wants us to meet him for dinner tonight," Charles said.
"Let's see what he wants."
CHAPTER 3When they landed in Phoenix, there was another limo waiting on the tarmac.
As the ground crew loaded their luggage, Sumitro Choudoury, their limo driver, got out to open the door for them. He was wearing dark blue slacks, a white shirt with a SKY LIMO logo on the pocket, and a bright yellow tie. He had black hair and dark brown eyes, and with a distinctly Indian accent he asked, "Where to, sir?"
"We've got an eight o'clock dinner meeting at Café Monarch in Scottsdale," Charles Trowbridge said.
"No problem. I'll have you there in plenty of time."
When the limo stopped in front of the restaurant, Sumitro opened the sliding glass window and said, "Here's my card. Just give me a call when you're ready to leave."
The light brown adobe building had a red tiled roof and a porch that covered the reservation desk by the front entrance.
"Do you have a reservation?" the maître d' asked.
"Yes, we're meeting Mr. Larry Ragsdale," Richard Wilkes said.
"Mr. Ragsdale hasn't arrived yet, but Paul will show you to your table."
The waiter led them through the restaurant to the outdoor seating area. The patio was paved with multicolored stone tiles, and there were steel cables crisscrossed overhead with water misters and lanterns hanging from them. The wrought-iron tables were covered with white tablecloths, and each of them had a large candle as a centerpiece. The waiter guided them to their table next to an ivy-covered redbrick wall and said, "Enjoy your dinner. Rene will be your waiter for tonight."
"I hope Ragsdale shows," Richard Wilkes said.
They'd been sitting there for about ten minutes when Richard spotted Paul guiding Larry Ragsdale to their table. As they made their introductions, Richard was trying to size Larry up. He certainly wasn't what he'd expected from reading his bio. Larry was a Harvard Law and Wharton School of Business graduate, and at forty-two he was one of the youngest leaders of a super PAC in the country. However, he was only five eight, and a bit pudgy. His light brown hair was already showing traces of gray, but Richard had seen the fire in his hazel-colored eyes when they'd shook hands.
After the waiter took their orders, Richard Wilkes said, "I'm sorry, but I've never heard of your organization."
"We're relatively new, but I can assure you we're the real deal, and that we've got the ability and the money to obliterate Tidwell with a multimedia blitzkrieg."
"I'm listening."
Larry put his MacBook Pro up on the table and jumped into his pitch.
Richard was expecting a PowerPoint presentation, but Larry had a full-blown interactive presentation, and after thirty minutes of his over-the-top presentation style, Richard was blown away.
"Well, what do you think?" Larry Ragsdale asked.
"If you can pull off even half of that, I'm in, but what you just described is going to cost a hell of a lot of money," Richard Wilkes said.
"The members of my organization will spend almost any amount of money to move their agenda forward."
"Good to hear, but what do they want in return?" Larry opened the file containing their requests and said, "I'll e- mail you the file with the details, but I'll cover the big-ticket items. To start, they want to cap the top tax bracket at twenty- eight percent. They want to reduce the long-term capital gains tax and the qualified dividends tax to five percent for all tax brackets, and shorten the minimum time you have to hold the investments to six months. They also want to modify the oil depletion allowance calculations to allow a two hundred percent recovery of the original investment. And lastly, they want Congress to repeal the employer fines for not offering affordable health insurance."
"That's a hell of a wish list."
"Please don't misunderstand. If we do this we'll expect you to institute every one of these once you're elected."
"Understood," Richard said.
People in hell want ice water, but I'll play along for now, Richard Wilkes thought as they got up to leave.
CHAPTER 4The next week the super PAC launched an all-out media blitz to discredit President Tidwell. After spending almost a billion dollars they managed to turn the tide of the election. The popular vote had been a virtual tie, but Wilkes was able to eke out a narrow win in the electoral college.
Five weeks after his inauguration, President Wilkes and Vice President Regal were in the newly redecorated Oval Office, waiting on Larry Ragsdale to arrive for a 6 A.M. meeting. During his first week in office, President Wilkes had sent Larry Ragsdale's list over to Jack Woods, the head of the congressional budget office, to run the numbers, and this was their first meeting to review them.
The vice president was nothing like the president. He was a career politician with over thirty years as a senator, and would turn seventy-one in two weeks. He was six two, a hundred and sixty pounds, and his gaunt frame made him look almost anorexic. However, as the LED lights in the recently redecorated Oval Office reflected off of his neatly combed silver hair, his blue eyes were twinkling with the excitement of his new job.
The president was sitting at the Resolute desk as they waited on Larry Ragsdale to arrive. The ornate wooden desk had been a gift from Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880, and had been crafted from the timbers of the British Arctic exploration ship, HMS Resolute, and the president had jumped at the chance to return it to the Oval Office.
The president's assistant, Mary Counts, brought him his morning coffee and opened the gold drapes covering the three bulletproof windows behind his desk. Mary had never married, and she was forty-one years old with light blond hair, green eyes, and a voluptuous figure. She'd been his executive assistant for twenty years, and he depended on her to take care of all of his day-to-day needs.
"The office turned out nice, but it seems like I've seen this carpet before," Mary said.
"You have. The damn decorators wanted me to pick out everything, and so I went with an exact replica of the blue and gold carpet that President Clinton used."
"This desk is amazing," Mary said, putting his coffee down, "but where did they find these butt-ugly chairs?" "If you don't like them, get with housekeeping and pick out something else," President Wilkes said.
The president took a sip of coffee from his Yale Bulldog mug and asked, "Have you looked over Jack Woods's numbers yet?" "I've discussed them with him and his team, and I don't like any of it," Vice President Regal said as he sat down. "Their initial estimates peg the potential revenue loss at eight hundred and fifty billion dollars. The loss attributable to the changes to oil depletion calculation is three hundred billion dollars, the reductions to the capital gains tax will cost two hundred and fifty billion dollars, and capping the top tax bracket at twenty-eight percent accounts for the rest. However, I think they're being overly optimistic, so I had them put together some recommendations on what to cut, and I just e-mailed it to you and Larry Ragsdale."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blood of Tyrants by Ken Shufeldt. Copyright © 2017 Ken Shufeldt. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
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