Chapter 55
W ASHINGTON , D.C.
I t’s official, folks,” said Chuck Coughlin, his neon American flag burning brightly behind him.
“We are living in a time where leadership has failed us. Where the very promises that brought tens of millions to the polls—promises of strength, of honor, of reclaiming this country from the forces that seek to destroy it—have been abandoned in the name of… what? Political expediency? Corruption? I don’t know.
But I’ll tell you this: It’s not what we voted for. It’s not what America voted for.”
Staring into the camera, Coughlin gripped the edge of his desk, the passion increasing in his voice, and continued, “James Mitchell, the man We the People put into office, is not the man we thought he was. This isn’t about policy decisions or a few hiccups.
This is about betrayal. We saw it in his speech last night—his so-called calm address after the attack on the NATO motorcade.
Calm? You call that calm? That was weakness, ladies and gentlemen.
“The President couldn’t even bring himself to say what we all know: This was an act of war .
You think he’s going to stand up to the radicals, the globalists, the ones who’ve been pulling the strings for decades?
Of course he isn’t. He’s too busy worrying about his approval ratings, too busy playing nice with the very people who’ve sold us out.
The man’s a puppet—and he’s no longer in control of his own strings.
“Vice President Cates, on the other hand, is the real deal. He has been with us from the beginning. He speaks the language of the people—real Americans—while Mitchell is only interested in cozying up to the elites. I’m telling you this country needs leadership.
Desperately . We need someone in that Oval Office who will do what has to be done—no matter how hard and no matter what the consequences. ”
Chuckling bitterly, Coughlin said, “The media is calling this a ‘moment of crisis.’ Well, let me tell you something: This is not a moment of crisis. This is the moment when We the People decide who is in charge. And it’s not Mitchell anymore.
I don’t care if he’s been elected. I don’t care if he’s got the sharp suits and all the advisors.
We deserve better. We demand better. And we will not sit idly by while this so-called leader squanders the future of our country.
“I, Charles Armstrong Coughlin, am calling for Mitchell to step down. Not just for the good of the country—though I believe that’s reason enough.
But because it’s the only way we can truly honor the promises that were made on the campaign trail, not to mention all the sacrifices since then.
Mitchell’s weakness isn’t just hurting us politically—it’s costing lives.
Lives lost in that senseless terrorist attack on his own supporters, people who trusted him, who believed in his leadership, as well as those killed in the NATO motorcade attack—people attacked for the sake of global diplomacy while our own people are left to fend for themselves.
These are the consequences of failed leadership.
“Mitchell can’t do it. He’s lost his spine. We need someone who hasn’t been corrupted, who still believes in the fight—someone who will put the people first and not apologize for doing what’s right for us, for America. And that someone, my friends, is Vice President Christopher Cates.
“It’s time for change. It’s time for James Mitchell to resign and for Chris Cates to take the reins.
We can no longer sit back and watch as our country slides into chaos and is torn apart by a leader too scared to make the tough calls.
We need Cates to lead. And if Mitchell won’t step aside, then we need to force him out .
“This is about the survival of this nation—about preserving the future of America. For ourselves, our children, and our grandchildren.”
Glancing up at the digital clock upon the wall, he then announced, “And that’s going to do it for us today, folks.
Another three hours of Bunker Radio in the can.
I’ll see you right back here tomorrow. Until then, remember—when you’re under attack, Chuck Coughlin has your back.
And we are all, God help us, definitely under attack. Stay safe, America.”
Senator Blackwood closed the tab on his computer and couldn’t help but smile. Coughlin’s quick social media take last night had been good, but today’s extensive takedown of the President’s national address had been absolutely perfect.
The only thing more perfect, and for which he had smiled even more broadly, had been Claire Bennet last night. It was like makeup sex, but without ever having broken up.
The woman was beyond incredible—not only in the physical realm, but also in the personal, or more to the point, the professional.
He truly wondered if he would have been able to accomplish what he had, if he would have ever reached this far, without her encouragement and her incredible gift for strategy.
Quietly in the background, without desire for credit or recognition, she had helped him put his entire plan together. Her dislike for Mitchell, his abandonment of his principles, and for what Mitchell had done to him, had caused her to be his biggest champion.
She had seen angles he had never considered, had helped avoid pitfalls he didn’t realize could be coming, and had shored up his confidence when he had wondered if the plot was ultimately achievable. Claire Bennet had been his rock.
Which made her not being in D.C. for the next, most exciting phase of all extremely disappointing.
No doubt she would be watching it all unfold on a TV somewhere in Istanbul, but that wouldn’t be the same as having her here. There was nothing as erotic, no aphrodisiac as all-consuming, as power—and they were about to bring down an American presidency.
This week had already been one for the history books. Of course, history would never know, not for sure, who had been behind the events, but he and Claire would know, as would their coconspirators. By this time tomorrow, Mitchell’s administration would be on life support, if not completely over.
The fact that he wouldn’t have Claire to celebrate with was unfortunate, but perhaps it was for the best. With her irresistible pull out of his immediate vicinity, he could focus on being the stoic elder statesman others would expect him to be.
There was no telling who might call on him for advice and counsel—from advisors and Cabinet members, right up to James Mitchell him-self.
And if the President should reach out to him, Senator Bill Blackwood knew exactly what he would say.
He had rehearsed and refined it a thousand times with Claire.
“Mr. President,” he would begin, after taking a long pause, ostensibly reflecting on the seriousness of the matter he was being asked to consult on, “America elected you because you’re a fighter.
But sometimes, a leader has to know when to step aside.
He has to recognize that the fight is no longer his to win. ”
He would tell Mitchell that resigning wouldn’t be a defeat and that no one would fault him.
He would be doing the right thing, and in stepping aside, rather than clinging to power, he could shape the future from the outside, from a place of wisdom and respect, with the true appreciation of the American people for having put them and the country first.
While the delivery might have a certain Blackwoodian flare, the words were completely Claire’s. From start to finish, she had crafted every one of them.
But to walk out of the Oval Office and not be able to immediately share with her the excitement of helping convince Mitchell to step down felt anticlimactic.
Such a long and dangerous road, especially one so meticulously traveled, deserved a very special, mutual celebration upon its completion.
He had relayed this sentiment to Claire last night and she had agreed, promising they would celebrate when she got back next week.
Just the thought of it brought joy to his heart—celebrating the nation’s birthday, at the White House, with a brand-new president.
Even better, there was a very good chance that President Chris Cates would have a plum Cabinet position waiting for him.
All he and his coconspirators had to do was to successfully get through tomorrow.
If they could do that, the American government would get a much-needed reset—and once that happened, the sky was the limit for what Bill Blackwood could achieve.
Friday couldn’t get here soon enough.