JIHAD PART II

GENERAL OF THE ARMIES

It was 9:30 am., the morning after. McKay observed governors entering the hall, amused at the number of reporters Hayes had worked in, their expressions drew his attention. The comments he overheard were varied. It was now less than half an hour before his scheduled address; his first to the governors, but it was to be televised to the nation.
Each governor passed by in turn to greet him, though there were only a few muted congratulations. Glad-handing, or too much gusto, or appearing bombastic under the circumstances was unthinkable.
The great hall fell silent a short time later, different from normal silence. It was silence that hung in the air like cobwebs; an ensnaring silence. Frankly, McKay couldn’t remember any gathering of politicians which fell so utterly quiet that silence seemed a substance.
He suspected it would remain silent throughout his comments. There wasn’t a man in the assembly who knew for certain what his remarks might embody, or to what extent they would announce policy under his administration. He well understood the gravity of his remarks. Determined to be forcible, but brutally honest, he vowed there would be no rhetoric today. He rose and walked briskly to the podium.
My fellow Americans . . . how often Presidents have used that phrase. It struck me as I prepared my remarks, this word, ‘fellow.’ Fellows are ‘companions, partners, mates, and peers.’ Are we not companions? We live and work together. Are we not mates? Are we not peers, believing that all men are created equal by God himself? Are we not partners in the greatest democratic experiment since the Age of Greece? Yes. We are travelers on a common road, bound for a course set by our founding fathers. We share a destiny they desired for us. We are in every sense, ‘fellows.’
“A dark day has preceded this assembly. It brings to mind our first national taste of terror not that many years ago. We responded to 9/11 by declaring war on terrorism. We threatened to destroy any country that harbors terrorists. We stated that safe harbors were, in fact, enemies as well. Because of the wanton deaths of so many innocent Americans, we enjoyed international support when we occupied Afghanistan, removed the Taliban from power, and dramatically weakened al Qaeda.
“Terrorism is not unique, but new to our republic. Many nations have struggled with it for centuries. They have far more experience than we, and far greater intelligence resources as well when viewed as a whole. Wise men know that a War on Terrorism cannot be a unilateral undertaking. It must by its very nature be a cooperative international effort. The administration in office when 9/11 struck was not wise. It was arrogant, proud, and reckless. Even the most humble citizen is aware of the proverb of Solomon, known to be wise, “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a wall.” It is so commonly known and repeated that it may as well be etched across the sky.
Ignoring its truth, the administration made the decision to unilaterally invade Iraq, with token troops from England and a handfull from small nations bribed to participate. They refused to allow the United Nations to function as such, flagrantly misrepresented the threat Iraq posed, told outright lies to the American public and to the Security Council. Blair did the same in England. We were told it would be ‘Shock and awe.’ The moment I first heard the phrase, “Bring it on” by a man who Solomon and all other wise men would have considered a prideful, haughty fool uttered, I knew we were in trouble. That arrogance stunned the wise men of all nations. We had dropped anchor in perilous waters indeed, waters infested with the vermin that forswore our present woes. There was shock on 4/23. There was awe yesterday.
Wise men understand the boundary conditions of government. They understand it is necessary for ordered societies to exist, indeed for civilization to exist. Good government imposes reasonable limits and barriers upon its people. Bad government imposes unreasonable limits and barriers. Wise men also know that too much freedom results in anarchy, but that too little freedom or too many barriers result in slavery.
The international community viewed the incursion into Iraq not as a legitimate concern for U.S. national security, nor for a free, democratic Iraq, but as a blatant attempt to control Iraq’s oil and thereby checkmate OPEC, allowing us to, in effect, steal the resources of oil-producing nations at an unrealistically low price/bbl. All the rhetoric about freedom and democracy was packaging for trusting citizens. It failed utterly, and eventually, most Americans realized they we had been played like pawns on a chess board.
Our experience in Iraq taught us several things: First, there is always a backlash from such incursions, secondly, nation building is beyond our economic capability, and thirdly, that the follow through in terms of U.S. casualties and foreign allocation of the nation’s wealth exceeds both our economic capacity and our political will. It was neither wise nor necessary to single ourselves out for hatred around the world. Only a self-deluded fool dares a potential enemy to ‘bring it on.’ It is presumed that the strike against Fort Benning, Georgia stemmed from Afghanistan, because Afghans are known to have participated. However, we already had a strong, military presence in Afghanistan on 4/23. Who then, were we to attack? Drop a few more cruise missiles or bombs on the impenetrable mountains of Afghanistan? We hadn’t rendered al Qaeda impotent, but instead hung the killick of Iraq about our neck as a nation. Later administrations struck out at mountain retreats and attempted to tighten the reigns again. In the same way, we had not yet identified captured the perpetrators of 4/23 when the nation’s Capitol vanished yesterday, along with Baltimore and all other jurisdictions within a radius of at least forty miles.
You are angry with Homeland Security. But it must be admitted by honest, thinking men that true Homeland Security is impossible in a free country if it becomes the blood enemy of terrorist nations. We cannot seal thousands of miles of land borders and thousands more of ocean waters with confidence. Unless we are prepared as a people-that means you and I-to abandon the institutions and constitutional foundation so well-conceived by our founding fathers, burn the Bill of Rights, and declare the Declaration of Independence invalid, thereby ceasing to be a representative republic, our borders will always be porous. Are you prepared to permit your government to destroy your nation thus. The Bill of Rights has already fallen into serious question by the passage of NADNARA. You knew it and you would not permit it. You began replacing those responsible. Indeed, the fact I am speaking to you is evident that you treasure your institutions and will not tolerate foolish or evil men to destroy them by degrees.
“How then do we protect ourselves from such ghastly attacks upon our own soil? Do we abandon the War on Terrorism? I cannot as a rational man make that argument, but I am wise enough to know that it must be passed to the United Nations and vigorously by us, not dominated.
The next question we must ask ourselves is, Do we continue to want to attack sovereign nations, waste our strength on preemptive, foreign wars while neglecting our people at home until our economy and infrastructure is in ruins and our strength has been completely spent? Clearly, my fellow Americans, there must be a better way to remain the greatest and most prosperous nation on earth. What then, is that better way? The answer is, we need another pax romana, but this one must be a pax americana.
“First and foremost, we must set an international example that is consistent with our nation’s core values. When I compare the sentiments and concerns of average Americans with American foreign policy over our history as a very young nation, particularly the latter half, I see a great disparity. There are two other nations in North America besides ourselves which occupy a large geographic territory: Canada and Mexico. Both have substantial natural resources and significant populations. Both are free and democratic. We must ask ourselves why Canada has suffered no 9/11, no 4/23, and no 7/29. We must ponder why Mexico has suffered no 9/11, no 4/23, no 7/29. Iwhy we alone? There must a reason! Indeed, there is, I reply to my own question: It is because they do not topple foreign governments as our CIA has done. They do not overthrow sovereign nations as we have done. They do not aspire to be the world’s policeman as we have done. They did not fall prey to the insipid temptation faced by all “great” nations when they become convinced they are the greatest of all: To dominate their neighbors, even dominate the entire world. If our nation is truly to remain great, we must confront the world honestly. If we espouse democracy, we must extend that belief to our international neighbors near and far. We must not treat others as though they are less valuable than we. We must not seek the destruction of democratic nations because their religion differs from our own and install Shah's and dictators in their place willing to sign over their natural resources at pennies on the dollar. In short, we need to grow up, young nation or not.
“Let us devote our remaing strength to the purpose our forefathers expected. Let us lift our own citizens from ignorance, poverty, and the misery of the uneducated and unskilled, not squander it for ignoble purposes abroad. Our first president, George Washington, issued a grave warning to the new republic. He warned us never to become drawn into European wars. They had persisted for a thousand years. There will always be a war to fight somewhere. My predecessors ignored that warning, arguing that the world has changed. Wise men recognize that it has not. It has merely grown smaller. If we are truly sincere in our assertion that we want to see freedom and deomocracy expand, we must be an active and contributing member of the international community, but abandon all attempts, veiled or flagrant, to dominate it. The United Nations is the proper forum through which to participate in world affairs.
“There are many things that inspire mankind. Nationalism is among the most powerful. It is also potentially arrogant and foolish, as we have certainly learned in recent years. Exploited for wrong purposes, it is as deadly as the hook in the jaw of the fish which masqueraded as the worm which concealed it. Who among us is joyful that their beloved perished on 9/11 or 4/23 or returned maimed or in a body bag from Iraq? Who is joyful now that 7/29 must be added to the list?
My fellow Americans, “we must become wise; wave our flag for the defense of freedom, but burn it if our leaders venture upon conquest! Send food, medicine, and education to the hungry and the oppressed, not cruise missiles to destroy the infrastructure supporting the innocent civivilians of their nations. We have been quick to destroy, but slow to rebuild. Let us not seek tribute in the resources of nations we vanquish in preemptive wars, but rather pay for them or develop our own with greater wisdom and resolve. If we do not direction as a nation, we shall perish from the earth as certainly as did Babylon and Rome and all other empires of human history.
“This is a time for amnesty, not a time for recrimination. By Executive Order, I have today ordered that Laser Net be shut down. There is no virtue in the harassment of our own or any other people. We must turn our hearts and attentions inward and heal our national wounds. We cannot roll back the past, nor undo our many wrongs, but we can devote ourselves to a better future. We can be about the business of preserving the institutions our forefathers bled and died for. We can be about the business of preserving the American dream for future generations.
That is the McKay Doctrine.
“Millions of civilians are dead and dying and millions more will die. The environmental nightmare is beyond estimation. These things were excessive, not just. Therefore, I confer the rank of General of the Armies upon General Brody. Under his capable military prowess, as Abraham Lincoln swore, this nation shall not perish from the earth. Let me restate Lincoln's words: “This nation shall not perish from the earth except by its own hand.”
“General of the Armies. Remember that rank, my esteemed colleagues? The honorable congress of the United States established it for General George Washington in 1799. Later, following a joint resolution of congress, President Gerald Ford confirmed it for General John J. Pershing in October of 1976. Now, we must revive it once again. This ignominious use of nuclear weapons stands as an infamous reproach against civilization. We may not temporize. We may not long deliberate. We may not falter. The people of this republic expect nothing less than sonorous resolve. As your President, I once again have appointed a man to this office with sterling regard for the groan of the populace, in memory of the martyred passing of the innocent, of loved ones taken by a sinister hand.”
President McKay’s impassioned remarks brought loud applause from the gathered Governors. The eyes of a nation stunned and wounded twice in only three months were fixed as the cameras of CNN and the networks focused upon the stern face in Las Vegas. The perception was that President McKay had wasted no time reacting to the crisis.
“The President has touched the nerve of the nation this morning,” anchors were saying. “The public was deeply moved by his leadership. There was a profound absence of political rhetoric. He was forcible, but humble.”
“What do you think of his disparaging remarks directed toward our past foreign policy?” One asked another, on camera.
“They might have seemed untimely were it not that I think the president is attempting to assuage international concerns already being raised that the United States might run rampant unilaterally around the globe following the nuclear strike as we did in Afghanistan and Iraq, token mercenaries aside, following 9/11. Only frank criticisms of past foreign policy could convince the United Nations it will be different this time. The combined effects of shutting down Laser Net and appointing General Brody General of the Armies is historic.”
“In your opinion, does it signify serious changes in domestic and foreign policy?”
“It indicates what most of us would expect from Wilson McKay: as president, he intends to be limited by the United Nations in foreign affairs, and by the constitution in domestic affairs.”
“There are concerns he might be reactionary.”
“Anyone who thinks that doesn’t know Wilson McKay, the man!”
McKay had asked General Brody to drop by . . . alone . . . for a word with him following his address to the nation. There were certain attenuations and qualifications that he could only address privately with Marcus.
“Sit down, General. We need to chat.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Thank you.”
“When we’re speaking privately, call me Wilson. We’ve been friends a long time. Titles and ranks become stultifying.”
McKay eyed him for a moment as he resolved his comments.
“Marcus, you know that I’m doing this because there’s no rational alternative that can receive popular support?”
“I know your stance on war, Wilson. No one wins and the people suffer. I know that as an engineer, your passion is to build, not destroy. I do hope you accede to necessity, though, in this case. The dead are all Americans.”
“I do, and I’m sincere in supporting your efforts, in fact, demanding them. . . with a few limitations.”
“What are those, Wilson?”
“For one thing, I don’t want this to degenerate into a Truman-Mac Arthur scenario. Our current situation is loaded with the potential for just that. The reason I promoted you to General of the Armies is that you now have the power and authority to work with the Joint Chiefs without becoming subject to them. I want our military response controlled and I want the final say on scope.”
“You want to approve every action?”
“Not at all. I’m Commander-in-Chief on constitutional grounds, not a military strategist. I wouldn’t have selected you if I thought you incapable of conducting this action properly, even ingeniously, Marcus, but as a team. Make us proud, but no Gulf War-style atrocities or Iraq-style genocide. And please, no embarrassment stemming from an action you yourself knew to be dubious but about which you requested no input. I’m your superior. Do you understand the sense of that? I don’t want a repeat of Iraq. You won’t bomb civilians, nor destroy civilian infrastructures from the air. It's pointless and its cruel. Only the innocent suffer and that ends here and now.”
“Wilson, I’m not a Mac Arthur. I intend to stand beneath your wing as my Commander and honor my post accordingly. It will be enough for me to answer the evil promulgated against the nation and direct my effort toward an end to terrorism within our borders.”
“Misapplied, your efforts will only increase it. I’ve been contacted by several heads of state in the Middle East. Our discussions have gone beyond your jurisdiction and a misstep could create a can of worms. I’ve given my assurance that if we can’t isolate and destroy those we know to be terrorists on the ground, we won’t destroy innocents from the air to create the illusion we have just to satiate the American public.
The second and equally important point is that we’re not in a war of ideology against Muslims. We got ourselves into this mess, initially because we’ve been without compassion for the Palestinians. Our national interests have been pegged to imported oil in the Middle East. Israel’s apartheid practices haven’t helped the situation. Our close association and failure to demand they abandon the policy and begin making real progress toward a two-state solution makes us appear equally responsible.”
“Isn't Apartheid an extreme characterization, Wilson?”
“How else would you describe building a wall to keep the Palestinians imprisoned within economic ruin, setting up roadblocks between different Palestinian territories, intimidating men, women, and children alike with searches, the terror of air assaults, occupation, and unabated colonization of the West Bank? During all of these actions, we imposed impossible demands upon Palestinian leaders while soft-peddling settlement of the West Bank and virtual seizure of Palestinian aquifers. American-made rockets are used against them. We’ve never applied the hard line to Israel because Washington was controlled by their advocates at every level in Washington, but Washington is gone as are they. That relationship combined with the CIA overthrow of an elected democracy in Iran, setting up the Shah, and similar manipulations resulted eventually in 9/11, 4/23, and now the loss of our nation’s Capitol on 7/29. If we don’t change course, it’s not over. We could lose New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, any number of great cities. Can you personally pursue retribution without crossing the line to further aggression?”
“Wilson, during the Iran-Iraq War we duped Hussein into initiating, Henry Kissinger said, ‘It’s too bad they can’t kill each other.’ Ramsey Clark reported that remark. It shamed me. It shamed all Jews. Yes, I can support your policies. I’m Jewish, but the fulfillment of my duties will not be affected by prejudice toward Palestinians nor Muslims. I’m not patronizing you when I say that, Mr. President.”
“Good, because OPEC is about to separate itself from us, and I don’t intend to threaten the Carter Doctrine against them.”
“What are they planning?”
“Severe economic repercussions from the nuclear attack are inevitable. The Federal Debt has been at critical mass for years. However poorly things were in the U.S., they were usually worse elsewhere because of it, often directly. But in the wake of 7/29, certain members of OPEC in the Middle East, especially the House of Saud back in power, fear new revolutions within their borders. Effective immediately, they will announce they’re tying the price of oil to the gold-backed Arabian Dinar. They agreed to wait until our administration had the reins of U.S. Power firmly in-hand and the collapse of the currency actually began before the announcement. Only Russia and Iran are leaving it tied to the dollar. That's the most unexpected, frankly mysterious, gratuitous exception.”
“There's an implicit quid pro quo in that generosity, Wilson: that we abandon all efforts to gain access to or control over the massive Caspian Sea reserves.”
Öf course. I didn't miss it either. It has the potential to offset Saudi Arabia turning on us.“
“They never were our friends, Wilson, just the friends of the Bush-Cheny family cartels.”
“Eisenhower was prescient, wasn't he?”
“It looks that way. The price of oil purchased by the U.S. will still skyrocket, though.”
“Yes, but it's their oil, their national resource. They have the right to set the price. There are no plans to cut off the supply of oil at all by OPEC. There will be no opportunity for the U.S. to invoke the Carter doctrine.”
Marcus was clearly troubled.
“It gets worse. This will accelerate global flight from dollar-denominated assets. We can expect more than a trillion in U.S. treasuries to be dumped as soon as the market holiday ends.”
“Wilson, 9/11 and 4/23 drove the country into recession. The destruction of Washington will likely incite a second, full-fledged, global depression.”
“I’ve spoken to Wolfson about this. I’ve asked him to come up with a plan to isolate the American people from such ruin.”
“God!”
“We've burned all our bridges, Marcus. Now we're about to pay the Piper. Things will get far worse before we rebuild them. But this time, they will be Friendship bridges. I've asked Wolfson to determine the source and grab the reins of every resource available to us, and to get his staff of talented people thinking of some way to use our resources to reverse the otherwise inevitable. There must be a way!”
“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes; believe me, I’ll see that the military doesn’t add to your grief. You’ve got enough to sweat already.”
McKay sat reviewing the news update. It was now the tenth day of his presidency, a nonstop vigil to stabilize the nation. News from the northeast was pouring in with much greater detail. What he read sickened and alarmed him. The riots in northeastern cities had increased in size and number. Fearful, police throughout the northeast had become more aggressive against looters and violence, joined by National Guard personnel called out by governors of the affected states. The more affluent were struggling to reach areas to the west and south to avoid or escape the violence, facilitated by the intense routing of all airlines to those areas. Going in, they delivered supplies and personnel to assist the afflicted, going out, those able to afford the cost of air travel packed every flight. A massive exodus was underway on the ground, in the air, and on the waterways. Passenger liners and naval craft of every sort and size were enacting the same scenario, except that the ones they carried out were the sick and afflicted, those caring for them and their families. Admiral Yost was putting every resource at his disposal to work effectively. Every major roadway was still jammed, but on the outer perimeter was moving, even though traffic was forced to return to the proper lanes allowing local activities not to become disrupted as well and to permit massive troup and supply movements north toward the core. Those that chose to remain in the most endangered cities or lacked the willingness to flee had hardened into armed camps surrounding the city centers. Vehicles filled with armed young men were terrorizing innocent civilians attempting to walk out of the chaos in the city centers, some of which were aflame. Race warfare seemed a real possibility if the blackout persisted, making it impossible to control atrocities after dark or to communicate with the general population. The one good thing is that the drug lords were losing power as their supply lines had likewise been destroyed in the easternmost midwestern cities and both the supply and price of drugs were being squeezed.
“God only knows what the people must be thinking up there,” McKay thought. “It must seem like the end of the world.”
If movement out of those areas was stalled, movement into them by medical personnel was equally hampered and Homeland Security city preparation plans were useless given the overwhelming dimensions of the discord.
Another problem was arising with predators as outsiders poured into smaller towns. Outrageous, exploitive rates were being charged for everything from motel rooms to food, fuel and other supplies, generating anger, fear, and uncertainty. Many locals were overwhelmed and terrorized by the influx. Many seemed to be adopting a survival attitude of “every man for himself.”
“This is a compassionate country,” McKay complained to the Governor’s of those states during a teleconference, “yet, virtually nothing of a significant order of magnitude is being done to help those arriving at the perimeter in trouble. Do whatever you must to stir up your citizens to help them. I know there’s little you can do in the core area. I’ve ordered most Americans stationed overseas back home. It will take time to get them here. As quickly as they arrive, they’ll be sent into areas which are uncontaminated to rescue those still alive. The dead and dying are in greater numbers than in any war we ever fought. We’ll deal with it in the core, but you have to deal more effectively with this along the perimeter, each in your own states. Don’t think cost. We’ll get to that. Just get it done. I won’t leave you holding the financial bag.”
“Mr. President,” they replied, with similar explanations:
“Because of the human wave and the inability to reach the affected areas, we are limited to working with those able to reach them, rather than the other way around. The blackout has contributed to the panic in New York.”
Another:
“The farther out stability breaks down, the larger the number of the fleeing throngs becomes in Maryland. It’s almost impossible to get supplies in, and when we do, we can’t distribute them effectively.”
Another:
“We’ve begun placing them along the roadways in the eastern part of New Jersey, but there are so many encamped and moving, we have no idea if the impact is even significant.”
Another:
“We’re trying to restore power in Michigan, but progress is slow. Effective communication would dramatically improve the situation.”
