The President’S Faith: Divine Intervention Series, Book Two

1

Wait! President Drummond Wakefield called.

His hand reaching for the door to the Oval Office, primary protective agent Joe Compton jerked to attention and looked over his shoulder at his commander in chief. Mr. President?

I’d like a few minutes to myself in the office.

Certainly, sir. Compton stepped to one side. Behind him stood Chief of Staff Lawrence Nelson and Vice President Monroe.

We’ll wait out here until you’re ready for us, Compton said.

The president nodded and stepped into the office he would occupy for the next four years. He could not bring himself to say, His office, because the Oval Office could never belong to any one man or woman. Time seemed altered, as if only a gossamer veil separated him from the history of this room. He took two more steps, and seemed to be stepping into the future. However, when he stood in front of the presidential desk, he realized what really mattered was today. Today’s actions would shape the tomorrows.

Sliding one hand across the highly polished mahogany desk, he wondered whose job it was to keep it that way. The desktop was empty except for a telephone with more buttons than he was used to, a small desk calendar, and a pen and pencil with presidential logos.

Making his way to the plush leather chair behind the desk, Drum spun it around a couple of times. Looks comfortable, he thought. He would be spending a lot of time in that chair for the next four years—at least. He started to sit. No, not yet. Something tugged at his consciousness, or maybe his sub consciousness.

Learning to pay attention to the gentle nudges of the Holy Spirit was an ongoing adventure. Not only did he appreciate the comforting presence of God’s Spirit, he had come to trust what he called God’s GPS system. He wondered what message or truth God wanted him to be aware of today.

He turned toward the full-length window, pulled back the dark blue drapes, and looked out at the snow-covered lawn. Snow had begun falling as he and Nita left the last of the many inaugural balls the previous evening. At least two inches of snow covered the lawn and clung to the tree branches. Outside the tall fence surrounding the grounds, several people stood gazing at the home of their president. Probably tourists or homeless street people. Many homeless people occupied the nearby park, a small representation of the many homeless across the nation. An important item on his agenda was to alleviate the suffering of men, women, and children who, for whatever reasons, were without the comfort and security of a home.

A man wearing a long, dirty overcoat looked up at the window and waved. Drum waved back, wondering if the man could see him. He lifted his gaze higher. The gray sky draped itself ominously over the city, shutting out the life-giving warmth of the sun.

He would miss his mountains. Maybe he would bring in a couple of Nita’s landscapes and hang them where he could always look up and get a glimpse of his beloved Wyoming.

As he gazed out the window, his thoughts turned to the past.

What an incredible journey it had been. First, Jonathan Lockman, the party’s unanimous choice for president, died of a heart attack two days before the convention opened. Next, Lawrence Nelson, the party chairman, showed up at Drum’s hotel room late at night with the unexpected request that he become his party’s candidate for president. After Drum accepted the nomination, he watched in amazement as political wheels began to turn on his behalf. A multitude of professionals and volunteers worked around the clock to bring him from near obscurity as Wyoming’s junior senator to the national spotlight of his party’s candidate for president. The nonstop campaign culminated in a respectable victory in November.

However, none of that could compare to his experience a few days after the election. He and Nita were at the Circle W Ranch, his family’s place in Wyoming. He had ridden one of the horses up to a favorite mountain vista. After securing his horse to a scrub pine, Drum climbed the fifty yards or so to his favorite place—a flat, granite outcropping about six feet wide. Stone pillars on two sides served as a windbreak. The other sides provided an unobstructed view of the valley, with its pine forests and sparkling streams. He had stood there, breathing in the clear mountain air, contemplating the beauty of his beloved state and the One who created it all. Drum could never explain it, but he always sensed the presence of God in places of tranquil, natural beauty. His sense of God’s presence intensified when he looked across the valley and saw the steeple of the little church where, at the age of ten, he accepted Jesus into his heart. Taking a deep breath, he sat down, leaned back, and pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes.

