Studio City on Radford Avenue in Los Angeles was the setting for the first live television debate between the five remaining Republican presidential nominees. Inside Studio 7, a partisan audience bayed for blood as the contenders savaged each other’s policies and personal values. At times, it was hard to believe they were all members of the same party. Some of the exchanges were particularly brutal but it was obvious to those watching at home that one of them was enjoying the overwhelming support of the live crowd. Every time John Franklin went on the attack, he was backed by huge bursts of applause and raucous cheers and his four opponents were usually greeted with a cacophony of boos whenever they took him on directly.
His father stood in the corner of the green room, glued to one of the live monitor feeds. He loved the gladiatorial tone of the debate, and the crazy amount of money his team had spent on vetting the studio audience was evidently worth every dollar. As the host wound up the broadcast, Franklin made his way to his son’s dressing room. Ten minutes later, the two men were enjoying a cold glass of Dom Pérignon as they relived the best moments of the debate.
“John, you absolutely smashed it out of the park. I smell at least three dropouts in the morning. Trust me, they’ll all be angling to support you in the hope of a VP post down the line. And, because you’re so far ahead in the polls, my sources tell me the party grandees are working behind the scenes to orchestrate a coronation and bypass the primaries. They want to take advantage of your momentum and give you a clear run at the Oval Office.”
John was busy refilling his champagne glass. “Dad, that would be incredible. As we predicted, all the international stuff went down a storm – Iran, North Korea and China. That crowd hates the ayatollah more than we do. Plus, I was the only candidate out there arguing for reforming healthcare.”
Richard Franklin gave his son an enormous hug. As they separated, his voice dropped to a chilling whisper. “Remember, John, you’re the unifying candidate. We’re playing the long game here. For now, you offer everything to everybody. Just keep repeating the same message. Goebbels was a master politician and he created the golden rule, ‘If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.’”
Franklin paused for a moment of reverential reflection before draining his glass in one long swallow. His pencil-thin lips formed a poisonous smirk. “John, we know the right of the party and the white supremacists are already on board and they’ll prove to be useful allies down the road but, right now, we need to shore up the regular conservative voters, especially the soft ones, and not scare the horses. The polls are telling us that swing voters can’t get enough of the healthcare initiative, as well as the tough stance on law and order. They love strong, charismatic leaders, who they foolishly believe are on their side. Look at Putin – the thug’s a dictator, yet the Russian people believe he runs a democratic government. The truth is, once he achieved absolute power, there was no way he was ever going to give it up through democratic means. So, remember, keep your grandfather’s strategy in mind. When he first took control of the Weimar Republic, no one really knew what was coming down the line. Just like people today don’t realise that reuniting the Americas is our ultimate goal. All those failed states in South America are absolutely ripe for takeover. We’ll create our own Lebensraum, a massive living space that gives us the largest and most powerful country in the world.”
John smiled as he poured them both another glass of champagne, downing his in one. “Yes, and eventually Mexico will become our massive dumping ground for dissidents and enemies of the state. One gigantic prison.”
Richard nodded his approval and toasted his son. “John, Martin would be so proud of you. As you know, he planned everything meticulously and now we’re almost there. I can taste it. And, while we’re celebrating, I have some more good news.”
“You’ve got the box back?”
“Not quite, but the men who stole it are all dead, so no one knows where it is hidden and the trail for the police has gone cold. Cold as ice.”
John sat his glass down on the make-up table. “But, Dad, it’s still out there.”
“Yes, it is, and don’t worry, our guys are on it. If it’s findable, believe me, they will find it. If it’s not, then the secrets stay with us.”