Another:
“The grid is interconnected so broadly that the electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear strike effectively destroyed our ability to restore it in Maine. The smart grid was a good idea, but it was implemented too slowly and just wasn't designed to handle something of this magnitude.”
Another:
“Rioting and civil disorder in Virginia make it impossible to reach vital points within the grid. They’ve thwarted efforts to restore it. The one bit of good news is that we’re having some success rounding up the blind as they’re led out by friends or family. We have thousands in shelters here.”
Another:
“Our present efforts are focused on preventing the population adjacent to the waterways areas from dying as well. We’re trying to get them out along the coast, but the water is becoming more and more contaminated as the rivers continue to empty highly radioactive waste into the sea, and the surface of the Bay is becoming a cesspool of rotting fish.”
“What about a portable radio drop?”
“What was that?,” McKay interrupted.
“A portable radio drop. If we could get working radios distributed in large numbers broadly, we could reach some of the most inaccessible areas we can’t send healthy rescue workers into. Your people could obtain a massive shipment from Asia, probably China. They’d need batteries as well . . . millions, if they’re not solar-powered.”
“Excellent, Governor.”
“If we get enough working radios out, the Emergency Broadcast System can advise citizens how to cooperate, which direction to flee, which to avoid. Having a link to the outside, knowing the entire country wasn’t destroyed, that we’re not in a nuclear war! Any link would greatly contribute to restoring order and calm. Remember, they don’t know anything. All electronic devices within the area were fried.”
McKay thanked them all for their efforts and promised increased numbers of troops to assist. He delegated responsibility for procurement of portable radios to the military, and within days, they were being dropped by the tens of thousands from helicopters and small aircraft, first in the worst core area where few remained alive, then farther out in an enlarging circle. One week after the suggestion was made, communication had been reestablished. McKay would have thought that logistically and strategically impossible. He heaped praise upon all involved.
Those still alive associated with FEMA had been given authority by McKay to make desperate attempts to react, but so many had died or were dying that all military efforts had been focused upon the riot-torn states and cities, leaving those trapped within the fallout areas largely to fend for themselves, an intolerable situation to McKay.. Most of them had already died, or would soon be dead.
Instead of improving, with each day the situation seemed to become much worse. A massive Army airlift of Medical personnel, food, and supplies, including clean water ground to a halt because supplies were exhausted. An attempt to ship men and materials by rail from supply areas much farther west was hampered by slowing trains as they approached target areas to check for the living among the thousands of carcasses who had fallen as they attempted to follow the rails out of the area. Farther in, the rails weren’t true, but were twisted and warped and unusable.
“Nothing is moving on the ground across a vast area of the northeast, Mr. President. I’m not talking about a fifty or a hundred mile radius. I’m talking about parts of entire states frozen. You know how many cars there are in that area. They lived with traffic jams just trying to get to work and back. Throw everything that runs onto the roads at the same time and everything jams for hundreds of miles. Too many vehicles have stalled or run out of fuel and been abandoned as the occupants panicked and began walking, fearing they might be caught in the fallout or in another nuclear strike. They’re intent on escaping to the interior of the country and on the northern perimeter, to Canada. Canada has mounted a very impressive rescue and refugee operation and already have several hundred injured, dying, or escaped citizens in their care. Those farthest out are pulling down gasoline supplies at such a rate that resupply is impossible. We're throwing everything in the country at it, but the pipeline complex from Louisiana and East Texas had to have travelers sent to the low-pressure points to prevent further fueling fires and loss of gas, effectively shutting down other areas not directly impacted otherwise A perimeter of ‘No Gas’ signs is expanding outward, and rapidly. We're fortunate indeed that this isn't occurring during the winter, or it would be far more hopeless.”
McKay found it necessary to issue an executive order freezing motel rates and all other prices associated with travel at pre-strike levels, threatening felony piracy provisions contained in the order. It slowed dramatically, but failed to stop the gouging in those situations where rates varied and no effective history could prove gouging as rates had long been demand-related.
“Mr. President,” Hayes had said a few days after McKay was sworn in, “You remind me of the biblical story of Moses trying to hear the complaints of his people by himself. He was about to lose it when his father-in-law, Jethro advised him to set up a system of judges to judge the people. It was overwhelming for him to attempt to handle the load alone. Let me get Justice Framingham in here again. Surely, we can shift some these troublesome considerations to other shoulders.”
“This has hardly begun,” Framingham told him, “and already, it’s too much for you to handle alone. The governors are taking enormous responsibility, many with incredible ingenuity and resolve to handle administrative problems within their own states. Instructing the military to focus on the worst areas was good. They needed a mission and a sense of direction. The orders you’ve issued so far form a fairly good pattern of where your presidency is heading. Use your time for Executive decisions. There’s a backlog and it’s growing.”
“Very well,” McKay had agreed. Meetings with Brody and the Joint Chiefs had mobilized a massive support effort, drawing down military supplies and absorbing the frustration of military personnel in meaningful action. McKay assigned Framingham the task of overseeing the maintenance of civil rights in the face of massive abuses. With each day, his appointed cabinet expanded, and a daily television address had done much to restore a national sense of confidence that the nation would survive, except in the areas under a blackout. There, the addresses were still heard, but not seen until refugees reached the perimeter. More and more federal personnel became centered in Las Vegas, and the governors remained there. This gave the impression that a center of federal government existed, greatly alleviating national concerns that it had perished.
After six weeks, the endless stream of news reports of the horrors being suffered by or perpetrated upon the human wave as it was gradually absorbed along the perimeter finally galvanized public compassion across the board and America became America once again, all for one and one for all. Churches and community organizations mobilized to provide shelter and soup kitchens, aided by state and civic organizations. Although no efforts to return to the pillaged cities where carnage continued were yet envisioned, the Midwest and Southern cities and towns became effective in administering relief to the millions of arriving refugees. Shipments of donated food and supplies, especially tents, blankets, clothing, and personal items, arrived by truck and rail. Distribution improved, and the crisis was at last contained around the perimeter. Reversing it father in was a slower process. There were no resources behind the perimeter. Everything had to be brought in. The public was stunned to learn how effective more than 10,000 medical personnel permitted entry from Cuba had become, instumental in the areas where they were mobilized. Even more surprising were the enormous shipments of food, medical supplies, and fuel from many nations, including some America had wronged, arriving daily in safe harbors north and south of the strike, and at international airports.
Chavez had sent an endless stream of tankers north to the Gulf ports in a continuous loop as an outpouring of sympathy from every nation in the Americas ensued. He made clear that the gratuitous shipments would not have been sent if anyone other than McKay had been in office, saying he was taking the president's statements of a clear change in direction of U.S. Foreign policy at his word. The first tanker fleet left Caracas and points east and west the same day that McKay had agreed to accept Cuba's assistance, an awkward reversal of the direction of assistance for a formerly smug U.S. McKay did not know that, had he not accepted Cuba's offer to send medical personnel for which it is internationally recognized, the massive shipments of free oil would never have occurred.
So many flights containing supplies, even from Germany and France, were arriving that air traffic controllers were hard pressed to contain the traffic, diverting increasing numbers to airports which, though not international, had facilities and air strips of sufficient length for safe takeoffs and landings. Air Force bases were playing the largest role.
In addition to the anticipated problems, unanticipated problems could attain staggering proportions, sometimes requiring hours to confront. For instance, McKay had appointed a new Postmaster General, given him a motivating directive, and assured him he would be available. Within forty-eight hours the new appointee was back, and had brought two other postal officials with him. Having so recently appointed him, McKay agreed to meet in conference with them personally.
“Mr. President, we have a growing crisis and our current resources are inadequate.”
“What’s the crisis?” McKay asked.
“Returned mail. Not just returned, but undeliverable. Fifteen percent of the mail volume is affected.”
“I thought that mail in the affected zip codes was being withheld. I discussed that with Secretary Wolfson and Hayes.”
“We are holding government checks that would normally be sent to those zip codes, but with the broadened areas where rioting and overwhelming numbers of the population are arriving, we can’t get general mail delivery into that entire region of the country. Worse, our storage capacity is at maximum and we have no way to deal with more.”
“Why would anyone send mail to the northeast, knowing as they do that there’s no service there? It must be obvious to all that it can’t be delivered.”
“The normal mail load has slowed dramatically; it’s automatically sent mail, including millions of government checks sorted by zip code that keep coming to us even though we’ve circulated requests to hold them. No one knows who’s alive, whether they have survivors living. It needs to stop, but we’re told that the President insists that checks must reach recipients around the perimeter to prevent a panic among those who are dependent upon government support. But where in the perimeter? It’s huge. And who knows which way any given survivor decided to go or if they are even alive?”
“That is a problem. When people reach the front, they need and want their checks. We have to be able to get them in their hands quickly. It seems they need to be in the postal system so they can be routed to them. What do you suggest? They’re sorted by zip code. Can’t they just find the appropriate zip code and locate their check that way, then forward it to their new location?”
“Mr. President, there aren’t enough hands in the postal service to look through an entire zip code if someone made such a request. The handling is done within each region by local employees. But, as you see, there are no functioning employees there.”
“On the other hand, your national load must be considerably reduced everywhere else because no mail is coming from there. There should be some slack in the system you could draw upon to address these problems.”
“Any slack is distributed evenly across the country, but the undeliverable mail is concentrated in only a few states. We can’t move personnel from other areas, because we need the employees to serve those areas. It’s as simple as that.”
“How are FedEx and UPS dealing with the same problem? Have you consulted with them?”
“Yes, we have, but though our Express Mail service competes with them, most of their load is concentrated in overnight or two-day delivery. Further, they return any undeliverable package immediately. It’s not in their system taking up space. The bulk of our load is individual letters and bulk-mailed items”
“Why can’t they just be returned? That moves the problem out of the postal service and addresses the storage issue.”
“That’s what we’re doing. That’s also why there’s much less ‘slack in the system’ than you might think. But the sorted mail is delivered to us already pre-sorted. We don’t pick it up.”
“So what this boils down to is that you’re holding crates of pre-sorted mail that someone is refusing to pick up?”
“That, and receiving more every day. The argument is that soon, order will be restored, everyone will go home, and we’ll be able to deliver it, which of course is ridiculous. I wouldn’t go back into that area. Most people probably won’t.”
“I recognize and agree with that part of your assessment.”
“We’ve tried to work this out with your people, but they argue that the checks are printed by huge contractors. Those contractors employ thousands of people, perhaps tens of thousands of jobs are indirectly impacted. If they tell their clients they can’t give the checks to the Postal Service, it could mean thousands of layoffs because their workforce would have to be reduced accordingly, and they say they’re under a Federal directive not to take any actions that would impact the economy adversely. That’s why we’ve come to you.”
“So many unforeseen problems no one planned for.” McKay lamented.
“Homeland Security never addressed the practical human and logistical problems that would arise in the aftermath of the big one. What it boils down to, Mr. President, is how to comply with your directive not to adversely impact the economy and simultaneously deal with millions of pieces of undeliverable mail. It’s increasingly evident that when people demand their checks, we won’t be able to find them, not in anything approaching a timely manner.”
McKay felt dismayed.
“Gentlemen, we can’t run from problems. We have to address them, not reactively, but pro-actively.”
“It’s late in the game for that, Mr. President. We’re getting thousands of requests every day as more and more people reach stable areas. They’re demanding their checks. It’s their only means of sustenance.”
“What could I do that would make it possible for you to handle the problem internally?”
“Eliminating the option of returning the mail.”
“Yes. You figure it out and get back to me. And instead of bringing me the problem next time, bring me the solution. Be creative. Try to solve your problem by tying it to the solution of some other problem. Then, you solve two!”
McKay just shook his head as he returned to his office.
Not hearing again from his embarrassed appointee, he sent an aid two weeks later to inquire if the problem had been addressed, or just been allowed to fester. The next day, the aid returned reporting that the problem had been dealt with.
“Did he say how they dealt with it?” McKay replied, curious at the response.
“They decided to set up warehouses in each state and ship the mail for each state to that facility. Each could be staffed with employees for each zip code or group of zip codes. When a request comes in, it could be forwarded to the respective facility and the individual to which that zip code was assigned could physically sort through each piece of mail, locate the item, and put it back into the postal system for forwarding to wherever the person making the request is now located. There are hundreds of zip codes in the Dead Zone.”
“Dead Zone?”
“That’s what they call the blackout areas, those ten states.; it's appropo”
“That sounds workable. It would also create jobs.”
“Actually, it created little new payroll.”
“How so?”
“They talked to the Governors. The governors solved the problem collectively.”
“The governors of ten states agreed on something that quickly? What was the solution? I can hardly wait to hear it.”
“They involved the prison system. They agreed to cut sentences by one day for each day worked. Apparently, they want to clear out the non-violent prison populations, especially those that whose sentences were NADNARA-related. Something about your having said to tie the solution to solving an unrelated problem.”
“Well I’ll be damned!” McKay smiled.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Coin of the Realm

“Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each one of us
can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all
those acts will be written the history of this generation.
- Robert F. Kennedy


McKay sat troubled, ruminating. Evaluating the many Executive orders of past weeks, he understood for the first time, to a degree at least, how economic collapse and the intense suffering of tens of millions of Americans had led to the expansion of the Federal Government. So many problems, it seemed, could be alleviated or mitigated only by more Federal dollars. For years, he had condemned Roosevelt’s socialist policies and programs. It all had seemed so simple from the outside as an Independent. Now, he suspected there was a good reason why Roosevelt’s image was stamped into every Roosevelt dime. He remembered Framingham quoting Cicero, ‘In time of war, the law falls silent.’
This was a similar time. A citizen whose family is suffering cares little for constitutional limitations of the Federal government's power and authority. They want food for their family and a roof over their heads. They want security for those they love. Discussions based solely on ideology are fine on a full stomach, but matter little to the hungry, the unemployed, or the disenfranchised. He understood, and the cognition was discomfiting. Regardless of one’s political persuasion, with unemployment at twenty-five percent, could Roosevelt be legitimately blamed for creating the Civilian Conservation Corps, the CCC camps, paying young men a dollar a day and all they could eat to build State parks, roads, and complete other projects on the basis that $25 of their $30 monthly check would be sent home to their ailing parents? Many of his father’s generation had been in the CCC. Could Roosevelt be blamed for creating Social Security, providing a minimum standard of living for the aged and infirm? He couldn’t have known that decades later, a spendthrift congress would loot the Trust fund by making the system Pay as you Go, dooming it to the threat of extinction just as the Baby Boomers reached retirement age. That wasn’t the intent of the New Deal. The Trust fund would have sustained the program until the fourth millennium if it hadn’t been pilfered, if it had been left to grow by the magic of compound interest as the Roosevelt administration envisioned.
To avoid future calamities, something had to be done. The late Washington crowd had evolved into a de facto aristocracy with a demented view of the use of power. Now there was a chance, however brief, for McKay’s administration to restore certain constitutional fundamentals, to regain and preserve long-term, social and economic stability. It was too late for most options that might have worked had they been employed earlier. Government avarice and the paternal contempt of politicians for their electorate had appropriated them. But McKay felt there must still be an Ace or two hidden somewhere in the deck. Rising, he yawned and stretched. He was yawning a lot these days; then he walked down the hall for the meeting Wolfson had requested, entering his office.
“Good afternoon, Samuel,” he said upon entering. “Don’t get up.”
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. President. I was just about to come to you.”
“Wilson.”
“Wilson,” Wolfson amended.
McKay sat back in the comfortable chair nearest Wolfson’s desk. He needed all the comfort he could get.
“So, what’s this breakthrough idea of yours that will . . . how was it you put it? ‘Result in a decade of prosperity for all Americans?’”
“You remember when you campaigned for the congress, your platform contained several Pillars of Change?”
“How could I forget? I wasn’t talking about ‘change’ in the rhetorical sense.”
“I know that, Wilson. Rhetorical politicians are like the Shit men an Egyptian Tour Director once described to me during a vacation to Egypt. I was still in Cairo, before I traveled south to the Aswan Dam the Soviets had built. The Tour driver was late picking me up outside the hotel one morning, so I took a local taxi to the Egyptian Museum. The Director met me as I was counting out $30 for the ride, interrupting payment. After a vicious exchange with the cabbie, who eventually settled for a fare of only six dollars, he told me that the driver was a “Shit man,” an Egyptian term for self-serving men devoid of scruples or shame, who ripped off anyone they could. That’s an appropriate term for a number of politicians I’ve known.”
“The thing is, I’m not a Crap man. The Pillars of Change were genuine; they didn’t evolve, fade, or become forgotten after my election to congress.”
“One of the your most urgent was the Pillar of Fiscal Change to return Washington to a responsible financial center. I recall the debate during which you introduced it. You wanted to brake inflation by slowing growth of the federal debt.”
”Too bad no one was interested. Look where we are now! Our currency looks like toilet paper outside the country compared to the Euro and especially compared to the Arabian Dinar.”
“Yes, and I’ve been thinking about that a lot, looking for the Ace left in the deck, as you said. It paid off.”
“It did, did it?”
“How would you like to reverse inflation and correct Roosevelt’s swindle of the American people.”
“Which swindle are you referring to? I’ve felt I walked in Roosevelt’s shoes often lately. Whatever my political ideology, I can’t let innocent civilians languish any more than he could. I can’t abandon the suffering to despair or leave the sick untreated. I’m an Independent to my bones, but I’m not a monster.”
“Of course not. You’re an engineer. Have you had a change of heart about socialism?”
“Don’t give me that look. Being an Independent has never meant ditching the poor to die in the streets to me. It’s an ideological stance. It simply means that I as an Independent believe there should be a different way of addressing problems. It doesn’t mean I think they should remain unaddressed, that people have no value, don’t matter, and should be left to whatever cruel consequences befall them. That's hypocrisy at its worst.”
“I don’t think anyone would ever assume you did. You care, and I believe you have walked in Roosevelt’s moccasins and will continue to do so more than any president since Roosevelt. How would you like to walk in them again in one sense, but correct a swindle in another?”
“That’s the Ace you found?” McCay restrained the desire to laugh.
“Our currency is worthless, becoming more so by the day. The budget is beyond control. America is about to lose its position in history. We are practically insolvent, and insolvent, we can’t long be referred to as the Greatest Nation on Earth. We’ll just be a bigger Argentina, or another Brazil before they wised up. Now, our positions have reversed, almost across the board. At least they had the wisdom to engineer their own way out. We’ll have spent ourselves into oblivion, and soon.”
“It's already begun, like a steam roller rolling right over us, Mr. secretary. We're like the spare and the ball is headed straight for us. The other pins are already down. What a legacy to inherit in the aftermath of 7/29 of all times.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Too bad we didn’t wake up like New Zealand did before it was too late. I’ve had time to familiarize myself with our fiscal situation, Wilson. Since that first meeting we had, I took your challenge seriously. I’ve examined the mints, our metal stores, our debt structure . . . I know how it all works, or is supposed to work anyway. The Bipartisans have left us in serious trouble. However, as you instructed, I’ve been searching for ‘creative’ solutions.”
“I would prefer that my administration not go down in history with me as a copycat, Independent Roosevelt. That’s not how I want to be remembered.”
“If you have some time, as I said, I have been thinking creatively. And you will be anything but a Roosevelt, even though you’ve been forced to share some of his sentiments, and I admire you for your flexibility. There's a time for everything, and a season. Now is not the time to abandon our own people, especially the lowest sectors, to the horrors of oblivion.”
“I have all the time we need to come up with something.” McKay said. “It's those very concerns that are about to push me over the edge along with the economy. I've come up empty handed on my end. I'll stay here all day and all night if you've really found an Ace in the deck.”
“Then I’ll just say it straight out. I’ve conceptualized a program that will work if implemented - in its entirety, one that actually will result in a decade of prosperity for all Americans. May we move into the next room where I’ve been working?”
“I’d move to the next state to hear about that program!” They both laughed.
On the white board were three bullets:
Fiat currency
Domestic currency
NAFTA currency
“That’s an intriguing list.” McKay commented. “The way it’s written, it looks like a tiered system of currencies.“
”It is. Fiat currency is our present dollar, based upon nothing but the promise of the government to honor it. It’s trading presently for about as much as a Mexican Peso, less than a third the value of an Argentine Real because that ‘promise’ has been outrageously bridged.”
“What’s the Domestic currency you’re showing?”
“A proposed currency backed by gold, but it would be legal tender only within the territorial U.S. and its possessions. We would not recognize it as foreign exchange.”
“And the NAFTA currency?”
“NAFTA currency is a proposed currency backed by silver, also legal tender within the territorial U.S. and its possessions, but intended for trade with Mexico, Canada, and our other NAFTA partners who agree to put their own silver behind it as well. We’ve been weakened by the nuclear attack. We need close bonds to those nations nearest us, especially Mexico, Canada, and Cuba.”