At that moment, his journey moved from incredible to unbelievable. Chills still ran up his spine when he pictured God’s literal invasion of his life. A flash of light engulfed the entire area, followed by utter silence. Something, or someone, was on the ledge with him. An angel! An honest to goodness, sent from heaven, messenger from God! Drum chuckled as he recalled the gamut of emotions and wild thoughts that had overwhelmed him. The angel, however, was patient. He had dealt with humans before.

The angelic visitor and his message had been Drum’s wake-up call to return to the God and faith of his childhood. He now had no problem believing that the God of the Bible was still the God of the twenty-first century. Most astounding of all, he accepted that God had a plan and a purpose for him—a purpose even more important than being president.

Since then, Drum had learned a lot about himself and the God he had ignored for most of his life. He was still learning. Now, a new journey was beginning—a journey that could bring the unknown, the unusual, even the unthinkable into his presence at any time, and he would have to deal with it.

His thoughts turned to King Solomon and his prayer at the dedication of the temple. Recently, he had read this biblical account at Aunt Carrie’s suggestion. Today, Drum understood why his aunt, whom he considered his spiritual mentor, had directed him to Solomon’s story. King Solomon, the wealthiest and most powerful king of his time, needed something greater than riches, power, and military might. He asked God to give him what money could not purchase and power could not produce. Solomon asked for wisdom.

Drum could ask for nothing more appropriate. While he was comfortably well off, he was far from rich by today’s standards. Some might consider the president of the United States as the most powerful man in the world. However, the powers available, and the resources to back up those powers, were not enough. Like Solomon, he needed the wisdom only God could give.

He let the drapes fall back in place, turned, and walked to the middle of the room. He stood on the rug bearing the presidential seal and fell to his knees. Oh, God, here I am, overwhelmed and awed by the reality of being the president of this great nation. Help me to serve the people of this nation in the way you would have me do. Help me never forget that you care more for this nation and this world than I, or anyone else, could ever care. Help me to make wise decisions, propose beneficial programs, and set an example of faith. Like Solomon, Lord, I ask for wisdom.

He stood and took a small vial of oil from his pocket. Aunt Carrie had given it to him last week on his trip back to Wyoming. Drum, she had said, this may seem strange to you. Then she laughed, Or maybe not, after your recent experiences. She handed him a small bottle of oil. This is anointing oil. Actually, it’s just olive oil, but I believe God instructed me to give it to you. I know you’ve been reading the Bible a lot since your renewal of faith. Have you read about the people and places that were anointed?

Not really. While Drum trusted his aunt’s judgment in spiritual matters, this was new territory. He couldn’t imagine why she would hand him a little bottle of olive oil. He was still playing catch-up when it came to familiarizing himself with the history and actions of the God he had vowed to serve. As a child, he had attended Sunday school and he remembered a few of the Bible stories Aunt Carrie read to him and his brother, Nate. Nevertheless, he had drifted into a lifestyle best described as an unconsciously chosen God-vacuum. His wake-up call last November not only sent him to his knees but also to his Bible. Now he was reading God’s Word daily, gaining not only a grasp of Bible history, but also gaining the God-connection that came from reading the Word. The subject of anointing oil had not yet appeared in his reading.

Carrie briefly explained that anointing oil had been used to set apart both people and places and objects for God’s purposes. Okay, so he definitely felt God had set him apart for His purposes, and it wasn’t too far a reach to believe that this office, and by extension, this nation had also been set apart for God’s purposes. He twisted the lid from the vial, poured a few drops on the fingers of one hand, and looked up. So, where do I put this?

The thought came to him, on the top facing of the door.

That seemed to make sense. He crossed the room and stood beside the door. He pictured the people waiting on the other side of the door and grinned. What would they think if they knew what he was doing? No matter. He reached up and swiped the oil along the top of the door facing. Okay. That was easy. He looked around the room, and then looked up and asked, Where else?

Wherever seems logical and right to you came the answer.

The desk and chair seemed logical, and he followed through. He looked around the room and then walked over to the window and placed a tiny drop of oil on the cord that pulled back the drapes.

A sudden stirring of air in the room caused the hairs on the back of his neck to bristle. He wheeled around. You! he cried excitedly at the sight of the angel—his angel, Raphael. I wondered …

Couldn’t miss this, Raphael said and a huge smile broke across his face.

Nice outfit, Drum pointed to the dark blue suit, red tie, and white shirt.

Seemed appropriate.

Right … He paused, I have to ask. Have you been in this room before?

A smile and a shrug was the only response.

So, have you?

The nod said yes.

Who? Drum was incredulous, fascinated, and curious.

Tall guy, beard, stove-pipe hat.

Abraham Lincoln! Wow! Who else?

Can’t say more, at least not now.

What? Is this like a need-to-know thing?

Again, a smile and a nod said yes.

Okay, okay, I get it. You’re not here to satisfy my curiosity.

Correct. You remember that from our previous encounters. Good.

So, Drum asked, will we be meeting like this often?

This brief visit is most likely our last, but then, he shrugged, I never know.

I wondered.

The Almighty does not want you relying upon or anticipating angelic visitations. Think of our previous encounters as sort of jump starts to get you going.

Haven’t jump started a vehicle in a lot of years, but I remember how.

The principle is similar. The jump gets the already existing battery started. Then, with use the battery builds up in strength until it is operating as the manufacturer intended.

So, Drum grinned, your intervention jump got me started so that the Spirit of God, which was already within me, would begin to function as God intended.

More or less, the angel replied.

I’ll miss you, the words caught in Drum’s throat.

And I you, Raphael said, a somber look on his face. He threw one arm around Drum’s shoulder and squeezed. I’ll be watching.

Drum nodded, felt the angel’s touch dissolve, and watched his image evaporate.

2

Two months into his presidency, the image of the angel’s visit to the historic oval office had faded in Drum’s mind. However, the awareness of his connection to God grew clearer and sharper each day. He was continually surprised at the unobtrusive ways he could incorporate faith into matters requiring his attention as president, and they were many. Big issues. Small concerns. Huge problems. Minor glitches. Each day he found reasons to be thankful for the wisdom only God could give. That wisdom enabled him to make competent decisions that led to peaceable solutions and beneficial accomplishments. He was learning to let the stories of men and women in the Bible become more than history. They were becoming examples of faith lived out in the course of one’s experiences.

The story of Joseph advising Pharaoh to prepare for famine by stockpiling the surplus of a bountiful harvest was fresh in his mind when a representative from an African nation requested aid for his drought-stricken country. We cannot hoard our supplies when others are starving, Drum said. Instead of paying our farmers to let their land remain idle, we will encourage them to plant crops that can be utilized by other nations. He set a plan in motion to increase the distribution of surplus food from the United States to needy nations.

He was learning to trust his instincts when it came to discerning the motives of people who crossed his threshold. A well-directed question could cut through the pompous posturing of foreign diplomats or the patronizing airs of bureaucrats who had carved out their personal niches of influence in the hierarchy of national government.

Since taking office, he couldn’t count the times he had heard a variation of Sir, since you’ve had so little time to prepare yourself and your cabinet, it’s understandable you wouldn’t be familiar with some of the unwritten protocols that have served some of us old timers for so many years.

He would reply, I’m more interested in the written or obvious ways of conducting business. I made a statement in my campaign about being up front and honest. I intend to follow that course regardless of how naïve it makes me look to the old timers or anyone else.

One of Drum’s first actions as president was to create a venue where the voice of the people could be heard. "This nation is a nation of the people, by the people, and for the people. I intend to actively seek for ways to honor that statement." His weekly fifteen-minute radio program was gaining in popularity, and a series of bi-weekly television interviews with representatives of the various networks was in the works. On the first radio program, he urged listeners to send in their questions or comments, by either email or regular mail. Each week, Drum would read two or three questions, giving each person’s name and home state, and then answer the questions as best he could. No anonymous communications would be read.