“We’ve talked about Cuba before. The assistance of their medical personnel continues to be welcome. I’d be willing to lift the embargo, not in return for bribe as their help would be viewed, but if it plays into this program of yours.”
“Because of that stupid, senseless embargo, we’re sending wealth to China while Cuba’s sitting ninety miles offshore starving. How intelligent can that be when our balance of trade with China was almost a trillion dollars negatively annually before the strike? The Monroe Doctrine should cut both ways. We can’t abandon our hemisphere. A trillion dollars spread throughout NAFTA would have strengthened our position in virtually every economic respect I’ve reviewed. Kennedy fucked up big time and paid for it with his life. He should have listened to his father. Instead of reversing it, Nixon set in motion the guaranteed rise of the most populace nation on earth to the most economically powerful as well. Now look where we are. They own us hook, line, and sinker. They buy ever bond issue. Their strategy is so obvious, a kid should have been able to see it coming. It's appalling how downright stupid a great nation can be.”
“Go on.”
“Like Domestic currency, NAFTA currency has a limitation: For our part, it is legal tender only within the territorial U.S. and its possessions, and within NAFTA. We wouldn’t recognize it as foreign exchange from other nations, though it would be provident to extend its orbit to include economies inextricably linked to the U.S., such as the Philippines. The point is, as I’ve structured it, it flows out, but it must also flow back, because the only nations that can redeem it would be our NAFTA partners, and that means most of their trade profits will be spent for products and services provided in this hemisphere, especially by the United States, once we recover from the setback of 7/29.”
“If we ever do. I admit Samuel, this sounds like a fecund idea, except for the Domestic dollar. We may have the silver to back a NAFTA currency with everyone else pitching in, but our gold reserves wouldn’t begin to support a Domestic Dollar.”
“So, it would appear–that’s why the Ace is still in the deck–but hear me out, Mr. President. I know how to make it work!”
“Very well. I’m all ears.”
Our Balance of Trade is off because most of what we spend or invest overseas doesn’t find its way back. Free trade always sounded like a good idea, but as structured, it lost American jobs and allowed nations of dubious kinship, including many who we are now learning were fair-weather friends, to exploit the U.S. economy without a quid pro quo. It’s ideologically sound if the playing field is fair, but it hasn’t been. I'm not talking about gratuitous trade with the lowest tier of nations. That's as it should be, and frankly, that's where most of it should have gone. We made a good start, but then blew it. The Drawback program with Costa Rica example, and I'd probably have to include India, but China en mass involving the entire transfer of our manufacturing sector and the decimation of the unions was a horrible mistake. It's one thing to talk about retraining where the younger generation is concerned, as long as you follow through, but shutting down the steel and other backbone industries, stranding so many others without serious interim support has been progressively ruinous. Too much too quick. So far, the New American Century hasn’t been as the former Washington crowd envisioned. They left us on the short end of a very long stick.”
“It’s true we can’t shut the world out.”
“No, but for the indefinite future, one of the chicks has to go, or they’ll both starve in the nest. The principal is as old as nature. Economically, we must attenuate our World view to a Hemispheric view if we intend to survive. As I see it, a strong, unified, Western Hemisphere is not only the ultimate solution, but the only solution, the ultimate security.”
“If you’re saying we should support the fiat dollar until circulation of the Domestic and NAFTA currencies become sufficient to phase it out, then the world-at-large be damned, that’s just an indirect way of defaulting on our national debt, as you surely recognize. It would never fly.”
“Our first goal as Independents was always first to preserve America and the American way of life by shunning partisan politics and walking wiser fiscal paths. We don’t have to sell that philosophy on this side of the world, because every nation here already espouses democracy and already gotten burned trying to mimic our fiscal irresponsibility. They got in trouble sooner because their economies are smaller, but everyone from Canada to the Falkland Islands knows the tricks. Everyone who walks on two legs in this hemisphere has already been victimized. Inexplicably, we’ve tolerated a policy of economically boosting alliances worldwide, while trying to keep our nearest neighbors from crossing the border. A few more good choices and better use of our influence could by now have built Latin economies just as easily as sending our manufacturing overseas has built up China, but many nations, those closest to us who most agree with our ideals, we . . . to be frank, have been fucked over. Pardon my French. Meanwhile, the Euro has become the standard while we pissed away our strength in an unethical quest to control the world’s oil supply and snubbed our diplomatic nose at the Palestinians. If you take out those factors, there would be no terrorist threat, nor would there be any rational justification for ignoring our ideological friends at home while enriching ideological enemies abroad.”
“That’s very well put, Samuel. Passionate. You’re preaching to the choir. Believe me, if we had the gold, or even enough gold and silver combined, to back it, I’d be ready to support supplanting of the dollar now, but we don’t. We couldn’t come up with enough gold to back a nickel on the dollar!”
“As I said, not true, Wilson! Nor is it true we would default on our debt.”
“How do you figure?”
“We can easily switch to a gold-backed domestic dollar if it’s just that: For domestic circulation only. As for a silver-backed NAFTA currency, Europe has already gotten the jump on us. It’s no different than Britain having the British Pound and the Euro. The Euro competes with the dollar. It’s a regional currency, and the weaker the dollar becomes, the more the Euro becomes the new standard. A three-tiered currency structure will certainly chap some asses! It won’t win friends and influence people abroad, but it can heal us at home, and most of what I’m proposing is being done abroad in one form or another. Oil traded in dollars when the Dinar and Franc, even the pound, were far more secure currencies, let alone the Yen. ”
“You realize that there would be two immediate effects: The dollar would plummet and a Black Market for the Domestic and NAFTA currencies would develop offshore, especially for the NAFTA currency.” McKay said. “It would effectively devalue the dollar too, in the worst sense.”
“The Arab shift to their own gold-backed Dinar as the basis for pricing oil has already achieved that, not to mention the impact of the nuclear strike. In case you haven’t noticed the practically worthless dollar has exacerbated a virtual trade embargo with us excepting China, and to some extent, India, especially for oil. If it weren’t for Canada, Mexico, and Venezuela, another big mistake your predecessors have exacerbated, we’d be on foot, even after losing much of the enormous regional demand in the northeast.”
“There are other issues we’re facing too, though. The principal source of cobalt for our nuclear industry is Russia. The cost of those products and commodities we have no choice but to import will skyrocket beyond reason.”
“Let’s not get bogged down in political or economic parallax for the moment. They can be addressed in other ways, such as conditional exception from NAFTA restrictions. They aren’t significant enough to impact the new currency programs.”
“Okay, go farther: How much gold bullion does the Treasury control?”
“Total, as in total ounces–everything?” Wolfson asked.
“Every ounce.”
“More than 260 million ounces, excluding coins.”
“How about silver?”
“I can’t give you that figure off the tip of my tongue, but we have an abundance of silver . . . pulled out of our coinage after ‘65.”
“Is it possibly enough?”
“It is if we use the gold to back only the new, Domestic currency, and the silver to back a NAFTA currency. These two moves would be the first steps on the road back to a real Dollar. The first step must be to stabilize the nation by using the gold to prevent a total economic collapse. It’s well-underway as you know and will continue to deepen.”
“Okay . . . and which mints could convert the gold to coinage most readily?”
“Denver certainly, not Philedelphia anymore. We’ve been minting Gold and Silver Eagles for years. It wouldn’t be much trouble to mint $20 dollar gold coins.”
“The Eagles are collectibles. The gold content is pitifully beneath their cost. They couldn’t begin to serve as a valid, backed currency.”
“I’m talking about a Twenty-dollar gold coin that contains ten dollars in actual gold content. That anticipates a doubling of the spot price for gold during the life of the coin before it reaches full face value.”
“If they contained even fifty percent of the face value in gold, they’d still just be collectibles, wouldn’t they?”
“Not if we struck them with the pre-1933 Double Eagle design . . . just change the mint date. The value of gold is so much higher now.”
“Indeed, the coins would be wafer thin!” McKay laughed. If you happen to lose grip, it would blow away in a slight breeze!
“Very funny, Wilson. I don't think you're listening.”
“Sorry, I had to take that shot. Go ahead, I'll keep my mouth shut.” They laughed till it hurt.
“They won't be wafer thin if they’re alloyed with sufficient base metal–nickel, or copper, to maintain the old Double Eagle’s former size.”
“How you intend to use the gold to back a new, domestic currency if you mint coins and use them as currency.”
“When we backed the dollar with gold, the dollar could come back from anywhere in the world and we had to hand over a dollar’s worth of gold. The gold was kept locked in Fort Knox until then. That’s what ‘backing’ means. The Domestic currency would work exactly the same way. If they request gold for the paper Domestic dollar, they get it . . . in gold coins.”
“Of course, but . . . sorry, go ahead.“
”If the coins are in circulation and a citizen presents a Domestic Twenty-dollar bill to the bank, the bank will exchange it for a $20 Double Eagle gold coin. The currency is thus backed by the gold. The citizen is receiving gold for paper of equal value.”
“That’s a new concept; Exchange within the system, but not from without.”
“The Domestic currency is legal tender only within the U.S. It’s the citizens, not a foreign power, demanding precious metal for its paper counterpart. If we print no more Domestic Dollars than there are gold coins in circulation to back them, we maintain perfect parity between the quantity of paper and the quantity of coinage. The limitation on printing no more paper currency than the total coinage in circulation would have to be enforced by law. For the short term, that means an Executive Order.”
“It also reigns in the Federal Reserve. They can control interest rates, but not degrade the currency by printing bales of unbacked paper money., not domestic paper money”
“Exactly! The government can’t steal from the public by sleight of hand. Initially, automobiles got cheaper every year instead of more expensive. That’s what happens with a backed currency. Inflation grinds to a halt.”
“Samuel, that would be a brilliant idea if only we had enough gold to make it work!” McKay said. “But it seems a futile gesture.”
Wolfson stood and began pacing about the room with his hands thrust as deeply into his pockets as his mind was in thought.
“The genius,” he replied, “is that you are only including half the coin’s face value in gold when it’s minted. That effectively doubles the total face value of the coinage that can be produced from our 261 million ounces. Up it goes to 522 million ounces effectively.” He pulled out his calculator, vigorously punching numbers. “That’s 208 billion dollars in coinage! Then, you issue an equal quantity of Domestic paper currency backed by the gold, literally backed, just as truly as if it were still in Fort Knox, except the gold and the paper are both in circulation. That doubles the hard money in circulation a second time, Wilson. That’s the same quantity of hard currency as if we had a billion ounces of gold in Fort Knox backing the current dollar. It’s a new twist, but it would result in a stable currency. It’s unique. It’s the one Ace in the financial deck that the Bipartisans couldn’t see, so they couldn’t play it.”
“I’d prefer to see it stored in the pockets of the people, than in Fort Knox.” McKay said. “It is their gold. We don’t have enough to make a dent in all the Fiat dollars we’ve got piled around the world, but you’re correct that we have to start somewhere. It may as well be at home. We have to get a handle on our options.”
“Roosevelt made them turn it in. Now you can give it back. We could begin within a month or two. Completion would depend upon how many coins we produced. But I can’t do anything without an Executive Order.”
McKay fell silent, nervously rubbing his chin.
“Of course, it would end up in the hands of those Americans holding the most Fiat currency, not to mention smuggling offshore currency in. How do we resolve that one?”
“No, no, no! I’m not talking about creating an exchange rate for turning in Fiat currency for Domestic currency at the bank. You’re right. Those who need it most will be just as badly off as before. We do it in a way that transfers wealth down the social ladder, not up. And it won’t violate our Independent principles. I’m not talking about redistribution of wealth by robbing those in the upper Middle class and above. What I’ve come up with is a way to jump-start the economy by inducing consumers to begin spending again. They’re hoarding their wealth now for fear of even greater economic shocks. Short-term gimmicks won’t fly. What I’m proposing is real, immediate, and long-term.”
“I guess I really don't get it. You’ve energized me, so let’s suspend my disbelief for now. If I issued an order to remake the old, $20 Double Eagles and we struck the new coins with sufficient base metal to make their intrinsic value equal to half the face value, how many coins would that amount to?”
“Gold’s running more than $800 per ounce, and now it’s going to continue to climb higher, much higher. Using $1600 for a base reference point, that’s forty coins per ounce at full value, eighty coins at half-value, and the coins contain real gold. They have intrinsic value.”
“Are there unforeseen snags” Do we owe the gold in Fort Knox to anyone?”
“We’ve been off the Gold standard since Roosevelt; gold performs no function. When the spot price for gold begins surging because irresponsible governments are printing too much paper, central banks start selling gold to force the price back down and maintain confidence in their paper currencies. However, we normally don’t. In actual fact, we owe it to no one.”
“We have this great trove of value sitting in vaults and it belongs only to the American people?”
“Indeed, Sir, it does, and it’s doing nothing for anyone, presently.”
“You said eighty coins per ounce.“
“We could mint more than twenty billion Twenty-dollar coins if we struck every ounce. That’s about one hundred, forty coins for every adult in America, enough to function as coinage backing an equal value of paper currency . . . Gold-backed, Domestic Dollars! Of course, the Double Eagle is the largest coin, a twenty-dollar gold piece. We would also be minting ten-dollar gold pieces, and restore silver content to one-dollar coins and quarters, dimes, and nickels. So there would be far more than one hundred, forty coins per person; more like two hundred, eighty, not to mention the silver coinage.”
McKay dropped into thought as Wolfson continued to pace.
“And how do we perform the magic feat of preventing the gold from going to people in accordance with their present wealth?”
“We give the coins back to the public, literally, the same number to every citizen!”
“Give them to them; equally?”
“It is their gold, Mr. President. I can’t imagine a time in the history of this nation when they needed it as much as now, except for when Roosevelt took it, and you see where that led.”
“What about generating a second benefit at the same time. Restoring participation and confidence in government. If we gave the coins only to registered voters, how much would each get?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to compare it with voter registration lists.”
“Hazard a guess.”
“Why, every eligible person in the country would register if they were going to get free gold coins.”
“That’s exactly what I mean! We just agreed it’s their gold. When they surrendered it to the government, it was under threat of imprisonment if they refused. What did Roosevelt give them? He gave them paper money for it. Then, as soon as the government had the public’s gold, it started printing more paper than the gold they had to back it, making the paper money worth less and less. The American people were robbed. There are many benefits that can accrue to the people and the nation if we do this the right way.”
“As I conceive the program, we give the gold back to them without requiring the surrender of an equal quantity of Fiat currency, but not all at once. We send a certain number of coins each month. Initially, the present Fiat dollar would still be the principal currency. The mere existence of the new paper Domestic dollar would be inflationary as hell, the opposite effect of a hard currency. So we wait to print the paper until most of the coinage is in circulation and don't even hint that there will be a paper currency.”
“What’s the benefit of that? Give me the numbers, then we’ll talk about why I don’t believe it would be inflationary.” McKay said.
“Presuming for purposes of argument 80 million registered voters–you know everyone would rush out and register–that’s 250 coins apiece, $5,000 in face value; eight times more than George W. Bush handed out in his first tax rebate. It was popular with the people.”
McKay smiled. “Regarding your concern for inflation,” he said, “ . . . at least for the foreseeable future, I think most people would hold onto them, not even put them into circulation. As you point out, we’d still be using the old dollar. They would regard the coins as precious. I hear people all the time making statements about wishing they could afford to buy some gold coins. Here’s their chance and they don't even have to buy them. Imagine you’re a poor person living in Mississippi and the government sends you a shiny new $20 Double Eagle coin. Would you part with it . . . give it to someone for one of our present twenty-dollar bills?”
“Hell, no, I wouldn’t even consider it. Neither would they.”
“Then, it’s locked up as tightly as if it was in Fort Knox.”
“But the poor would sell them if someone offered them enough for them, several times the face value in current dollars. For the right price, desperate people will sell. They’ll sell anything.” Wolfson said. “They wouldn’t spend it, because spent, it’s only worth face value. It’s only worth twenty dollars. But they’d sure as hell sell it. It would provide the cash for a trip to the grocery store, or to pay the rent, or to make a payment and save the car.”
Wolfson continued strutting about the room.
“Samuel, you’ve really hit on something. Not only do we have enough gold to back a Domestic Dollar, when you add the collectible benefit, we’re giving them that much more. This could be stunning, especially while that effect lasted.”
“One of the old Double-Eagles can be worth twenty times the face value to collectors, and there aren’t many available.” Wolfson replied.
“You see how that would benefit the poor.” McKay said, “The government sends them a gold coin and someone offers them $100 cash, perhaps $200, for it. You’re right. We don’t print the Domestic dollars, because that generates an exchange rate. If someone wants to buy a coin, it’s at many multiples of face value in old dollars. If we release them gradually, that could make a real difference in a low income family’s budget. If they received a coin every month and sold it for many times face value, it would definitely help the lower classes. The upper classes would in effect enrich them by giving them much more than the coin was worth just to get their hands on the gold coins.”
“Imagine the effect if they got three coins every month. At that rate, it would take about four years to put out all the coins, during which no paper currency is mentioned. The knowledge that we are by stealth about to create one won't exist. Thus, no criticisms at home or abroad. It just looks like a desperate administration in desperate times. The biggest fear will be that the program will be halted, increasing the fervor for the well-off to acquire as many of them as possible at extraordinary fiat dollar purchase prices from the less well-off.”
“And all they have to do to remain qualified is register to vote and then actually vote. If they don’t vote, they’re dropped from the . . . it could be called the Gold Rebate Program.” McKay said.
Silence.
“You know, Samuel, if we did it that way, we wouldn’t have to alert the international community to the existence of a new currency, not at first. You're absolutely dead correct. The coins just say, ‘Twenty Dollars,’ and a pre-1933 design at that. Their no different than our Gold Eagles being in circulation. Yet as you point out, they’ll get much, much more than that for them. No foreigner can object to giving American gold to Americans. Nor do we prevent foreigners from purchasing them until we introduce the Domestic dollar, because they won’t anyway when there’s only half the current dollar value of gold in them. And if they did, so what? The fiat currency is flowing the other way . . . our way at an incredibly devalued rate that they themselves are setting. You're a true genius, Samuel. That's not flattery. There are plenty of gold coins from other countries on the market that can be bought at par. Yet at home, Americans would purchase them as collectibles.”
“And as we approach exhaustion of our metal stores, say a year before they run out,” Wolfson pointed out, “then we announce the issuance of the Domestic dollar and limit it’s convertibility to Domestic coinage by linking it to the coinage. It’s paper of course, but backed by the coins issued under the Gold Rebate Program . . . “
” . . . and exchange paper Domestic dollars for regular dollars at that time.” McKay was standing as well, now, pacing with Samuel. They looked like two men playing Musical chairs.
“If we pick the right moment, wait until the price of the coins on the market has topped out, say a 20:1 ratio, we could cover all the Fiat dollars in the hands of the public and no one would be unhappy along the way. A decade of prosperity for all Americans.”
“I like it,” McKay said, “Especially because until the coins become numerous enough to begin functioning as domestic currency, anyone willing to sell could get many multiples of face at a time they need it most.”
“And you could increase that effect markedly in a number of ways.”
“How?” McKay asked.
“First, if they’re released over a few years as we’ve said, maintaining relative scarcity. Secondly, by striking half the bullion in $5 and $10 Eagles, rather than all twenties.”
“To make them more serviceable?”
“It would have that effect eventually, but that’s not my reason. Even in the rare coin market, two $10 coins sell for more added together than a single $20 coin.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yes! And four $5 coins bring more than two $10 coins.”
“I’m sold. Put the details together and I’ll issue the Executive order. At this moment, no one will attack giving the gold back to the public.”
“We’re all in the same boat. Besides, it’s just the opposite of what Roosevelt did, so it will silence some of the critics pissed that you’ve handed out so much Federal money.”
“Roosevelt didn’t have it to give them.”
“How ironic! Without realizing it, when he took the public’s gold, he created an opportunity for us to resolve another monetary crisis later by giving it back!”
“The timing is perfect, because the affluent have been hoarding gold as the dollar has fallen in value. The gold coins minted by other countries available at par will soon vanish now that the Arabian Dinar has become the standard for pricing oil. The speculative market will develop quickly, overnight. Initial fears the program might be discontinued and the scarcity of the new coins will draw down a tremendous amount of capital from the wealthy to the poor to entice their coins away. This will put a lot of cash into the pockets of those who need it most, those who have the least discretionary income.”
“And the staggering number of citizens presently unemployed,” McKay said. “It will bail them out because it’s unearned! That's another point. No taxes. We don't even go after or ask how much anyone got if they did decide to sell. If we taxed it, it could hardly be fairly termed a gold rebate.”
“Redistribution of wealth without a political price! The wealthy can’t condemn the coins going to the poor because they’re getting them as well. Further, none of it goes directly to business. It all goes into the pockets of consumers, and then ends up in cash registers in the economy.”
“Which will restart the economy, because the poor aren’t frugal. They’ll spend their newfound windfall, initially to survive, later to prosper, resulting in economic stimulation.”
“I just thought of another way to extend the life of the program. Require payment of taxes-in-kind by mining companies. If a mining company pays an ounce of gold for each $800 in taxes, based upon the present spot price for gold, that ounce would mint $1600 in additional coinage at 50% face value gold content–two for one–which in turn backs an additional $1600 in Domestic paper currency later. Thus, one $800 ounce of gold paid as taxes-in-kind eventually generates $3,200 in Domestic currency, all backed by gold! And there’s a quid pro quo to the mining companies: The very existence of a Gold Rebate program will stimulate the mining industry. And the same would apply to silver used to back the NAFTA currency.”
McKay hesitated.
“That one I’m still not convinced about.”
“Why not?”
“The quantity of silver necessary would be so large.”
“Hold on, Wilson. Remember, the NAFTA currency won’t just be backed by us. It will be backed by all participating NAFTA partners, all of whom mint their own, with only the content percentage certified according to inclusion in the program. No one has more silver than Mexico. It’s been their strength since the days of the Spanish Conquest. Of course, you’d have to sell the program to President Morales, but the increased trade you’d be handing him, trade currently centered with China, would elevate Mexico’s economy to the level of our own, even though it's rampant with corruption, because the money would go principally in cross-border exchange to business. The role of government is to have it available, including us. Silver certificates would come back, undoing their destruction and replacement by Federal Reserve notes. If we get this in place, subsequent presidents will be powerless to play with it, because it becomes a matter of law and requires ratification by NAFTA partners. That's easy enough to put into law. The same would apply to Canada. It creates a stable currency with which to pay for Canadian oil and gas imports. They’ve been increasingly jittery as the Canadian Dollar has exchanged places with ours. I remember when it was only worth seventy cents. They’ll love a NAFTA currency. Mexico minted silver coins as a matter of history. I think they'd be delighted to do it again, because it gives them a leg up, actually two. I think a NAFTA currency is a shoe-in. Our dollar is going to really tank soon otherwise.”
“I see your point. Getting back to the Domestic Dollar, using a strategy that combines all of the effects you’ve enumerated, say for five years, am I right that we might be able to put around $30,000 in hard money behind every registered voter in the country before the bullion runs out?”
“That’s before we consider the speculative impact, Wilson! If they sell their coins, it will be many multiples of that, but produce deflation instead of inflation of the fiat dollar, because no new fiat currency is being printed with which to purchase the gold coins; that stops now, rather the opposite. It just increases the M1 currency in active circulation.”
“I’m recalling the Tulip Mania of the 1600’s. We might see something of the sort centered on the collectible value of the coins when the Rebate program first gets underway. That would increase the overall average far beyond $30,000. Hell, it could go to $100,000, even a quarter of a million. Don’t forget, you’ve got foreigners who’ll be trying to get their hands on those coins, not just rich Americans.”
“The rebate program will effectively devalue the dollar without any official action whatsoever, by their own hands, driving more foreigners into gold. That will drive up the price of gold farther and farther. It will generate a repeating cycle, but I don’t see a direct corollary with the Tulip Mania.”
“Think about it. The first Tulip roots weren’t brought to England till around 1600,” McKay said, “although the wealthy had been importing them at outlandish prices from Constantinople for decades. By 1634, a speculative market for the bulbs had grown hot in Holland, everyone vying to get their hands on them, especially the rarer ones, which is why I equate them with the Double Eagle coins. One root of a rare tulip, the ‘Viceroy’ variety, was worth as much as four fattened oxen. Think of it! One root of a tulip plant for four steers ready for slaughter! If that suggests anything, it suggests that the poor will benefit far more than by $30,000 over five years. By 1636, tulip bulbs were on the Amsterdam stock exchange, and the entire country went into a frenzy! Some made fortunes, others lost them.”
“All bubbles must eventually burst.”
“The market collapsed a year or two later. In the case of the Tulip Mania, everyone got involved, but in the case of speculation for Domestic Eagles, it would grow among the wealthy, and foreigners holding lots of Fiat dollars. At some point, it wouldn’t surprise me if they exchanged a thousand bucks for a single gold eagle. What else are they going to do with the current paper dollars when they’ll hardly accept them for oil?”
“The same group that purchases collectible coins for twenty times face-value right now, today!” Wolfson repeated. “That’s already $400 par for a $20 Eagle, but $800 in Domestic currency terms. And they won’t have thought it through. They’ll see the program as extremely short-lived and they’ll want to take America’s last trove of wealth. They’ll generate inflation until a single coin probably will cost $1000, perhaps much more. The higher it gets, the fewer fiat dollars will remain. When they're turned in, we let the M1 fall gradually. That’s when we issue the Domestic dollar: Just when the price for the fiat has peaked, but only Americans will be able to exchange their old dollars. The result will be a stable, gold-backed Domestic Dollar. The price for anything in old dollars will spiral until they become utterly worthless, nor will we have defaulted on our debt. It's the ones holding the dollars that will drive its value down.”
Wolfson again began punching his calculator furiously while Musical chairs continued.
“That would pump an average of more than sixteen billion per state into the national economy at face value. Not into the hands of the government, but into the hands of the people. That’s Independent ideology at its finest, because it’s neither a social program, nor does it increase the national debt! In fact, it will eventually erase it, without a default.”
“Imagine what that will do for future generations, and for those of this generation dependent upon Social Security. The depression conditions we’re experiencing will be reversed as the economy responds to the demand created by so much wealth injected into it, principally from different sectors of itself.” McKay said, enthused. “Real wealth from outside the federal budget!”
“But we must also have the NAFTA currency, or the market-driven devaluation of the existing currency will not boost exports, nor will we be able to achieve a Balance of Payments. Our NAFTA partners must be able to benefit from trade with us.”
McKay pondered Wolfson’s comments.
“The NAFTA currency was an afterthought, wasn’t it Samuel? After thinking it through, you realized we couldn’t buy from Canada and Mexico, far less Venezuela with fiat dollars while circulating a Domestic Dollar. It wouldn’t fly.”
“Something like that. You can’t have one without the other.”
”Every eligible voter will register and vote. Large flows of fiat currency will be outlaid to obtain their gold coins. That’s not inflationary–the same currency is circulating, and the coins won’t be. For an indefinite period, they’ll be a commodity, such as the tulip bulbs you mentioned. Eventually, as the price of gold approaches the face value of the coins, or they become more common, they’ll begin appearing in circulation, first the five and ten-dollar ones, later the twenty, but it will be gradual, not all at once.”
“I suspect a significant percentage will never see a cash register.” McKay said.
“Austrian economics defines inflation simply as an ‘increase in the money supply,’ but we won’t have increased it. We’ll have deflated it by releasing $200 billion in gold-backed Domestic dollar bills and removing many times that face-amount of fiat currency from circulation.”
McKay pondered Wolfson’s point. “That’s deflationary indeed!” He said, “Most importantly, John Q. Public will learn to appreciate the value of hard paper currency, versus the present graffiti circus. We need to get the people involved in government again, get them familiar with local issues. If they understand the democratic system as the Founding Fathers did in the beginning, the Gold Rebate Program will become more than a one-time economic boon to Americans. Over a four-year period, the entire adult population will be involved in the political process . . . two major elections, providing the foundation for a habit of involvement in government. We’ll see a return of the old fashioned, Town Hall meeting. You know Libertarians and Independents would love that. They can get the people’s ear. The Bipartisans would be forced to participate or lose their influence. Nothing exposes the truth such as a Town Hall debate: No staged audiences, no phony clapping, no skipping the tough questions or getting news anchors to blackball those who ask them. Politics as usual will take a real beating.”
The conversation was interrupted by a message: “Mr. President, Defense Secretary Lee is here for your meeting.”
“Thank you, Katherine. I’ll be with him momentarily.”
“Yes, Mr. president.”
“So we’re agreed, then,” Wolfson summarized, “Fifty percent intrinsic value to make melting unprofitable, a mixture of $5, $10, and $20 denominations, I provide you with designs within a week, and striking can begin.”
“That’s it.”
“And you’ll discuss the NAFTA currency with Morales and seriously consider including Canada?”
“You've made me aware there's no other way. We’ll talk next week about the NAFTA currency after I've spoken with our neighbors.” McKay promised, “I see where this will lead. There won't be a NAFTA currency very long?”
“Why the hell, not? Without it, the Domesic Dollar will never materialize, Wilson.”
McCay laughed.
“I don't mean it that way. What I see as inevitable is that the 'N' will soon be dropped. It will grow to include South American nations as well, the American Free Trade Agreement.”
Wolfson smiled, relieved.
“I suggest gold over base metal, rather than alloyed. They have the look of solid gold, but are simple to re-strike when and if the value of gold more than doubles. It makes melting off easy, but I'm not so sure that's not exactly what will benefit us the most. It will draw back billions, perhaps more annually, so we should make it easy, not difficult.”
“That will work.” McKay paused. “ . . . The Bipartisans will throw the Bretton Woods Agreement in our face, but as we’ve structured the Gold Rebate Program, the effect will be to pull more than an equivalent quantity of fiat currency out of circulation. And we don't say a word about the paper equivalent eventually planned.”
“Bretton Woods won’t be violated.” Wolfson assured McKay, “not in spirit or in fact. It's a sleight-of-hand, but in the wings, not proposed. There won't be anything reigning but a certainty in most quarters that the program will be a short-lived, desperate measure. That will just enhance the entire effect, I suspect immeasurably.”
“You’ve done well, Samuel. You did indeed identify a hidden resource as I asked. The Ace you found is a whopper. Let’s hope Secretary Lee has done the same. Keep me informed of your progress. As soon as you get with Framingham and structure the Executive order, I'll sign it . . . with a flair!”
McKay both dreaded and desired the anticipated meeting with his new Defense Secretary. So much of the nation’s wealth had been diverted to defense for so long, he feared it might be impossible to reverse the decades-long trend in the wake of a nuclear attack. He had determined to ask that as a general question at the beginning of his conference with Lee, his highly decorated choice for Secretary of Defense. Notwithstanding a long tenure at the Naval War College, his public statements when the U.S. occupation of Iraq had begun to unravel had convinced McKay that Lee wasn’t a rubber-stamp Hawk. To the contrary, he had acknowledged the accuracy of former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark’s indictment of the United States for war crimes committed during the first Bush administration. McKay’s message to him following his appointment had been the same as him message to Wolfson: “Find an Ace in the military deck, hidden resources we can use to keep our economy and social structure from collapsing farther.” Today’s meeting would reveal if Lee had been successful.
Lee began by showing McKay a chart which identified the principal streams into which military funds flowed and indicated his analysis of the percent of waste within each. McKay was horrified.
“This is much more egregious than even I imagined.” He said.
“Military funding has always been a game, Mr. President, only part of which was in public view. The term, Military-Industrial Complex was the extent of public focus, but since the candidates of both parties received lucrative campaign donations, the Bipartisans routinely approved defense budgets even larger than whoever was president at a given time requested; no exceptions. Greed is god when it comes to the defense budget.”
“Is this graphic showing foreign expenditures correctly?”
“It is. However, a large proportion of it is fixed; categories such as the Trident and other nuclear subs are included regardless of where they are at a given time.”
“This is so complex. How can one even decipher it all?”
“It hasn’t been easy. Belief me, I’ve pulled my hair out just getting this much together, and I’m still waiting for much of the information. When we lost the GAO, we lost what might have been a quicker, if not more accurate source of detail.”
“Your graph shows a twenty-percent drop in expenditures due to the nuclear attack.”
“The reason that percentage is so high is that enormous sums were expended in Washington, D.C. This ‘Consultant’ expense column is an example. A better word would be Lobbyist or Payoffs. Retired military officials were paid by both sides. We paid them consulting fees and the special interests paid them lobbying fees . . . Quite a racket.”
“I think Racketeering would be a more appropriate term!” McKay said. “In all this milieu, where are the vulnerable resources that can be redirected into our domestic economy? The destruction of the Capitol may constitute a de facto reduction in the Defense budget, but it doesn’t help us directly.”
“The Ace in the deck you instructed me to find is in the cost of maintaining bases abroad and the cost of stationing vessels and aircraft in foreign waters. If you brought most of that home, it would deliver quite a wallop to economic stimulation. There’s a segment of the population that thinks we should increase it, given the nuclear strike, but it’s an emotional response. We already dominate Afghanistan in theory. We need to increase the funding and troops devoted to destroying terrorist operations there, and we need to increase the funding of covert intelligence activities across the board, especially in Pakistan. Beyond that, there’s no identifiable ‘enemy’ to pursue. That leaves more than 90% of our foreign expenditures in the ‘Questionable’ category, unless we value the prosperity of foreign nations above the prosperity of our own.”
“Is this the only Ace?”
“The only one that won’t adversely impact the domestic economy. It’s very simple to shift those expenditures home and it’s a decision totally consistent with Independent philosophy, a decision you as President and Commander in Chief can make. It will redirect a hundred billion dollars into American pocketbooks. As you pointed out in our last conversation, neither Europe, nor any other area really needs our bases for protection. We seem to be the ones that need protection now. No one could argue otherwise without tongue-in-cheek. The cold war is long over. Nor do we need inflated troop counts all over the globe. With the Bipartisans out of power, you could shift defense dollars by recalling about ninety percent of our personnel and instructing me to move our mobile assets to U.S. ports and bases.”
“Unemployment rolls would explode if we recalled and released so many men. We can’t afford that politically.” McKay said, rubbing his chin.
“I’m not saying disband; that would be disastrous. Just move them . . . home. Then, their pay disbursements will be spent here instead of flowing into foreign economies.”
“It’s time. Everyone but America has benefited from this insanity.”
“The effect would be immediate and dramatic. Those dollars would turn over within our borders. Combined with the other actions you’ve taken to re-stimulate the economy, it would truly help in my opinion. You can easily justify it merely by the number of troops and the amount of equipment it would require to monitor two extremely long borders with both Canada and Mexico, and if quickly, the actual need to address the Dead Zone as it's come to be called. Later, as their enlistments expire, the armed forces can be gradually be returned to the civilian sector. In the interim, we can slow the foreign dollar drain significantly. We’d have to leave maintenance and Command personnel in place at some of our bases and ships in some overseas harbors. Beyond that, we can reduce the perceived threat our strategy of effective global conquest has created, and stem the surging ill will in those areas. You can be sure the ones we want to will see it as a formal departure related to your promise to change American foreign policy. In some cases, it will move enemies into the friends column. They don't want to be our enemy, but we've forced them into playing that role.”
“There will be forces of opposition, Admiral. The Bipartisans will definitely view this as a political move. They’ll raise the roof. We’ll need vigorous justification, need to put your voice and face in front of the nation when the Joint Chiefs get sticky, and they will.”
“As I have said in the past to all War College graduates, ‘Real changes aren’t about reason, they’re about power.’
“I can count on support from many, if not most of the governors. The people pay more attention to them than to Federal officials since the nuclear strike. The troop recall shifts federal dollars to the states. The governors will all favor that. If we begin slowly, gradually increasing the pace, we’ll be able to justify the redirection of resources in our present circumstances.”
“Play the game, Mr. President. Keep repeating that anyone who argues the defense of others is more important than our own has misplaced priorities. Remain on the offensive. Make the naysayers the targets for the media. But I disagree with gradual. Just don't announce it. Who could argue with a straight face we don't need many more troops to quell the rioting and virtual race wars and drug racketeering occurring in Northeast right now?”
“If we do it, what would be your logistical strategy and how quickly can it be accomplished?”
“We can begin by moving troops from the Middle East. No one wants us there anyway and the way they’re goading us with the price of oil, I don’t think you’ll hear much objection, even from the Bipartisans. The argument that we should keep our bases there to protect the very governments who are killing our economy and the dollar won’t hold water now. The same applies to bases tolerated but unwelcome in Asia, except for the Philippines.”
“Perhaps we could go as far as base closures in the most hostile of those areas, not just recalls.”
“I agree. The Persian Gulf is called that for a reason. We need to get the hell out of that entire area. Simultaneously, we can begin skimming ten to twenty percent of our troops stationed in other areas, such as Europe, without attracting much notice, then when the process is underway, accelerate the hell out of it. I'd begin with Germany, since they publicly humiliated us internationally after 4/23. I'd cut them by half immediately. What else would they expect after that?”
“At what point do you think foreign economies currently benefiting from dollars flowing into them will react?”
“Certainly before we shrink the numbers by half. At that point, we can expect all sorts of rationalizations why our troops should remain.”
“We can deal with that later. For now, we’ll use the recalls and shift of mobile assets home to benefit us economically, focusing the troop influx to those states with the most dismal economies.”
“Imagine, Mr. President, how directing a hundred billion military dollars to state and local coffers will stabilize the economy, how much business expansion will be stimulated to provide services to military operations and personnel. Troop recalls can be justified on that basis, since they are ‘needed to prevent more terrorist attacks. It's Independent and Libertarian in principle, returns economic power to the states, instead of extracting it. And if there was ever a time it was needed, it's now, in absolute terms. And that unarguably.”
“Particularly if we stimulate the most suppressed economies first.”
“I think you should make a highly public gesture first to soften and delay the opposition.”
“Such as?”
“I have an idea I think is both appropriate and can work to our advantage . . . “

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Briefing

Simmons felt uncomfortable, fearing that the briefing he had demanded with “someone close to the president” might have generated suspicion that he might perhaps be culpably involved in the militia base bombing. Still, he had held his ground.
“I’m a Military Intelligence officer, but I will not discuss what I know with any superior officer on the basis of rank. The information in my possession is far too sensitive to pass up a chain of command or release to a government agent. It should be on a need-to-know basis and it should be President McKay’s decision.” He had argued thus during his recovery. There had been angry responses, even threats, and a great deal of disgust due to his ‘stubborn’ stance.
Hearing Simmons had regained consciousness and that he refused to discuss the bombing with anyone except in the presence of the president, President McKay ordered that Simmons be flown to Las Vegas, electing to be the first to hear the information considered so sensitive. It was either as sensitive as Simmons maintained, or Simmons was a traitor as some were suggesting. In either case, McKay wanted to know.
Now, escorted to the Presidential Offices, an aide offered Simmons coffee.
“How do you like it?” She asked.
“Black, and would you put an ice cube in it?”
“Certainly, Colonel.”
“May I smoke?”
“Everyone else does.” She handed him an ash tray.
“I’m actually planning to quit,” he said, taking a pack of little menthol cigars from his shirt pocket. Of course he had actually restarted when for five months, he hadn’t had even one, but the initial exhilaration had quickly descended into the old habit.
“Me too. What kind of cigarettes are those?” She asked. “ I haven’t seen them before . . . Oh, they’re little cigars the size of cigarettes! How cute!”
“I’ve been using them to lower the nicotine level in my blood preparatory to quitting completely. It worked once before, but after awaking and recalling the ordeal at Ft. Benning, I started smoking again. It’s damn boring lying in a hospital bed unable to do anything. I felt like a vegetable. It took almost a month to recover my former strength, and it's still increasing.”
She placed an ornate, silver tray on the table beside him with coffee in a small pitcher and poured him a cup.
“I’ll be back with your cup of ice in a moment,” she said, smiling as she opened the door to leave. Simmons stood instantly, Senator Andrews and General Brody entering as she left.
“Gentlemen,” he said, saluting.
Brody returned the salute, then shook hands warmly.
“I’m overwhelmed to be in the same room with the two of you,” Simmons said. “General Brody, I haven’t had the opportunity of meeting you before, but I’m familiar with your record. Congratulations on your appointment. I know they couldn’t have picked a better man.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Colonel,” Brody said, “with the forbearance of Justice Framingham, the president issued an executive order appointing Senator Andrews as acting Vice-President. He’s been sworn.”
“Then congratulations to you as well, Mr. Vice-President. Frankly, I couldn't be more relieved. We've been on thin ice ever since 7/29.”
“It’s good to meet you, Colonel.” Andrews said. “I must say that you have us all intrigued if not stupefied with your insistence that you speak to someone ‘next to the president.’ I would have thought one of the Joint Chiefs would have sufficed, but as you see, I recommended that we accede to your request. Have a seat. Let’s break the ice.”
Andrews had been galvanized by the strange request, but didn’t suspect Simmons. He felt if anything, Simmons had a bombshell to drop, vital information that might enliven the stalled effort to identify the culprits responsible for 4/23 and probably 7/29 as well. The Israeli nuclear signature had everyone climbing the walls. They had, in effect, been misdirected and checkmated. Seeing Simmons sitting, his hands folded in his lap, legs uncrossed, the body language completely open, he continued.
“The president wanted General Brody present, as whatever you have to relate must be of considerable military import. Have you recovered from your injuries? You were banged up rather badly. You look good.”
“My chest still aches a bit occasionally, but I’m okay. I’m healed. The explosion compressed my lungs and knocked me unconscious, yet my ribs weren’t broken, only fractured. I had headaches almost constantly the first few days after regaining consciousness, but it’s been a while now. They tell me I’m recovered and I feel like I’m back. What I have to reveal is so vital and so sensitive that it couldn’t be related up a chain-of-command for reasons you’ll shortly understand. I appreciate the Marine contingent that accompanied us on the plane and the provision to have them stay with Kaye at the hotel.”