Already a pattern was developing in response to his recently proposed legislation to close loopholes in gun registration practices and mandate automatic prison sentences for any armed crime. Listeners from several eastern states were for it, while most from western states were against it. His home state of Wyoming was among the most vocal of those against any kind of additional gun control. In fact, they, like many others, wanted to see all regulation concerning the buying and selling of guns abolished.

3

I told you this guy was big time trouble. Jeremiah Thompson leaned back in the plush chair at the hunting lodge of Texas Congressman Donald Webber. Jeremiah was one of several militia leaders from a half a dozen states who had gathered at Webber’s cabin for a few days in late March.

Webber swirled the brandy in his snifter, took a sip, and stared at Jeremiah. While there are many of us who will openly oppose these bills, I brought you here to discuss possible ways to covertly oppose them. We need to find some lever to make Wakefield back down. He paused and took his time in meeting the gaze of each man in the group.

A man from Vermont spoke up. Better try something other than blackmail. That sure backfired when the Horizons Unlimited outfit tried it before the election.

I agree, Webber said. But everyone has vulnerable areas. We just have to find his.

Family, a gruff spoken, gray haired man from Idaho said. You threaten a man’s family and just watch how fast he jumps down from his high principles.

True, Webber said, but there’s the Secret Service to deal with. A president’s family is very well protected these days. Maybe there’s someone not in the immediate family, but still someone he cares about.

He has a brother in Wyoming. Runs the family ranch. The brother has a wife and kids, supplied Jeremiah.

You’re from Wyoming, right? the man from Vermont asked.

For now. I’ve moved around some the past few years, Jeremiah said.

The brother’s family is a possibility, Webber said. Maybe one of the kids.

Too risky, another man said.

Anybody know the older woman on the podium when he was sworn in? Webber asked.

His aunt, Jeremiah said.

Where does she live?

Her place is not too far from the Wakefield ranch.

Does she live alone?

Not sure, Jeremiah answered. Husband’s been dead for years. I do know that.

Wakefield must be close to her if she was at the inauguration. Webber leaned back in his chair. Worth checking out, I’d say.

Several heads nodded in agreement.

Let’s see what we can come up with. Webber turned to Jeremiah. You seem to know the most about this lady and the area where she lives. Check it out and get back to me as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’ll start putting pressure on some of the committee members who will be reviewing that proposed bill.

4

Troy Morrison stepped out the side door of a popular bar and restaurant and lit a cigarette. It was getting so a man could barely find a place to smoke. A dark alley was no place for a self-respecting cowboy, or maybe even one who didn’t respect himself all that much. He drew in the pungent smoke, held it, and exhaled slowly. Seems that he was on the road to self-respect again, thanks to his old buddy Drum.

The leather works shop was doing well and soon he would be able to repay Drum the $15,000 he’d borrowed to buy into the business. Yes, borrowed, dang it! It had never been more than that. Wouldn’t Drum be surprised when he got a check in the mail!

Troy chuckled at the idea of addressing it to the White House, USA. He still couldn’t get used to his old buddy being the president of these United States. Whew!

A door squeaking open farther down the alley startled him. Light spilling from the open door silhouetted a tall slender man dressed in the standard uniform of the area: jeans, jacket, boots, and cowboy hat. The man cast a furtive look up and down the alley. He pulled the door almost shut, but remained standing in the faint glow from the cracked doorway.

Odd, Troy thought and took a silent step backward into the alcove surrounding his door. He squashed his cigarette on the wall behind him and waited. Something was off and he didn’t want to get caught up in it. He’d been caught in enough bad scenes in his life.

Footsteps approached from the entrance to the alley. A short, stocky man wearing a windbreaker and ball cap stopped beside the tall man. So, you got the info? he asked.

Yep. Instructions, maps, all the details we need.

Give it to me and get back inside. I’ll contact you later.