“Does Kaye approve of the accommodations?”
“She’s resting now, loves the suite.”
“How was your flight?”
“It was a thrill being in Air Force One. I felt I was getting more attention than I deserve.”
The aide returned with ice, accompanied by an assistant. Soon, every hand held a cup. Simmons reached for one of the delicate croissants. He grew uncomfortable with Brody’s eyes fixed upon him, studying him with uncertainty. None of them knew yet what to expect. The air was tense. He knew they half-suspected he might have been part of the operation and wanted to make a high-level deal. It sickened him, but how could he blame them? Everyone else involved who might have corroborated his statements was dead, even poor Potts.
“Can I begin, Mr. Vice President?”
“Yes, we’re eager.”
“I withheld the intelligence information in my possession because when I awoke, I gradually came to the realization that you had fallen victim to one of the most colossal cons in history. I, you, and almost everyone has been manipulated, played like puppets, made to dance for barbaric masters whose genius is as confounding as it is evil. I've never in my entire career been confronted by so perfectly organized and prepared an enemy. And they're still out there.”
“Whatever can you be referring to?” Brody inquired. His expression still had an air of doubt clearly not suppressed.
“You’ve been set up. You’re blaming the wrong targets for the base bombing and, I’m certain, the nuclear strike!”
Andrews arose and began pacing.
“The wrong targets? Our intelligence has been skimpy, but we know that al Qaeda operating from Afghanistan was responsible for the base bombing and we suspect they smuggled in the nuclear device that destroyed the Capitol.”
“I understand why you would believe that, but you’re the victim of misdirection. Not one, but several. There's a puppet master behind this that I only wish was on our side. I’ve been following the news. It’s true that some enemy nation was involved in the base bombing and the nuclear strike. The plutonium and technetium couldn’t have been obtained otherwise. But the masterminds behind this macabre scheme weren’t Afghans and they must have been al Qaeda or a group sympathetic to them. Al-Jazeera television has reported the glee of al Qaeda as would be expected, but al Qaeda hasn’t claimed or admitted responsibility. Logically, they were. That's the entire point. If that's what our conclusion is, it's certainly has to be wrong. That's how good these guys are, and that's an understatement. Their execution of an operation is flawless to the last detail. If you get caught in their snare, you find yourself utterly powerless, without options. None.”
“It must have been an al Qaeda operation, Colonel. Bin Laden was quoted years ago as saying that two or three million Americans would have to die before the United States would wake up. That’s about how many have died from 4/23 and 7/29 combined.”
“That may be coincidental, General; it’s just another opportunity for misdirection. You think the perpertrators weren't aware of that? We're puppets. Set up a scapegoat, a nation we already have percieved hegemony over, and our hands are tied. The public reaction is obvious. Homeland Security is a joke and Washington is stupid..”
“So who was responsible then, in your opinion?” Andrews inquired. “Then I’ll share something for your ears only.”
“Believe it or not, an American militia, a paramilitary organization, albeit with unknown international connections. At least three men were involved, perhaps more. They operate with complete impunity and their organization is a ghost. No one had a clue they even existed. We didn’t see the base bombing coming. This militia group knew everything. They anticipated and were prepared for every vulnerability and eventuality. They planned, executed, and conducted the operation and are without doubt patting each other on the back as we speak, especially for the successful nuclear strike. It was a coordinated, political anthology, driven by a brilliant strategy. They’re the ones you’re after. And they’re the ones I’m after.”
Andrews and Brody stared at each other in disbelief. Distilled dread permeated Andrews’ mind at the searing revelation. Everyone believed the base bombing and the nuclear strike were connected, part of al Qaeda’s master plan. McKay’s entire international strategy, his statements to the press, to the UN, during private conversations with allies and others; all had been based solidly on that assumption. Now to discover that such things had been achieved by a domestic, American militia! Worse yet, it had been implemented by an American militia ideologically integrated in a cabal with an unknown international foe. Possessing nuclear weapons. Disclosure would forever prove that American Intelligence was an oxymoron good for a laugh at the U.N.
“What the hell!” Brody cried. “How do you know that is so, Colonel?”
“I know the crew was well organized and we’re in big trouble. They have no regard, absolutely no regard, for life . . . anyone’s life. The crew was commanded by a man I dubbed, Skinhead. His eyes are hollow, he’s as prejudiced as a West Virginia Bipartisan hillbilly, and he’s a zealot on a mission. He had two equally vicious sidekicks. One’s a jowl-gut lefty that doesn’t bat an eye at anything Skinhead commands him to do. And the Chief; I cringe every time I think of that sick son-of-a-bitch.”
“The Chief?” Brody asked.
“A big Indian fellow at least six-eight built like a brick shit house. He’s our best lead; he’s been in prison. When they kidnapped those poor Afghans, Caliph and Ahmed, they raped their wives–made them watch as they ravished them. Then Skinhead and Lefty held down poor Caliph. He’s . . . he was, kind of effeminate, and the Chief raped him in front of everyone, including Caliph’s wife. Their one mistake was the Chief commenting while he was raping Caliph that he reminded him of the ‘wife’ he’d had ‘in the joint.’ Ahmed and Caliph related that to me just before I drove my vehicle into the pond and they were killed, so I knew where I would start looking if I survived. Frankly, when I realized what they were up to and how thoroughly under their power Potts and I and the Afghans were, I wouldn’t have given you a wooden nickel for our chances! Remembering that pond was an inspiration. It’s the only thing that saved me. The Afghans, poor Caliph at least, shook every time the Chief came near him. He and his wife were newlyweds. What a horrible ending for that couple. And Potts, the driver of the Milk truck! They blew him away as though he was garbage. He was a good old soul, he was; good-hearted and completely innocent.”
“What about their wives? Did they leave them tied?”
“I know that they ran a motel near the base. We’ll need local law enforcement to check every motel in the area and attempt to locate them. Ahmed told me that the crew threatened them to keep quiet. They told them if they did, Ahmed and Caliph would be returned unharmed. If the crew didn’t return later and kill them, they must have realized soon after that their husbands were part of the plan to bomb Ft. Benning. I don’t know if they’re citizens or residents, but in view of the media frenzy in the aftermath, I doubt they would have come forward for fear of being arrested or deported themselves. If the latter, they probably anguished in silence. They may be in possession of additional details that could be helpful.”
“Stop there, Colonel,” Andrews said, leaving the room for a moment.
Brody shook his head as he and Simmons exchanged glances.
“So much damage and so many lives lost in an environmental nightmare. What else could possibly go wrong?” he mused.
After some moments, Andrews returned with McKay.
“Hello, Colonel. I apologize for only now joining you, but I was involved in another matter of some importance.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. President.”
“Vice-President Andrews has brought me up to date.” McKay said. He stared ominously out the window of the suite, nervously rubbing his chin. “Misdirection.”
“It’s probably getting worse before it gets better,” Simmons responded.
Brody made a call on his cellular and was soon embroiled in conversation.
“Do you have any idea what kind of motel, a chain or an independent?” he asked, “Did the Afghans give any indication?” he asked Simmons.
“No, but it must have been close by, because Ahmed and Caliph’s wrists weren’t irritated when I saw them. They had to have been recently kidnapped. That means it was nearby.”
Brody relayed the information to the other party on the phone. After finishing the call, he sat down, thoughts racing.
“What else can you tell us?”
“The Chief sent a Get Well card to me while I was hospitalized. Inside were these two pictures.” He handed the pictures of Kaye to Brody. McKay and Andrews crowded near.
“As you can see, the message is clear: I talk, she dies.”
“That’s why you insisted upon being smuggled out the back of the hospital.”
“Yes. Who’s stood in as my double?”
“An FBI agent. As soon as you were at a safe distance, the guards and medical personnel were informed, but a Marine contingent is still on-site to maintain the illusion.”
“The crew will be watching. Having your agents join Kaye and get her out the back of that supermarket while she was shopping was equally important.”
McKay turned from the window, still rubbing his chin.
“Providence must be with us. Had you not been spared, we’d never have known what actually happened or that it was domestically executed. I certainly would never suspect a domestic connection. What could an American possibly have in common with international terrorists? That’s the question requiring our attention. Your survival is nothing short of miraculous.”
“Mr. President, my sole objective is seeing those men die,” Simmons responded.
“What are your thoughts?” Andrews inquired.
Simmons paused.
“There can’t be that many six-foot-eight Indians in their forties who served prison time in recent years. It should be straightforward finding the Chief’s identity. He hangs with Skinhead, so if we find the Chief, we find the other two. If we capture them, they can lead us to others in their organization and to the international terrorists who aided and abetted them. I’m personally involved in this. I want to head the investigation. That’s all I ask.”
“My next question,” Brody interjected, “was about to address your willingness to be involved after all you’ve been through. You’re the only one who’s seen them, who can recognize them on sight. Your Military Intelligence background qualifies you to head the investigation. Further, familiarity with their tactics is invaluable.”
“This is all best kept discrete,” Andrews said, “for the time being. If they think you’re under guard in a hospital, they may be vulnerable to capture. If it hits the media, they’ll be on the run.”
“The domestic nature of the attacks is under wraps for now.” McKay commanded. “For reasons of National Security. An international backlash will erupt if this becomes known so soon after General Brody’s appointment. The appointment of a General of the Armies suggests preparations for an all-out military response. If it’s leaked that a domestic militia spearheaded this, even the base bombing, many in the international community will make hay. They’ll mock us. With the Capitol possibly lost by action of the same group, they’ll likely defy us.”
“Let’s don’t forget one thing,” Brody replied. “Domestic militia or not, they couldn’t have gotten plutonium without the help of international terrorists, and I think we should reveal to Colonel Simmons the radiation signature of that 2-megaton blast.”
“I’m thinking Russia,” Simmons said.
“I wish it were, Colonel, but it’s not.”
“But Mr. President . . .”
“It was Israel’s.”
“WHAT!?”
“There’s no disputing it. If we alleged it was Russia, the international community would have access to the signature data. Everyone knows it will reveal the adversary. In fact, whoever inside the Israeli nuclear program that arranged use of Israeli technitium has already leaked it, and we're at a loss to keep the lid on much longer. When it's firmly out, all hell is going to break loose.”
“Except Israel isn’t an adversary.”
“Someone IN Israel is. It would require extraordinary commitment and coordination to get a 2-megaton bomb from their stockpile. I would have thought it impossible.”
“So now we have a SECOND layer of misdirection that will justify international resentment that Israel had weapons of mass destruction, but not the Palestinians or our Arab allies. You see what I mean. The genius of this entire crapola can’t be matched. They have us right where they want us. Checkmated!”
“That’s my point. It feels like al Qaeda, but my predecessors have so inflamed and browbeaten other nations, even our allies, it’s conceivable that a nation provided radio nuclides directly, even one we consider an ally; but somehow they got very high-ranking officials opposed to Israel’s weapons to help embarrass the hell out of them and us. That’s a major conspiracy of the first order. Men don’t do such things unless they strongly believe in what they’re doing.”
“Hell, the crew acted as though they believed they were doing God service.” Simmons replied.
“That’s my point. What would an American patriot hold in common contempt with a foreign foe?”
“Washington, D.C., Mr. President.”
“Then rather than operate on the assumption that al Qaeda is responsible, we must discover the nation that engineered this intrigue . . . the substitution of Afghans to thrown us in the wrong direction, and linking it-correctly-to Israel can’t be ignored; it’s the most salient point. Certain ‘allies’ felt we needed to be slapped in the face, beaten down a bit. General Brody, it will assist your efforts if they think we’re in the dark.”
“I have personal issues with this organization.” Simmons said. “As clever as they are, the Chief screwed up when he made that statement about Caliph. At the time, in the throes of intercourse and feeling his power, he thought there was zero chance of that ever becoming known. He knew his victims would die. By now, I’m banking on him having entirely forgotten ever having made the comparison of Caliph to his ‘prison wife.’ It’s the most certain approach to penetrating their shield.”
“Colonel, Consider yourself in charge of the domestic investigation. General Brody,” McKay said, “involve the FBI quietly. Use their intelligence resources to assist in identifying what prison that Chief fellow served his time in, and to track down the wives of the Afghans.”
“I’d like daily reports directly from you on the progress of your task force, Colonel.” Brody added, handing Simmons a card. “Here’s my cell numbers. One will be on 24/7 if the other is on the charger. I don't care what hour of the day or night you call. Just do.”
“What about your home, your wife?” McKay asked.
“Now that we’ve decided a direction, I’ll bring her into the loop. She realizes there’s danger, but I’ve delayed giving her too much to handle. I don’t want her losing it.”
“I’ll coordinate our international activities with the FBI,” Brody said. “We’ll each know the other’s progress. You and Kaye decide where you want to live and we’ll take it from there. Neither of you can return to your home until this is over. You know that, of course.”
Kaye wept, safely enfolded in her husband’s arms. She had listened intently as the Wine of Astonishment was poured out, trying to appear resolute. Her tears weren’t prompted by fear. They wet his shoulder because she knew the pervasive loneliness that haunted her when her beloved was away. She had always supported him during his assignments or when he was on a mission. It was who he was. That support had kept him comfortable on the way up, had freed his mind and his time. But no count of years had softened the sorrow that crept in each time he left, often within minutes of the door closing behind him. Secretly, she often felt she would have been happier if he had been no more ambitious than poor Potts, the man in the sad account he had related, but she would never have been attracted to an ordinary or unambitious man and she knew it. Life simply didn’t allow some women to have a simple man and respect him. In her younger days, the danger and intrigue surrounding his often mysterious assignments had thrilled her. His charisma arose from the aura of mystery and his special commitment. Had he been the homely sort, they probably would never have found each other. So though her heart ached within her chest, she was determined to tough it out, however difficult this most important of all assignments might prove to be. For her own part, she wanted the miscreants who had tried to take him from her to pay. He was still alive. At the root of her convulsed emotions, she felt fortunate to have him at all.
“How long do you think before this ends?” She asked with a searching stare. He squeezed her more tightly.
“I wish I knew, Kaye,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek with the back of his finger and kissing the spot where it had been. “By Fall Equinox, maybe, if things go well.”
“You think so?”
“No. I don’t know what I believe or where I think this will all lead. But we can hope.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Do you recognize this man?” Simmons looked sternly at Dedrick’s expression.
He already knew the answer. Harlan Dedrick, a gloomy looking inmate built like Lou Ferrigno, had supposedly been George “Kicks Iron” White’s cell mate for more than four years. Ahmed had told him that the Chief had a “wife” in prison. The question was how much detail Dedrick would reveal. It was possible the man felt he owed the Chief loyalty, but Simmons hoped he could obtain important background information leading to White’s capture by promising and arranging for early release if he was willing to cooperate. Not a ruse. If he had to, he'd take him by the scruff of the neck, punch the goddamned warden in face if he gave him any lip, regulations or no regulations, and drag him out himself. He knew Brody would back him up. Nothing so minuscule could stand in the way of bringing the miscreants down, and that was his single objective. Fuck everything else, and he meant it. Dead seriously meant it. It would depend entirely on Dedrick. He just had to convince him. Tactics and promises unfulfilled had been upheld by the courts over the years with inmates, and Dedrick by now was no doubt an Ace incarcerated attorney.
The twenty-eight-year-old inmate drew subconscious figures on the dusty surface of the interrogation table with his fingertip, a pained look on his face. He seemed hesitant to answer. Simmons was patient. He had arranged the interview in a private office . . . alone.
“Yeah, sure. I know him.” He studied Simmons reaction carefully.
“Is he your friend?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I understand you two were very close when he was here. Is that incorrect?”
Dedrick thought about the implications. He knew Simmons had already talked to the warden. This could be the break every con hoped might come his way–early release–if he could make the case in exchange for information.
“I wouldn’t call him that. He’s a user, cruel.”
“It sounds as though you’ve got a grudge.”
“I’d like to put a knife through his heart, if you call that a grudge.”
“He referred to you as his ‘wife’ while he was in here.”
Dedrick was a trustee, had never been the instigator of trouble, but it was known that he performed sexual favors for certain individuals, both before and after his stint as Kicks Iron’s cell mate. At the moment, Simmons could only pity him. He had learned from the case file about the botched liquor store robbery and Dedrick’s brother’s death by shotgun blast to the chest. Dedrick had been shot in the leg attempting to flee and now walked with a pronounced limp. He had been easily taken into custody by the local sheriff while receiving medical attention at the hospital. The sentence was five to ten. He’d been joined in his cell by the Chief two years later, following White’s sentencing.
“We were close all right. After he arrived here, he raped me in the shower. I thought he’d kill me if I resisted. My life was a living hell after that. Eventually, I got to know him and his demands became a little more reasonable, but I’ll never get his smell out of my mind. I feel like puking every time I think of him.”
“Another man reported being raped by him. I can only sympathize.”
The door opened and someone motioned for Simmons.
“Excuse me for a moment.” he said.
“Colonel, this just came in. The Bureau said you should see it immediately.”
Simmons read the bulletin, a frown overtaking his features.
“They found the motel. The women were gone. No leads.”
He wondered if they had fled from fear after the destruction of the base by a Dirty bomb was announced on television, their husbands never returned, and Afghan terrorists were implicated. Or whether they had been used as sex slaves for a while, then tossed on a trash heap in plastic bags. Saddened, he reentered the Interrogation room.
“So. Go on, Dedrick. What happened next?”
“After the first six weeks, I tried to commit suicide. Every orifice of my body was sore and the guards wouldn’t report my complaints. You call him the Chief?”
“That’s the nickname I used for him when I met him for the first time.”
“Everyone just called him Kick’s Iron in here. He loved to tell the story of an ancestor by that same name in the Wild West days.”
“Has anyone else abused you?”
“They wouldn’t have dared. Not the way it works in here if someone like Kick’s Iron claims a young inmate–me in this case. I was only twenty-five years old at the time-you’re their property, like it or not. If another inmate walked into the shower and saw me on my knees sucking his cock, he’d pretend not to see. There’s a weird, sexual culture in here. The only way I could have been anyone else’s is if I didn’t ‘belong’ to him. If a new Pretty Boy kicks someone’s ass, the next time he’s in the shower, a bunch o’ guys will grab and hold him down and seven different guys may shove it to him at one time, expecting him to suck them clean after. Then he’s a lamb. He’ll do whatever his ‘man’ asks, and eagerly. It’s that, or else . . . ”
“Okay, no more specifics! I don’t want to hear about that. Have you communicated with him, received any letters since his release?”
“No, and I don’t want to hear from him. When I get out of here, I’m going someplace where no one knows me, get a good job, and find myself a woman. I need the smell and taste of a woman's pussy all over my face. I’ll never get into trouble again, wouldn’t have this time if my brother hadn’t taunted me into it. I’ll tell you though. Kicks Iron thinks he’s picking me up when I get out. Said so. That’s another ten months, you know.”
“You think he was serious about picking you up?”
“Hell, yes. The bastard actually thinks I’m gonna be his bitch when I get out, thinks he’s gonna grab my hair and pump my face whenever he feels like it. I didn’t dare pretend otherwise, or someone else would have taken over when he left. That's been the only upside to that miserable fuck!”
“I want information about him. Then you won’t have to worry about him being there when you get out.”
“If I give you information, you have to get me released early, and I don’t mean the day before. I want to have been gone for months before he shows up again. He’ll kill me for ratting him out. Kicks Iron was in here for beating a man to death in a bar fight with his bare hands. He was only released because, on appeal, the fact the prosecution had suppressed evidence that would have made it appear to be self-defense came up. He beat the system, or his lawyer did.”
“You tell me everything you know about his past. Where he came from, who his family and friends are, about where he grew up, went to school, worked, everything.”
“And you promise to get me out, no tricks?”
“Absolutely, if you cooperate and have solid information that checks out. I need everything in your head to do with him. If you share it, you’ll be out of here in a month . . . that’s a promise, maybe sooner, but no later.”
“On whose authority? Only the governor can act that fast! You’re conning me. I know it’s legal to deceive a prisoner!”
“My authority is higher than the governor. It’s not a con. I’ll get you more than early release. I’ll get a full pardon. I’ll get it promised in advance, in writing.”
“A full pardon?”
“Based upon full cooperation, yes.”
“You must really want him bad!”
“I do, or I wouldn’t be enduring your nauseating reports of prison life. It’s your one chance. Take it or leave it.”
“You know I’m gonna do it. I know everything about that guy, an awful lot. Ask your questions.”
Simmons rose and signaled the guard. Presently, an FBI agent appeared with a recorder and a pad. He had accompanied Simmons, but remained outside.
“He says he’s willing to tell us everything. Record it.” Then his eyes returned to Dedrick. “Start with White’s background. Speak slowly and in great detail. Otherwise, it won’t be worth that pardon.”
“In four years, I learned just about everything about him,” Dedrick said. “And if I can cause him grief, I’ll sleep better at night.” Simmons sat in a chair in the corner, crossed his legs, and let the agent conduct the interrogation. He wanted to study Dedrick’s responses.
“How much did White tell you about his background?” the agent asked.
“He is a full-blooded Cherokee. He’d talk for hours about how the White man had betrayed the Indians for generations. That’s his motivation. He’s got an Axe to grind against the U.S. Government. He used to tell stories he said he heard from his Granddaddy, repeated by the tribal elders, such as how the Cherokee merged peacefully with the Whites, wearing White clothes and top hats. But President Andrew Jackson hated all Indians and conspired with other Whites to steal the rich lands of the Cherokee. He’d get insanely angry as he spoke. If you look at the end of the bed frame in my cell, you’ll see how he bent it with his fist one afternoon, bent the shit out of the steel frame.”
“I know how violent he is, how intimidating.” Simmons interjected.
“When he was a kid, his Daddy told him he gave him a proud name to remember who he was. He said president Jackson defied the decision of the Supreme Court that the government couldn’t take the Cherokee’s land, called them ‘nine old men,’ . . . something like that. Anyway, Jackson had the Army force his people to walk all the way to Oklahoma by forced march. He said the Cherokee buried their dead along the way. You know, the elderly, sick, kids and stuff. I guess a lot of them died. It was long ago, but Kicks Iron talked as if it was yesterday.”
“History reports it as the Trail of Tears; That’s what the Cherokee called it.”
“He said his granddaddy told him never trust the president. How was it he put it? I should know it by heart, hearing it so many times. He had it written down, made me read it aloud some nights while he banged my ass.”
Simmons grimaced.
“Oh yeah, it went ’He speaks with a forked tongue. Between two things, he will promise the one and do the other. He will be neither constant nor true. He continually casts his eyes about, surveying that which is not his. He will move the line between you when your attention is fixed elsewhere until he has taken all that he covets of that which you possess.’ That’s pretty close to exact, I think.”
“You’ve got a good memory, Dedrick,” Simmons observed.
“You would to if you memorized it under the same conditions.”
“Did he tell you of any plans to attack any government facilities or employees?”
“Nothing specific, but he said he intended to reap vengeance against the White Man’s government. He believed the country would fall apart someday and the Indians would reestablish dominion. I think he absolutely believes every word he said. He has a murderous hatred.”
“So he was from Oklahoma?” Simmons asked. “He refused to give any information when he was arrested and convicted. His file is a total blank on background. He had a Montana driver’s license, but no records there, just a phony address, no employment record, nothing until the bar fight.”
“Yes, he’s from Oklahoma, somewhere around Elk City. His Daddy’s dead, but his mother and a sister live there, or did. He never mentioned their names.”
“Was he ever in the service?”
“Are you serious? That would be treason to him. He hated the Army, blamed it for all the sufferings of his people. No way he’d ever be part of it.”
“Did he talk about his friends in Montana? He must have told you something about his life there before he was arrested.”
“He mentioned three or four friends that hated the government too for their own reasons. Never said what their reasons were.”
“Names?”
“He mentioned a guy named Eric quite a few times, and a Christopher or Chris. I don’t remember which. He got a few letters from a Carl guy, and one visit I know of. The Warden could fill in that blank. He might be an Indian too, now that I think about it. One of them was. He had family killed by the Army. I guess it was the army.”
“Did he say where those men were from?”
“No. Well, yes, he said Eric was from California . . . Sacramento, no, Huntington Beach maybe, but another time he mentioned him in connection with San Francisco. I’m not sure. It wasn’t important to me.”
“What does Eric do?”
“I can’t say. He’s a marine buff. Boats and so forth, you know. I remember that.”
“Nothing about this Chris or Christopher?”
“He was in Montana, at least at the time Kicks Iron was running with him, but so were the others as far as I know. That’s about all I know about any of his connections.”
“What were their last names?”
“He never used anything but first names, weird, because in here, everyone goes by their last names, or uses a nickname.”
“You said Carl had his own beef because some family member of his was killed by the Army?”
“It may not have been the Army. I could be mixed up on that one. He only mentioned that guy once or twice. And he was mute about that one visit from the guy, but yet, I could tell something had given his spirits a boost.
“Did Kicks Iron have any other beefs with the government, anything involving him personally?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You said he planned to meet you when you got out. Where were you planning on going with him?”
“I planned on ducking him as soon as possible. I wasn’t planning on staying anywhere with him. He's the last guy I want to be around. My life is going be with a woman. A fresh, hot woman. I need it in the worst way.”
“Okay, but where does he think you’re going?”
“Montana. That’s where he hangs out.”
“Where in Montana? Surely he mentioned what town.”
“He didn’t, but he told me he had a ‘stash’ in some old mine, so it must be a town near mines.”
“Hell, that’s most of Montana. Not very helpful, except the remark about a stash. Did he say what he had stashed?”
“Survival gear, weapons and ammunition, dynamite maybe. They pulled an armory heist. He said they had enough weaponry stashed to outfit a brigade.”
“How about money?”
“He didn’t mention cash.”
“How do you plan to get where you’re going when you leave here if I get you out early?”
“Next month?”
“Yes.”
“I have a few dollars, but no family to go to with my brother dead. I’ll probably thumb my way somewhere.”
“If you give the warden a destination, I’ll see that you get a one-way bus ticket to wherever it is and a few thousand dollars for your cooperation. I hope you plan on keeping your nose clean, Dedrick. With your record expunged by Justice department directive, you'll have a clean slate. I hope you keep it that way. You've paid your price in spades from the sound of it. I keep my promises. You're sure you've told us everything?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll never hear of me again. I’m a damn good mechanic and I can find work. I know how to take care of myself. I’d have never gotten mixed up with a robbery if it hadn’t been for my brother. I don’t plan to end up as he did. And no, I can't think of anything else that might be useful, except that someone connected to him was really into boats. In fact, he may have have been a marine mechanic.”
“This Eric fellow?”
I'm not sure. I think his interest was in owning one. No, in restoring one, an old one. No, one of the others, I think. God, if I'd known how important it might be, I'd have memorized it, but I hated that sick fuck.”
Simmons spoke to the warden following Dedrick’s questioning, informing him of the bus ticket commitment. Also, that none other than on the authority of the President of the United States, they were to give him an envelope with the ticket with $5000 dollars cash, saying the government would reimburse the cost.
“Here's my card. Call the number when you want it back.”
That brought the warden into the conversation, and the deal was sealed. Simmons need only make a phone call, and Dedrick would be on his way within 24 hours.
“He doesn’t need a ticket. He’s got more than a thousand dollars here. That can get him anywhere he wants to go,” the warden said.
“He’ll need that to get started. I gave him my word. Will you follow through?”
“If you insist. It’s your money. During the interview, a fax came for you.”
General Brody’s fax reported the deaths of five attorneys and sixteen environmental activists. Gold-plated cigarette lighters presented as gifts had been rigged to release deadly aniline gas during use, killing most of those who had used them, including several who had used the lighters in the place of the intended victim.
“This is probably not related to the broad picture, but I felt you should know.” Brody wrote.
Based upon the information provided by Dedrick, Simmons’ flew to Oklahoma, then drove in civilian clothes to Elk City to locate White’s mother and sister.
“I’m convinced White was associated with Lefty and Skinhead prior to his incarceration and I suspect that two of his friends among Eric, Christopher, and Carl are their real names,” he told Brody.
At his motel in Elk City, Simmons met with two FBI agents who had compiled a list of all residents with the last name, White, and had been completing surveillance to determine which were of Indian extraction where a mother and daughter occurred together.
“We found three, and following up, we located two women we think are White’s mother and sister living in a rundown trailer on a rural route. There’s a man there who runs with the sister, about her age. He’s a mechanic at a local garage, but he moved in with them about six weeks ago. The sister works as a waitress. How do you want to approach this?” Tibbits asked. He had been assigned to Simmons’ task force at his request.
“The best thing would be to have the sheriff come along to spearhead. If they know it’s the government, they aren’t likely to tell us anything, given their anti-government sentiments. Any warning we provide will alert them. We certainly can’t indicate our true intent. They’ll destroy or hide any evidence of White’s location; old letters, anything like that.” Simmons replied.
“We can go after the boyfriend, arrest him on a bogus charge to gain access.”
“I like that.”
“We’ll set up a drug trafficking charge. Get a search warrant for the White home, since he stays there. I’ll speak with the sheriff and arrange for the warrant.”
“Make the sheriff think this is a DEA raid. We can’t take any chances of tipping them off about Kicks Iron. The sheriff could be their friend. These people are like a closely knit network.”
It was 9:00 pm when the sheriff entered the dirt drive to the White home, followed by two government vehicles. A third, a communications van with interception equipment was in place less than half a mile away to monitor any calls from the home and a lineman had tapped into the phone line to intercept any calls on the land line. Agents poured from all three vehicles as they pulled to a stop, surrounding the home. When the door opened in response to the sheriff’s knock, the old woman at the door appeared terrified.
“What do you want?” She asked the sheriff.
“We have a search warrant, Mrs. White. Is there a Geofrey Ruchard here?”
“You have no business here,” she said. “There are no criminals in this house, only me and my daughter. Geofrey is her boyfriend. We are all honest people. What are you searching for?” She made no move to welcome them in.
“Ma’am, I don’t wish to alarm you, but we’re here to take Mr. Ruchard in for questioning. It’s just routine. We received a complaint that drugs were being sold here.”
“Drugs? You’re out of your mind. There’s no drug peddling here, not in my house!”
“If you cooperate, I’m sure we’ll be gone soon. Would you please step back and let us enter?”
“What’s going on?” a gruff voice called out. A man in his mid-forties appeared behind the woman.
“We have a warrant, Mr. Ruchard. We need to take you in for questioning.”
“Warrant for me? For what? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. You made a mistake.”
“I’ll ask one more time, Ma’am,” the sheriff said to the old woman. Please step back and allow us to enter. No one will be harmed. We’re just here to take Mr. Ruchard in and have a look around.”
“Looking for what?” She demanded.
A loud crash drew the attention of the occupants when federal agents entered through the back door of the trailer. The sheriff thrust open the front door while their attention was distracted. Simmons followed him in.
“Just be calm, Mrs. White. We’re not here for you or your daughter,” he said, trying to assure them. They were obviously very upset.
The agents appeared through the kitchen. According to Simmons’ instructions, their weapons were not drawn, but the sheriff quickly handcuffed Ruchard and led him out. He left immediately as arranged and Simmons was left with his team still inside.
“If it’s not about us, why don’t you go? What do you want?” The daughter demanded.
“I just don’t understand this,” the elderly Mrs. White said, bursting into tears. She was marbled in terror.
“Please, relax! This is a routine search,” Tibbits said.
“We don’t sell drugs here!” The daughter exclaimed. “You’re making my mother very upset. Her heart can’t take it.” She was trembling with anger.
“Will you please calm down?” Simmons asked. “We have to conduct a routine search. If there are no drugs in the home, we’ll be leaving very soon. The more you resist, the firmer we have to be with you. You’re just making this more difficult.”
“What has my boyfriend done to make you suspect him? He’s a good man. Why are you looking for him?”
“Miss White, he’s wanted for questioning. That’s all.”
“Questioning for what?”
“In connection with possible involvement in selling drugs. We already explained that.”
Mrs. White grew pale. “You people have no respect for others. You come into my home and terrify us . . . all these men dressed like soldiers. You harass the public, treat us like dogs. We haven’t done anything. You have no respect.”
“He may be innocent; we have to question him to make that determination, Ma’am.” Tibbits insisted.
Mrs. White and her daughter exchanged glances.
“I don’t know the man that well, but my daughter wouldn’t have a boyfriend who uses drugs,” she said.
“Then there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll probably be back home in a hour or so. We have a search warrant. Please have a seat while we look around. ”
“There’s nothing here,” Mrs. White insisted.
“Then you should have no objection to us looking, Ma’am,” Tibbits said.
“Are you going to throw things around and destroy our home?” The daughter asked, appearing fearful.
“Absolutely not,” Simmons responded. “We’re not intending to tear your place up like in the movies. Okay? And if we don’t find anything, a long search won’t be necessary at all.”
“I don’t know about any drugs!” She screamed. “I told you, I don’t know.”
There was little alternative but to conduct the search. Without further argument, Simmons motioned to his men and they moved to separate rooms. Simmons watched for signs of nervousness from the Whites, hoping to avoid the time required to sift through every scrap of paper in the home. The old woman stared aimlessly at the wall opposite the sofa, a look of bitter contempt on her face, while her daughter sat hand-in-hand with her mother. It seemed she was oblivious to what was happening.
So this was the family Kicks Iron had grown up with. He had been instilled with a healthful hatred of government and a general state of anger probably led to the brutal bar fight, the murder, and the five-year sentence for manslaughter. Just over four years of that sentence had been served before White’s release. Likely, White had been resolute, planning revenge all the while. That was a subject all its own: Who was the mastermind behind the base bombing? Somehow, Simmons found it hard to believe that Kicks Iron possessed the acumen and contacts to achieve the master plan. It was too cunning, too well-planned, and too well-executed for the passionate Indian, however violent or willing he had been to participate. It had to have been Skinhead in their unit, the obvious leader. Even he seemed marginal to the overall plot. He had the mentality of a platoon leader and had directed a flawless execution with commitment and detachment. But the plot was so sinister and deeply rooted in radical ideology and so broad-based, it bore the marks of a far superior ideologue. Nor did it seem self-contained. The poison gas lighters and the IRS-centered pandemic were but two more expressions of a deeply resolved hatred of the U.S. government. Simmons knew the Indians had been betrayed by the White man, that their lands had been confiscated, their cultures and populations decimated. It was axiomatic that when two ways of life completely alien to one another came into close contact, one would succumb to the other. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be considerate; The Black Legend of the Spaniards in America was the prime example of that. But in the end, America had risen as the greatest nation in history. It was time to put the past aside. Everyone in the country had a stake in its preservation.
“That damned NADNARA scheme; It turned the entire public against government. It caused this. The rascals that implemented it are the ones that should have been blown up, not Fort Benning and the Capitol,” he thought.
What was the alternative? He could only imagine, but he had no doubts about a group bent upon vicious savagery and anarchy.
“Sir, we found this. You may want to have a look.” One of his men thrust a notebook in his direction. “It’s filled with names, addresses, and numbers.”
Simmons thumbed through the pages carefully. The notebook turned address book looked very old. The worn cover and frayed pages indicated that it had been used intermittently for many years. About halfway through, he noticed a scrawled entry: A “Christof Fawcett,” with the notation “wants him to call when he gets out next week,” and a number. It had been hurriedly scribbled diagonally across one corner of an unrelated page. Simmons recognized the area code. It was from Montana. Was “Christof Fawcett” the “Chris” or “Christopher” Dedrick said Kicks Iron had mentioned? There was a high probability. Dedrick’s questioning had left Simmons with the impression that Kicks Iron had few close friends. Who but they would have been calling Oklahoma from such a distance to establish contact with him on the outside? There was a strong possibility this was an extremely valuable lead. On the other hand, if the old woman saw him write anything, she might grow suspicious, perhaps even to the point of contacting her son. That would increase the difficulty of apprehending them. They would surely flee into hiding if they weren’t already. He memorized the number while seeming to be turning the pages back and forth for a while.
“There’s no customer list here. Mrs. White was telling the truth,” he said, casually laying the address book on the table. After nonchalantly signaling Tibbits, he met him in a back room and closed the door quietly behind them. The old woman hadn’t noticed. Quickly, he jotted down the number for Christof Fawcett on his palm.
“I found a number for a Christof Fawcett. He called from Montana wanting to verify Kicks Iron’s release. No date, but I’m sure he’s one of them. Tell the men to wind the search down and let’s leave casually.”
“Okay.”
A while later, Tibbits announced from across the room that the search hadn’t turned up anything.
“Very well. Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. White,” he said. “We’re just doing our job. It’s routine. Mr. Ruchard will probably be brought home soon.”
After leaving, the vehicles stopped down the road by the special communications unit. Simmons lowered his window.
“Any calls yet?”
“No, Sir, but we’ll stay in place till tomorrow morning.”
“Notify me immediately if anything develops.”
The agents from the FBI parked on the outskirts of town to monitor any attempts to call from a pay phone. Simmons and Tibbits were fairly certain the Whites would make no connection between the intrusion and Kicks Iron, but they had to be certain.
As they drove toward town, Simmons briefed Tibbits on his recognition of the name, “Christof Fawcett.”
“It could be the ‘Chris’ or ‘Christopher’ that Dedrick mentioned. He said Kicks Iron mentioned someone by that name.”
“Why didn’t you ask the woman about him?”
“If she knows his business, any questions about him might have made her suspicious. Besides, we were supposedly there in response to drug activity. If I had asked questions about a totally unrelated individual, she would have known there was more going on than the allegations against her daughter’s boyfriend.”
“Good point. I know that.”
“Have your people at the bureau check out this number and an individual with that name.” He tore the sheet from a pocket notebook and handed it to him.
Tibbits seemed preoccupied.
“What’s the matter? You seem distracted.”
“An ‘89 Dodge pickup has been following us since we started back toward town, four miles now.”
Simmons looked back. A red pickup was trailing behind at a distance.
“You think it’s following us? This is the only road into town.”
“I don’t know, but he’s maintaining distance, whoever he is. What should I do?”
“You could pull off to the side, get the license number, and . . . “
”Never mind. He just turned off on that dirt road back there.”
Simmons thought for a moment.
“I don’t like it. Turn around. Follow him.”
Tibbits stopped and turned a sharp circle, accelerating to reach the turnoff.
“This is a dirt road. No telling where it goes.”
“Follow him anyway. We have to be sure.”
Tibbits swerved onto the dusty road. A cloud of dust in the distance revealed the location of the truck.
The car jumped mercilessly as it struck potholes and loose soil.
“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s probably just some Indian who lives out here in the sticks.”
“Like I said, it doesn’t hurt to make certain.”
Tibbits made every effort to veer around holes in the road, but the vehicle was bouncing crazily.
“The road is narrowing, and I can’t see him any more. He’s outdistancing us, probably drives this trail every day and knows where all the holes are.”
After a time, they came to a fork where the road split around a large rock outcrop.
“Which way? Left or right?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Pick one . . . go to the right.”
Soon, all vestiges of a road began to disappear.
“I think we lost him. He must have gone the other way. We’re out here in open country, Colonel.”
“Looks like it. Okay, let’s go back. You’re probably right. It was probably just . . . “
”Wait! There he is. Over there by the rocks, see?”
Tibbits turned in the direction of the truck and drove up behind it. They stepped out and looked around.
“I don’t see anyone.” Simmons said.
A rifle shot rang out. They dropped to the ground, surveying the area.
“Over the ridge,” Tibbits said. “It came from there. Let’s look.”
Cautiously, they approached the ridge. Looking down, they saw a man stooping near the rocks. Picking up a dead Rattlesnake.
“Drop your weapon!” Tibbits yelled. “Lie face down on the ground.”
“Why?” the man yelled back, unmoved. “It ain’t illegal to shoot snakes!”
“FBI! Lie down, now!”
Reluctantly, the man complied. Tibbits ran to him, grabbing his weapon. Simmons followed.
After cuffing the indignant man, Tibbits went through the truck glove box, located the registration and got on the radio. Uncomfortably, Simmons stood by the suspect, feeling that they had made much ado of nothing. Still, it was better to eliminate any possibility the man might have been following them.
“Why were you following us.”
“Weren’t followin’ nobody! Seen you leave from cross the street.”
“You live across from the Whites?”
“Said I weren’t followin’ nobody! Course I do.”
“You know Kicks Iron?” As soon as he said the words, Simmons realized he had slipped.
“What of it? Ain’t seen him.”
“When did you see him last?” It was no use to back off now.
“He in trouble again . . . FBI?”
“When did you see him last?”
“Don’t recall. What of it; ain’t done nothin but shoot snakes. We mount em; tourists pick em up like hot cakes”
Momentarily, Tibbits emerged from the vehicle.
“No tickets, no warrants; nothing. He’s clean.”
“Why’s the FBI huntin’ for Kicks Iron out here?” The man asked indignantly.
“Just checking.” Tibbits said, astonished to hear the name, Kicks Iron. “It looked like you were following us back there.”
“Ain’t but one road. You guys ain’t so smart, are you?”
“UN-cuff him. Let’s go.” Simmons said.
They drove in strained silence toward town. Simmons felt Tibbits’ eyes asking the obvious, but he was embarrassed to deign to explanation of his reason for mentioning Kicks Iron’s name to the man unless Tibbits asked specifically why. He didn’t.
“I’ll go conduct a staged interview and release the boyfriend,” Tibbits said as they parked in front of the Sheriff’s office.
“Take him back afterwards.”
The mobile phone rang.