The tall man took an envelope from his jacket pocket and the other man jerked it from his hand.

Uh oh, Troy thought, probably a drug deal going down. I don’t want to be even close to that. He flattened himself even tighter against the recessed door, hoping the man would not come his way. Breathing a sigh of relief, Troy watched as the man went back inside. The man who had taken the envelope headed up the alley away from Troy.

Troy turned to go back inside the bar but jerked to a stop when he heard tires squalling, the thud of an impact, and a motor accelerating. Someone or something got hit where the alley intersected the street. Troy ran up the alley.

The streetlight cast a triangle of light over a crumpled heap—more than likely the man he’d seen in the alley. He stood over the man. Blood! It was everywhere! The man’s head was smashed like a discarded Halloween pumpkin.

Troy gagged. No way could the man be alive. Still, he crouched down and tentatively touched the man’s upturned wrist. He wasn’t about to touch his neck. Nothing! He’d better go back to the bar and call 911.

Then he saw the envelope lying several feet away. It had to be the one he’d seen this guy take from the other man.

Leave it alone, he told himself. Don’t get involved. He started to walk away, and then stopped. What would it hurt to see what was in the envelope … And if it was cash from a drug deal what would he do then? Glancing up and down the street and seeing no one, he stooped down, picked up the envelope, and stuck it in his back pocket. It felt kind of thick. Maybe they were all big bills. No harm in checking it out. He could always tell the police about it later. As he headed back down the alley to the back door of the bar, he heard someone yell, "Hey, look, there’s a guy in the road!

Is he hurt? a woman asked.

Don’t know … Let me see. Oh, crap! There’s blood everywhere. Call 911.

Relieved that he wouldn’t have to call it in, Troy slipped back inside and ducked in the gent’s room, which was near the door. He glimpsed his ashen image in the mirror and splashed water on his face. Knees shaking, he took several deep breaths before making his way through the crowded bar and out to his truck.

At his house a few miles out of town, he plopped down on a worn couch and pulled off his boots. He was still shaking. And he hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, maybe leaving the scene of an accident. But he didn’t really see anything. It was all over by the time he got to the man. And the envelope he’d picked up … Why hadn’t he left it where it fell?

Oh well, might as well check it out. He opened it carefully and peered inside. Only some papers. The temptation of whether he would keep the money, if there had been some, was resolved.

He pulled out the papers and unfolded them. The top sheet was a section of a topographic map. Maybe some hunters planning a trip. No need to try to return it. But when he tossed the papers on the coffee table, something caught his attention.

He spread out the map and turned it first one way and then another. I know that area, he mumbled. Grew up around there. Yep, there’s Nate’s place, the Circle W, or at least the northern boundary of it. Wait a minute! Why would someone have a map of the ranch where the president’s brother lives? He examined the map further. A small circle was drawn around an area several miles north of the Circle W. A zigzag line led several miles from the circle to the northeast and to the state highway. Now, why would someone be interested in Carrie Peterson’s place?

What? He’s dead! What happened? the man on the phone shouted.

Accident, looks like, the tall man from the alley said. I had just passed him the map and other information, and when he stepped out of the alley, someone ran over him and killed him. Talk about bad timing.

What about the envelope? Do you have it?

No. I ran outside when I heard about the accident and saw him lying there. His jacket was hanging open but I didn’t see the envelope. I looked all around, thinking it flew out of his hand when he got hit. No sign of it.

That’s not good. We don’t need any loose ends.

But even if someone picked it up, they wouldn’t have any idea what it was. There was nothing specific in the note and no one would recognize the area of the map.

Probably not. But we can’t take a chance. We’re going to shove up the timetable and make the snatch early tomorrow morning. I’ll do the run myself, since I marked the map. I’ll get someone else to go with me. You meet us at the designated place in the RV. Be there by at least 10 a.m.

"You got it. We’ll make that liberal, betrayer of our heritage think twice about trying to take away our second amendment rights. Nobody’s going to tell me I have