“The daughter called the sheriff to inquire about Ruchard. Wants to know when the questioning will be complete. You might want to give the sheriff a heads up on this.”
“Thanks, Agent. We’ll follow up.”
“Tibbits, tell the sheriff it was a null when you get there. The daughter’s asking questions. Try to avoid an attorney becoming involved,” Tibbits nodded.
Back in his room, Simmons read the number for Christof Fawcett from the palm of his hand where he’d jotted it down after leaving the White home.
“Fawcett residence,” a woman’s voice answered. She sounded young; a Teen?
“Is Christof there?”
“Christof? No. He only comes by on occasion, for holidays or a weekend a couple of times a year. You’ve reached his parents home, but they’re not here right now. They’re out with my Mom. I’m babysitting my sisters. I’m his niece, but I haven’t seen Uncle Christof for over a year. Who’s calling?”
Simmons was caught off-guard by her openness. He fumbled for a name. Dedrick had been close when he reported the name as Chris or Christopher.
“This is Carl. I misplaced his number and thought this might be it. I guess I’ve bummed out.” He held his breath. If she knew Carl, she might recognize this wasn’t him.
“Carl? I don’t know any Carl. You’re not likely to reach him here, though.”
“Do you have his number?”
“Hold on. Let me see if it’s in this Address Directory . . . okay, here it is, but it’s crossed out and there’s just a number for a hardware store in Susanville, California. But that couldn’t be it. He lives in Montana; that’s kinda weird. Why don’t you call back after ten, or tomorrow morning, and ask my Mom for his number? My uncle calls her every once in a while. I’m sure he must have a phone, but I don’t see any other number.”
“Well, why don’t you give me the number of the hardware store, anyway,” he said. “I’ll try it, and if they don’t have his number, I’ll call back.”
“Okay.” She rattled off the number to a “Hogan’s Hardware.”
“What’s your last name, Carl?”
He hung up, pretending not to have heard the question, and dialed the store’s number immediately, only to get a Disconnect recording.
“Shit, a dead end!”
He mulled over the conversation. He’d call after ten and ask the Fawcetts for Christof’s number. That was a confirmation he had the right individual. The hardware store could be anything. He had no last name for a “Carl.” If the Fawcetts asked for it and knew the man, they might not cooperate, particularly if he gave a name they recognized as incorrect. It was a chance he had to take. He sent a fax to Washington, requesting that a file be put together on the Fawcett family, and their son, Christof. Then he sat waiting for the time to pass. Should he appear distant, or introduce himself right up front with a phony last name? If they didn’t know Carl, if he hadn’t been Christof’s buddy since childhood, hadn’t spent the night at his home, wasn’t the son of their next door neighbor they’d known forever, it might work. It might also blow up in his face. Of course, he could just pretend to be a different Carl, one they were unaware of.
Then he hit upon the idea of calling “from Hogan’s Hardware in Susanville, California.” That number was right there in their directory, and they probably didn’t know it was disconnected. The new number would have been posted and the girl hadn’t mentioned a second number. If she told them she had given him that number, then he called from there, it wouldn’t make sense. Either way, he faced a risk. He decided to call at ten and perhaps catch them before she mentioned someone had called. Perhaps she’d forget to mention it at all.
“The smart money would be on not calling, but waiting to see what information the bureau and Brody’s sources can assemble by tomorrow.” he said.
But he was impatient. He didn’t want to wait, not even until morning. He remembered the big Hickory with Potts on the other side, both chained like slaves. He remembered Ahmed and Caliph lamenting that an old man was lying dead in his own blood in the kitchen of the crew house and reading about it three months later after regaining consciousness. He’d waited three months while all hell broke loose in the country. No. He didn’t want to wait. His luck was running well at the moment. Why not trust it to continue? He had Christof and Kicks Iron identified, and felt the urge of a bloodhound on a fresh trail.
At 10 pm, he dialed again.
“Rocky Fawcett.”
“Mr. Fawcett, this is Carl Summerville in California. How are you this evening? I’m sorry to bother you so late. I called earlier for Christof, but your granddaughter didn’t have his number.” He held his breath awaiting Rocky Fawcett’s reply.
“Why didn’t you just call information in Kalispell? He’s listed. How long has it been since you spoke to him?”
Kalispell! Simmons breathed a sigh of relief. It had worked.
“I haven’t seen him for months, and yours is the only number I had.”
“It’s possible he called you when he was here for the Christmas holidays. Is that when you spoke to him?”
“I think it was around that time, now that I reflect on it. What’s he been up to lately?” Rocky Fawcett seemed like a nice enough fellow. Perhaps more could be learned.
“You know Christof. Far as I know, he still works at Blackfoot Marine. Like he says, they fix one thing, the guy takes it out a few times, and he’s back with something else wrong.”
“Well, enjoy your evening, Mr. Fawcett. Sorry to bother you.”
“Not a problem, Carl. Say, I may as well give you his number since you’re on the phone!”
“Oh . . . sure, thanks. I appreciate that.”
As soon as the conversation ended, he located Kalispell on the Road Atlas map of Montana. He’d never been to Montana, not even to the northwest. His farthest north destinations over the years had been Seattle, but that was far to the west, and one day in Cheyenne, Wyoming to the east. Though he’d heard much about it, read about movie stars who had purchased ranches there and built enormous log homes, Montana represented a large hole in his own experience.
“This mission is becoming interesting. Very interesting.” he said aloud. “Well, Christof, are you Skinhead or are you Lefty? I’m about to punch a hole in your world, whichever one you are!”
It took a while to complete the report for transmission to General Brody. He had a lot of good news to report, and he knew Brody would notify President McKay of his progress.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kalispell

On the off chance he might encounter or be recognized by one or more members of the Ft. Benning crew, Simmons’ team had flown ahead to Helena where they secured a vehicle and awaited his arrival. He considered flying into Kalispell too great a risk. The drive on I-90 was picturesque, and the wildlife offered an entertaining diversion. Antelope grazed in the mountain meadows as he viewed them in the distance through his high-powered binoculars, and he spotted an occasional eagle perched on a distant, rocky ledge, ever-watchful for a careless rodent.
Simmons used the time to review intelligence files gathered on the Fawcett family. He was amazed by the amount of information generated by the FBI so quickly from interviews conducted ostensibly for other reasons. In addition, numerous items had been gathered from newspaper stories, tribal and census records, and other sources of data.
Christof Fawcett’s family had an interesting background. His great grandfather, Hugh Fawcett, had descended from an English family who settled in southeastern Montana shortly after the Blackfoot reservation was established nearby in 1851. Hugh became something of a land Baron. He acquired a large spread that supported two thousand head of cattle in the rich grasslands of the valley, and thousands of sheep in the
rocky areas bordering the range. In later years, he purchased a dwelling house in the town of Livingston and converted it to a Trading Post. Blackfoot and Northern Cheyenne Indians traded their wears, particularly Beaver pelts, for items from the east. Christof’s grandfather, Ross, had grown to manhood enjoying the freedom Montana’s rugged terrain and equally rugged population came to represent. He was liberal for his time, and married a beautiful young, Blackfoot woman Hugh had employed to work in the trading post. Hugh opposed his son’s relationship with Sacagawea, who went by the nickname, ‘Swan,’ desiring that Ross instead take a wife from one of the influential families who controlled most of the commerce in the valley. Following the undesirable marriage, and the stormy relationship that ensued afterward between him and his father, Ross and Swan moved to Burnett, Nebraska, a small town on the Elk horn river one-hundred
miles west of Omaha, where they lived temporarily with his Uncle’s family. The economy in Burnett was prosperous at the time, but his uncle’s health was failing. With their experience at the Trading Post, Ross and Swan made such a good impression that-in exchange for a percentage of the profits-the unlikely couple operated his aging
benefactor’s enterprise. Shortly after their arrival, the townspeople changed the name of
the town to Tilden in honor of Samuel J. Tilden. When Rutherford B. Hayes won the presidential election in 1876, Tilden had contested the election. There was considerable bitterness surrounding his contested ‘defeat,’ and Simmons suspected it had been the source of a deepening anti-government sentiment characteristic of the area. Ross’s Blackfoot wife had made him acutely aware of the consistent policy of Indian betrayal by the U.S. government. The Tilden debacle seemed to justify his paranoid mentality. Subsequent Canadian and U.S. campaigns led to defeat of the Indians and decimation of the Indian population by the diseases of their White conquerors over the next century. Combined, these ignominious setbacks destroyed the spirit of the Indians. Their vast lands were seized, and numerous additional tribes, including the Blackfeet, were relocated by force to Montana, authorized by a series of treaties and executive orders.
The Indian economy depended upon the Bison. When Bison began to approach extinction by over hunting and wanton slaughter–especially by thrill shooters from passing trains-the tribes experienced increasing want. To their chagrin, they learned that the White man had little sympathy for their plight. The disparaging attitude of many townsfolk toward Swan and Ross’s two sons amounted to censure. Swan’s brother, Crows foot, accepted the offer to join them a year after their arrival in Tilden but encountered hateful abuse from certain elements among the citizenry. A good woman who had been active in the struggle for women’s suffrage convinced her husband to give Crows foot a job working at his new grain elevator. For a time, things improved, until Crows foot was shot to death during an alleged fight in a local saloon where elevator employees congregated on paydays. Ross discovered from an empathetic coworker who approached him clandestinely that the shooting was instigated by two local ruffians and was actually manslaughter. Ross went to the Sheriff, demanding the arrest and trial of the pair for
murder. When the Sheriff refused to prosecute the two men responsible, maintaining without evidence that the murder was self-defense, Ross’s already well-honed animosity for the corruption of law enforcement developed into a strong contempt for law in general. He retained a local printer, publishing hundreds of posters which he tacked on every business door and public post in town. His efforts divided the community, and it was fortuitous for the greater good when Ross made the decision to return to Montana several months later. His father had since died, apparently regretting the schism with
Ross; this was evidenced by his will bequeathing his city house in Livingston to Swan personally, and a substantial sum of money to Ross. After persuading Swan to sell the house in town, Ross bought a ranch with the proceeds. The decision seemed justified, because for many years afterward, the Fawcetts were apparently happy, spending a great
deal of time with Swan’s family and relatives. As a consequence, both of Ross’s boys cultivated excellent horsemanship skills, especially Rocky. At seventeen, Swan’s relatives were so impressed with him that they invited Rocky to participate in a rodeo. Indian rodeos were normally open to the public, but it was a privilege to actively participate. As if to forge his father’s defiance of prejudice into a family tradition, Rocky fell in love with an Indian girl he met at a rodeo on the Northern Cheyenne reservation. The Cheyenne reservation nearly bordered the Blackfoot. They named their first son, Christof.
If Ross had a healthy contempt for the checkered ethics and misadventures of the U.S. government, it was nothing compared with Rocky’s total disdain. Immersed in Indian cultural influence, surrounded by Indian friends, and strongly affected by the stories
related to the family by Ross and Swan, contempt for federal authority was tantamount to manhood for Rocky. He conducted all of his affairs in cash, kept no records, drove for years before being forced to obtain his first driver’s license, and never filed an income tax return. To avoid the draft, he fled to Canada during the Viet Nam war, returning only after President Ford’s amnesty, meeting his Northern Cheyenne girlfriend and marrying her shortly thereafter. They moved to Kalispell during the eighties. Growing up in such an environment, with a Cheyenne mother and Rocky for a father, it seemed to Simmons that Christof had never had the chance to form healthy American attitudes. He understood now how the Rambo character he knew as “Skinhead” could derive satisfaction
from rendering half of Ft. Benning uninhabitable for decades to come. He also understood the sense of brotherhood he had demonstrated with Kicks Iron, having Blackfoot and Cheyenne blood in his own veins. Christof was better than three-fourths Indian himself. He just didn’t look Indian. His skin, though dark, was more olive than red, and his
Grandfather, Hugh’s facial features had remained dominant across the generations.
Simmons therefore concluded that it would prove impossible to obtain his cooperation with a government move to take down the militia movement with whom he shared such an ingrown affinity. An anti-government ethic had been hewn into his character as strikingly as Hugh’s features had been hewn into his face. Apprehending him would
accomplish nothing except to alert Kicks Iron and Lefty–or was it Carl?–that he was on their trail. Surveilling him was the only option that might lead them to his cohorts.
There was just one point that seemed uncanny: Christof had served in Iraq, and not as a run-of-the-mill soldier; he had explicitly sought the Special Forces. After completing his training, and an expert in explosives and the associated technology, he had operated behind Iraqi lines in the war against Saddam--and survived. His team successfully
destroyed numerous targets Bush’s planners considered strategic. “No wonder he looks like Rambo!” Simmons thought. After returning from Iraq, Christof remained close to his family.
There was a note that he ate Sunday dinner with them at least monthly. That would provide an opportunity to connect with him and to initiate surveillance. As he perused the materials further, Simmons found a possible explanation why the Special Forces might appeal to Christof: After his parents moved to Kalispell, one of his new friends-an avid
Scouter-persuaded him to become a Troop Leader. Among his favorite activities were the annual Scout Camps in the Flathead National Forest. There was nothing untoward in the decision; his favorite activities during his teens were running rivers, Salmon fishing, and hiking in the mountains, particularly the Bitter Roots. He loved the Bitterroot river and supposedly knew the mountains “like the back of his hand.” A copy of a newspaper article published ten years before included a photograph of Christof and three unidentified friends standing next to a trophy-sized, Bighorn Sheep shot during one of their weeks-long summer treks. Simmons strained at the faces of Christof’s friends, but saw no
similarity to Lefty or Kicks Iron.
The Bitter Roots are so extremely rugged, they had been the nemesis of Lewis and Clark when the Corps of Discovery expedition bogged down and nearly starved attempting to pass through them to the west. Simmons wondered if one or more of Kicks Irons’ “stashes” that Dedrick had referred to might be hidden among them. Steep and heavily forested, the Bitter Roots represented no small impediment to locating any thing
hidden among them. The more he learned about Christof, the more trepidation Simmons
felt. His plan had been to connect with him, follow him about, and
attempt to identify his contacts and associates. By so doing, he hoped
to discover and destroy the militia. But by the time they turned north
on Highway 93 in Missoula, he had developed a healthy respect for the
adversary his prey represented, particularly if the crew discovered
Simmons was on their trail.
The Western Outlaw, a three-star hotel in Kalispell, had been
selected as a base of operations. The agent rooms were clustered on the
back corner of the ground floor, concealed from street view. They
arrived dressed to appear as just one more group of sportsmen. One of
these bristled with computers, an array of specialized electronic
devices, and other equipment. Six agents would spend their waking hours
there providing support. Six others, not counting Tibbits, would be
paired off in three mobile surveillance units. Tibbits and Simmons
would remain together as a fourth mobile unit. The room rented for
Simmons, the only second floor room, sported a breathtaking view of the
mountains.
Simmons felt he had run an emotional gamut through Christof’s
background during the drive north. The man he had known as Skinhead now
appeared larger than life. Combined with Kalispell’s disorienting Old
West charm, he felt strangely out of his element, rather like being in
another country. Moreover, he had come to understand him so well that he felt he almost agreed with the actions that had cost so many lives. After all, altogether, they were but a fraction of what his people and the Indian nations generally had suffered at the hands of the White man. Still, it was personal. He realized he was on the verge of conflict with his own heritage and destiny which, like it or not, seemed to be coming home to roost a century and a half after the fuse was lit. It seemed impossible, but he knew personally that the Indian sense of time was markedly different from his own. Had it happened to his people, what would he have done differently. It upset him so much, he had to literally get drunk and try to escape the dilemma.
Montana’s spirit of freedom and independence was legendary. No one here could be trusted with their true identities, nor with the actual purpose of their presence. By now, his former captors were certainly aware of his and Kaye’s disappearance. They might be
overconfident, thinking no one had a clue whom they were or where they might be found. That might cause them to be reckless. It was equally plausible though that they were in a state of high-alert. With Christof’s training, Kicks Iron’s cavalier violence, and the mysterious Lefty still a complete unknown, getting sloppy here could get men
killed. With so much hanging in the balance, Neither he, nor Tibbits’ FBI team could afford to take anything for granted. They were by every measurement Simmons could come up with, completely out of their league. These guys believed in what they were doing. How much did he?
Tibbits interrupted his call to Brody, returning with several brown paper sacks teeming with Barbecue and fixings from one of several local vendors. Simmons couldn’t risk eating in the restaurants. He expressed his frustration to Brody that he, the hunter, was forced to operate furtively to avoid discovery by the hunted.
“I’m glad the intelligence was helpful,” Brody said. “I have complete confidence in you and your team. If you play your cards right and follow procedure, you’ll bust this thing wide open for us.”
“Everything might not be by procedure,” he replied. “Christof’s not the animal I expected. One slip, and the three of them could drop off the planet. Their training, their ideology, their brotherhood and dedication, everything about them makes them dangerous.”
“Use whatever degree of caution is necessary, Colonel. President McKay wants them caught.” As the call ended, Tibbits spoke up.
“This fax came in, Colonel.”
“What is it?”
“You remember that economics professor the FBI brought down in a Sting operation a year or so ago, a fellow named Blevins?”
“The NADNARA felon; what about it?”
“He was just one of many destroying NADNARA arrays, and he was a member of the Muskets; it’s a national organization on the order of the ACLU, but focused on NADNARA. I knew the agent responsible for the sting operation that caught Blevins. He and his informant disappeared not long afterward. That was my operation. I lost Frank McCall, but to this day, I don’t know how they made him.”
“I thought the Muskets were non-violent, a PR group that was exacerbating anti-NADNARA sentiments.”
“Frank and I thought at the time Blevins might be the tip of the iceberg. NADNARA arrays were destroyed nationally. When we plotted the locations of all destroyed facilities and then established hypothetical centers, we came up with ten cities as foci, and the foci generated by the computer models were the same ten cities where Musket offices are
located. We felt it had to be more than coincidence that the Muskets had offices in every one of them . . . and nowhere else!”
“Where did the investigation lead?”
“That’s the problem; the Musket membership list is posted on the Internet. Blevins wasn’t listed as a member of the San Francisco group.”
“How did you connect him to it then?”
“Through an informant. He approached us, demanding money. We took the opportunity and it paid off. It turns out that when we checked, the informant, Al Bethurem wasn’t listed either.”
“Was it a setup? Was he even a Musket himself?”
“Frank and I were sensitive to that possibility, but Bethurem took Frank to a meeting. Everything checked out. The other members knew and trusted him, so much so that he was successful infiltrating Frank into the group. A few weeks later, Bethurem informed him that Blevins would be destroying an array a few nights later and Frank was to go with him.
When Frank and Blevins showed up, we got the entire thing on videotape, and Blevins went down. We devised the Sting so it would appear to Blevins that Frank had been wounded as he escaped.”
“It obviously worked.”
“Not as planned. A few weeks later, Frank met Bethurem at a bar outside town to schedule another sting. It was innocuous enough. I received a call from Frank. I knew because caller-ID showed his number. When I answered, I heard nothing. When I called back, the line was open. We sent a unit and they found both Frank and Bethurem’s vehicles still parked in front of the bar, but no Frank and no Bethurem. That’s
when we suspected foul play.”
“Any idea what happened? Did they make contact later?”
“Never. Neither was ever found. We left their vehicles for four
days and watched in the event someone might attempt to move them.
Nothing.”
“I missed that on the news.”
“It wasn’t released to the press. We suppressed it. Mrs. Bethurem was hysterical, not to mention Estelle, Frank’s wife. It hit me especially hard. Frank and Estelle were our friends. We barbecued at least twice monthly. At my insistence, we picked up the entire San Francisco chapter. I was certain someone among them knew what had happened. We applied enormous pressure, even pushing the edge of the civil rights envelope. It was a dry hole. The lawsuits filed by their attorneys were thrown out, but the Director was pissed. He pulled the plug when it appeared Blevins was an isolated incident. There was no chance of infiltrating that bunch again after so much heat.”
“Jesus, Tibbits; that was a tough break. How’s it related to this fax.”
“Because I disagreed with the Director. I still think there’s a secret side of the Muskets, and I think the leaders of that secret side are people with no identifiable connection to them. There’s more. A month after Frank and Bethurem disappeared, both Estelle and Bethurem’s wife disappeared for a week.”
“Where had they been?”
“They couldn’t tell us. They were both abducted during the night, forced from their homes at gunpoint, bound, gagged, and crammed into the trunk of a older model, green Olds. They couldn’t help us with the year.”
“That didn’t make the news either, did it?”
“No. Same reason. Their abductors–two white males wearing sock masks over their faces–stopped at a deserted Rest Stop, removed the duct tape over their mouths, and made them drink what they thought was lemonade.”
“Strange!”
“Not really. We think it was spiked with Scopolamine, because later, they couldn’t remember anything that occurred during that week until they were found walking together in a suburb of Tijuana.”
“Mexico?”
“Believe it or not. The mind doesn’t record what happens to you if you’re drugged with Scopolamine, but tests revealed they had both been raped and sodomized repeatedly by a number of men. They had also been marred with a diagonal cut across their faces.”
”Scarred for life! It must have been done by the same men who abducted their husbands. That’s horrific.”
“We think their abductors kept them drugged, used them for pleasure for upwards of a week, then drove them across the border, and turned them loose outside Tijuana after cutting them. God only knows what they were forced to submit to during that period.”
“At least you have their DNA.”
“Maybe. Sperm from seven different men was isolated in Bethurem’s wife, and from more than twenty distinct donors in Estelle’s case. She’s a beautiful woman, or was. Bethurem’s wife is something of a skag. It is to be hoped the abductors’ sperm was among them. We think they were lured or seized by a group of Mexican men after being put out and raped repeatedly by them as well.”
“They couldn’t recall anything prior to the morning they were found?”
“The memory doesn’t record anything that occurs while under the active influence of Scopolamine.”
“That’s probably the only reason they weren’t killed. Their abductors knew that.”
“There was extensive vaginal and anal tearing; also inflammation at the corners of their mouths.”
“They’re lucky to be alive.”
“I suspect that was the point of it all: A grim reminder to them and the Bureau that they were powerless to prevent retribution; they had gotten one over on the FBI getting rid of their husbands, and again when they malled and marred their wives.”
“Was one of their abductors unusually tall, about six-eight?”
“I checked that out already. Unfortunately, no. The victims testified that both men were of medium height. Of course, they wouldn’t remember anyone who appeared later after they’d drank the Scopolamine.”
Simmons turned his attention to the fax. The first page briefly summarized the sting that netted Blevins. Then there was this: “The Mexicans occupied California as their territory, but prior to that, it belonged to the Indians who lived there. When you examine the link
between living somewhere and owning it, you can walk back in time almost as far as you wish without ever discovering the original owners.
The Indians who occupied California when the Spaniards arrived may have conquered or displaced the former Indians, who may have conquered or displaced the former inhabitants, etc. It becomes a morass. We can’t put everyone Black back in Africa and work out from there!”
The second page contained a portion of a conversation between Blevins and a visitor.
“The KC office transcribed the tapes of all conversations between Blevins and those who visited him in Leavenworth following his conviction,” Tibbits remarked. “It’s standard procedure for high profile inmates . . . those connected with partially unresolved crimes,
the mob, and since the formation of Homeland Security post 9/11, any case that might be linked to National Security. I listened to every conversation many times, looking for leads. One conversation–the one you’re holding–proved to me that someone connected with the Muskets had killed Frank and our informant. His son knew too much. After our
confrontation with the Muskets, I was told in so many words to lay off when I proposed to go after him. He’s been under surveillance 24/7, but his family lives like so many saints.”
“Then why this fax?”
“The transcribed files are subsequently cross-referenced against our databases. The conversation in the fax had a possible hit . . . the name, Eric turned up when your interview with Dedrick was cross-checked against Blevins’ conversation with his son, Lloyd. I didn’t make the connection last week during the Dedrick interview; I should have. But the computer caught it.”
“There are many Erics in the world. It sounds as though this Eric may have been involved in NADNARA smashing. It might be a break; we need every break we can get. ”
He turned the page and reviewed the transcription.
[Lloyd B.] “ . . . so it’s unlikely the FBI will stoop to harassment of any more Musket members.”
[Inmate B.] “They’re feeling pressure from Washington.”
[Lloyd B.] “Mom and the family insisted that I stress how much they love and miss you, Dad.”
[Inmate B.] “I miss them too. I miss my students, my work, my life.”
[Lloyd B.] “What they’ve done to you is unforgivable. This country has become a police state.”
[Inmate B.] “There will be many more victims as freedom continues to erode. It was fortunate I was the only one apprehended. We could have both gone down.”
[Lloyd B.] “That was no accident, Dad. You we’re set up. Al was in on it.”
[Inmate B.] “Nonsense, and don’t mention names. These walls have ears.”
[Lloyd B.] “They know about Al; he was an informant.”
[Inmate B.] “You’re mistaken, Son. He could have been killed. I heard the shots fired, and I overheard the agents talking about narrowly missing him afterward. “
[Lloyd B.] “You were supposed to. It was all for your benefit. If he hadn’t disappeared, their plans for another sting would have given you a roommate.”
[Inmate B.] “Don’t say another word. We’ll not discuss this further.”
[Lloyd B.] “I felt you should know. You deserve to know.”
[Inmate B.] “That’s enough said on the subject.”
[Lloyd B.] “The group sends their best. Your sacrifice has
resulted in a rush of new members. Eric said to relate that he intended to visit you but then thought better of it. You’re being hailed a martyr by everyone, even in the press.”
[Inmate B.] “I’ve read The Life of Nathan Hale twice since arriving here.”
[Lloyd B.] “And you’re in good company there. I don’t think any of us could stand it otherwise. The grandchildren all know that their grandfather is a patriot, and . . . “
”The name is there, but not a context.”
“There is a context. Why would this Eric ‘think better’ of visiting Blevins if he wasn’t dirty.”
“Perhaps he’s another NADNARA smasher?”
“At a minimum.”
“That doesn’t help us much with the base bombing.”
“Still, it begs the question, ‘What’s in a name?’”
“Three men were involved in the strike against Ft. Benning, the crew’s target, and probably unrelated to this Eric, whoever he is.”
“If we could just find one or two more pieces of the puzzle, I think we might discover that the Muskets were responsible for Frank’s murder. I can’t resist the suspicion that their secret members were responsible for the base bombing. If they were, it wouldn’t be
unreasonable to work on the basis that they were also responsible for the D.C. strike.”
“It’s a long shot, but we can keep it in mind. What we need is a tip, or a confession from a member of the crew, but I think that’s hoping for too much. If Lefty turns out to be Indian like Fawcett and White, a more likely scenario is that this is some sort of Indian
reprisal. Georgia is former Cherokee land. Jackson drove them out. Remember the Trail of Tears?”
“I don’t know, Colonel. It seems late in the day for that.”
“Look at it through their eyes. The Cobell lawsuit over the Individual Indian Monies Trust wasn’t that many years ago. To Indians, the government has never abandoned its tricks and subterfuge against them. The affronts have never ceased as far as they’re concerned. To me, it’s very significant that Fort Benning was selected for the base
bombing.”
After designating two agents to watch Fawcett’s home and follow Christof to Blackfoot Marine Repair, or Equipment, the next morning, Simmons asked Tibbits if he’d verified the trace.
“They’ve been monitoring the line since yesterday. Nothing useful yet.”
After the team dispersed to individual rooms, Simmons kept his promise to call Kaye.
“It’s so good to hear your voice, Horrace,” she said. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about you since my new friends left. You wouldn’t believe how friendly everyone I’ve met has been. I liked your idea of Sonora, but harbored a few unspoken musings about what life might be like. I couldn’t be more pleased–except by having you home. Guess what
we did tonight?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“We had a reading; my first, and I loved it!”
“I knew you’d find people there would were sophisticated. Hell, it’s an artist’s town. How many were there?”
“Myself and three others, but usually it’s a larger group. They have readings every week, usually at the bookstore and often by an author. It’s entertaining and sells books. Tonight, Rosemary Clutchins, a freelance magazine writer, read several of her pieces. Amy Palusa will read next week. The Palusas are retired Air Force. I also met Fran
Addison, an artist who illustrates children’s books and paints rural scenes around the county. She told me she earns a great income selling them to tourists during art shows. She’s taking me to one of the galleries tomorrow to view some of her work.”
“Sounds like quite a group. I wish I was there. It would be wonderful to have you here. Montana is so beautiful, but I’d enjoy it much more if we were vacationing, not me working.”
“I miss you, Horrace.”
“I miss you, and I’m happy you found new friends. You’re remembering to wear your locater wristwatch though, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I want you to feel comfortable and secure, to be comfortable and secure. But I’ll sleep much better knowing you’re following procedures.”
“I am, Horrace. Don’t worry. I’m not taking anything for granted.”
“Good. So tell me about your friends, your reading group.”
“They accepted me. They’re all so sweet. How long do you think you’ll be in Montana before you can spend some time at home?”
“Well, I just arrived this evening, so Quien Sabe? Maybe soon. Things are moving forward more quickly than I anticipated.”
“You’re being careful . . . not taking any chances either? I don’t want anything to happen to you; I couldn’t take it after all we’ve passed through: your almost being killed, those horrible months beside your bed, wondering if you could understand when I whispered in your ear, hoping you heard when I read to you . . . Then having to sneak out the back door of the hospital and move across the country. I couldn’t even direct the movers.”
“Was anything damaged?”
“No, the packers did a good job, but you know how picky I am about our things. I just want this all to be over.“
”I can’t go out without a disguise until my beard and moustache grow longer. I might be recognized. Tibbits is covering for me, going into places when we’re out and about. It irritates the hell out of me, but it’s necessary.”
“Isn’t it just awful how disease is running amuck in Detroit, in what's left of Philadelphia, and the cities near Washington because of all the garbage accumulating? You’d think the National Guard troops could do something about that . . . and they said on the News that the stench of rotting flesh from human bodies is so vile, it seems to be spreading death itself across the cities? And a cholera outbreak? It doesn’t seem possible these things could be happening in America. I thought cholera disappeared while our parents were children. Rotting bodies! I thought that only happened in places like Somalia. People
starving to death and dying of disease like dogs in American cities and we can’t seem to bring the atrocities under control. I get sick just hearing about the race war going on in those city centers.”
“Tibbits told me that the atrocities seem to be increasingly the work of gangs, racial vigilante groups, and drug killings. It’s a real mess.”
“Can you imagine living up there? Why haven’t the rest of the people left? Why are so many still there?”
“Too many die hards that won’t leave their home towns. Either no vehicle, no money, or both. Many can’t imagine leaving I suspect.
Remember the old timer who refused to evacuate his cabin on Mount St. Helens? When it exploded, it blew his ass into the stratosphere along with the top of the mountain. Typical fatalism. Most people become akin to something like fatalists rather than uproot their entire life and start all over again. As far as the cholera, you know that no disease ever really disappears. The germs are still out there waiting for any opportunity. If McKay can’t get the troops in control of that part of the country, I’m afraid it’s destined to become a wasteland. Suppliers can’t or won’t go into those places. They’re deathtraps. They might not get out. Normal business isn’t functioning. Those without means to
purchase food and clean water from the black market operated by gangs and drug militias die first if they or their friends aren't proximal to one of the air drops of food, water, and supplies.”
“I just can’t understand how those things are happening in cities so far from Washington, D.C., or what’s left of it. Life goes on out here. Why not there?”
“Too many pent-up pressures in many of those old cities. Always waiting for something to set them off. The Detroit, Harlem, and L.A. Riots were sparked by things trivial compared to a nuclear strike. Civilization in the Northeast and Midwest is a thin veneer. It always
has been. I heard the military is about to drop paratroopers, equipment, and supplies into the centers of the worst hot spots and establish bases for contingents of a counterinsurgency force to work out from to stop the killing, and to halt the rape and exploitation of women and children.”
“It looks like a war from the air in those helicopter views.”
“I don’t have to think very hard or wonder very long to grasp why a nuclear blast can cause the chaos we’re seeing.”
“Are you tired, Horrace? You sound tired. Is the stress making you ill?”
“It was a long drive, a beautiful ride, but I was buried in intelligence files. I haven’t slept much during the past few days.”
“You must take care of yourself, Darling. I know how you are when you’re following a scent. If you don’t at least get adequate rest, you’ll run yourself into the ground; you’ve done it before.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He recounted the activities of the day, omitting mention of details pertinent to the mission before they ended the call. For a long time afterward, he lay on the bed drifting between consciousness and sleep. He was groggy, yet couldn’t drop off. He hated it. He knew what the real problem was. He had become so involved in the history of those he had used the pejorative, miscreants, to describe so well that he had began to wonder if he was on the right side.
“I never asked what they read tonight,” he thought.
Rising early, he stepped out onto the balcony, overcome by the view. The Lewis range loomed in the distance to the east, unobscured, the Flathead Mountains forming a stunning backdrop to the west. The air was cool and clear, a few alto cumulus clouds wisped far above.
“So this is the Big Sky Country!”
The street below clamored with activity as the locals went about their day. He was surprised at the preponderance of Jeeps and off-road vehicles here in the heart of one of the most breathtaking areas of the Northwest.
“I can’t believe we never vacationed in this part of the country,” he thought. He’d spent time in Seattle, but had hated the constant gray of the skies, the interminable rain, and the languished white of the locals’ skin in an area where they rarely saw the sun. What a
difference in Kalispell this time of year. Directly below, hunters stashed the last of their gear before heading north, outfitted like Special Forces teams. It was Saturday, and groups of exuberant young people roamed the streets, talking and laughing amongst themselves. He wished he felt like laughing, wished he and Kaye were together; that they could walk along casually without fear, enjoying the interesting
shops and stores lined side-by-side along its length. But they couldn’t. He couldn’t. He might be recognized.
The phone rang perfectly synchronous with the knock of Room Service.
“They just sent your breakfast up, Colonel. It’s what you ordered.”
“Thanks, Tibbits. Let’s plan on leaving in, say, an hour?”
“Enjoy your meal. I’ll let the others know.”
“Any report from Special Agents Yates and Blanchard yet?”
“I should know something by the time we leave.”
An hour later, they met outside.
“What’s the word?”
“Yates called after the man we assume is Fawcett left for Blackfoot Marine. It turns out that it’s located on Highway 2 -west of town-several miles out. They’ll be waiting for radio contact when we arrive.”
“Okay! Let’s go!”
“How do you feel about seeing ‘Skinhead’ again? Tibbits asked as they turned west toward Kila. “It must seem very strange for you to contemplate that.”
“I can almost feel an explosive ring around my waist!”
“I’ll bet.”
“Especially after studying him. There are a number of reasons to be concerned about that son-of-a-bitch.”
“Rambo in the flesh, huh?”
“Lacking only Stalone’s hair.”
“He’ll be more shocked than you! He’s going to shit his pants!”
“I doubt it. He’s fearless, Tibbits. We’re the ones who need to watch out. Those fellows are highly trained, not to be taken lightly. You need to remember that yourself. Your first slip could be your last.”
“No doubt.”
“I’m serious. I know you’ve been around, but Skinhead’s a terrorist, not a conventional criminal. He’s motivated by his beliefs.”
“He’s still a criminal.”
“A criminal yes, but also ex-Special Forces with proven cunning. Neither of us has ever gone after anyone quite like him and his crew before.”
“We have the element of surprise on our side, thirteen agents are a lot of firepower, plus yourself. Nothing to sneeze at!”
“I’d feel better if it was twelve or fourteen rather than thirteen.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
As they neared Kila, Tibbits contacted Yates.
“We followed Christof from his home to the shop this morning-6:30 am He opened Blackfoot and hasn’t been out since.”
“Ask what he looks like.” Simmons said.
“Give us a physical description.” Tibbits said.
“Five nine I’d estimate; slim, dark brown hair, dark-skinned; wearing a uniform with Blackfoot Marine embroidered on the back in large letters, name above the left front pocket, regular serviceman or mechanic look, but we were too far away to read the name.”
“He’s regrown his hair.” Simmons commented, “Ask him how slim, and how much hair the man has.”
“Verify hair length and what he means by ‘slim.’” Tibbits instructed.
“Not skinny. Wiry. Long hair, cut neatly.”
“Stand by.” Tibbits looked at Simmons.
“That can’t be Skinhead,” Simmons cried. “It must be Lefty. No one would describe Skinhead as ‘slim.’ He’s muscular, and his hair couldn’t have grown that much since Ft. Benning.”
“You think it’s your ‘Lefty?’”
“I don’t know. I was confident Skinhead was Christof. Now I’m not so sure. Tell them to enter the premises, ask around as though they were potential customers, and toss the guy something.”
“Toss him something?”
“Yeah. Anything.”
“That will seem strange.”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? I need to know if he’s left-handed.”
“Yates. Be a potential customer and toss the guy something. We need to know if he’s left-handed.”
“Toss him what?”
“Think of something.”
“Over and out.”
Yates and Blanchard stared at each other.
“Toss him something?” Blanchard said. “Toss him what?”
“Tibbits said, ‘anything.’ What did you bring in your lunch in case we got stuck surveilling this place all day?”
“I bought a Poor Boy at the convenience store when we gassed up this morning . . . and an apple. How about an apple?”
“Perfect. We’ll toss him your apple.”
“On what pretext? It sounds stupid.”
“You heard the man. They have to know if he’s left-handed. Tossing him the apple will tell us.”
“Then what?”
“You think I’ve thought this through? It seems awkward to me too, but that’s what the Colonel wants, so that’s what he’ll get.”
“Make like two nice guys concerned about his nutrition, huh?”
“Yeah, sure! More like concerned about his coffin size.”
They approached the entrance. No one else had reported to work
since the man entered, nor any customers.”
“Goddamn it!”
“Sounds like someone’s pissed inside.” Blanchard said.
“No shit.”
Opening the door, they espied him kneeling in front of a rack-mounted
outboard. When he noticed them, he stood.”
“Morning. What can I do for you?”
“What’s happening?” Yates asked.
“Right now, this 40-Horse Merc is happening. I thought the problem
was the ignition, but it must be carburetion.”
Two more pushes of the button and two unproductive spins verified
the assumption.
“Damn, I hate it when this happens. The mixture must be too thin.
People get out on the water and run these outboards into the ground!”
“Maybe this will help.” Yates said, tossing Blanchard’s apple to
the man. With a quick movement of his arm, he caught it . . . in his
right hand.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“Thought it might help you relax.” Yates said.
“Thanks, but I’ve eaten too many; don’t fancy them any more. We
get flooded with apples every year, plus dumping from Washington.”
“I tried.” Yates made an attempt to laugh. “Are you Christof?”
“No; I wish you were. I’d turn this junk heap over to you. Christof’s the maestro when it comes to problem outboards; or inboards for that matter.”
“A friend told me to ask for him. I assumed you were him.”
“You assumed wrong. He hasn’t been here in a week. I’d like to
trade places with him.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather be fishing any day than fucking around with engines, but it pays the rent.”
“When will he return?”
“You don’t know him very well, do you?”
“Why would you say that? This is his place, isn’t it?”
The man laughed.
“That’s true, or was, but when he hits the river or the mountains, he loses time. Anyway, it’s not his place any longer. He came into some money, turned the place over to me and left.”
“Came into some money. Did someone die and leave him an inheritance.”
“Not that I know of, but it must have been a lot. Hummers aren't cheap, especially decked out like the one he bought and had really third-partied up. If he could afford that and still have so much to live on, it must have been a windfall. You’re a week late. He did say he’d keep an eye on me, so he’ll drop in occasionally, but your guess is as good as mine when that might be. I can help you. I’m not as incompetent as I sound, just pissed. What’s the problem with your rig?”
“I have no idea.” Yates said, deferring the question. “But I wanted Christof to be the one to work on it. I heard he was really good. Where's he fishing? Maybe I can talk him into working on it.”
“Hell if I know. He didn’t say. When he told me he was turning the business over to me and I didn’t have to pay him a dime, I didn’t ask questions, but he's almost certainly south of the Flathead on the creeks. You ever fished there?”
“No. If you can handle the work, that’s fine, Smitty. What’s your last name?”
“Hanes.” He extended his hand.
Blanchard and Yates responded.
“To be up front,” Yates said, flashing his badge, “we don’t need any marine work. We’re with the FBI.” Hanes recoiled.
“FBI? Looking for Christof? Like I believe that. He’s a model citizen . . . even pays parking tickets, for Christ’s sake! You couldn’t possibly have anything on him. As far as ‘Up Front,’ you guys have been anything but!”
“Since he’s not due back, precisely where is he?”
“Precisely? What do you want with him.”
“We’re bringing him in for questioning.”
“You’re planning to arrest him then?”
“Something like that.”
“If you think I’d help government agents find him so you can arrest him, you’re out of your mind. This is Weather Underground country. You guys aren’t welcome here.”
Blanchard stepped forward and grabbed Hanes’ by the collar.
“Look, you Son-of-a-bitch! We can take you in on that statement alone.”
“Like hell. You don’t have a goddamn thing on me, you arrogant prick!”
“Ever heard of the Patriot Act? We can make your ass disappear if we want; we don’t need a reason.”
“Yeah? Well fuck you and fuck the Patriot Act, and fuck the rest of those useless Homeland Security traitors.”
“We didn’t come here to play games or be insulted by the likes of you, so don’t get cute! Where is Christof . . . exactly?”
Hanes jerked free of Blanchard’s grasp, straightened his collar indignantly, and put his toes and nose so close to Blanchard’s that they almost touched.
“Like I said, Fuck you! Who do you think you are coming in here throwing your badge around? This is still America, and let me give you some good advice: If you want to make it back to wherever you slithered in from, treat people around here like you’d like them to treat you, or that pretty face could get scarred up. If I wasn’t a nice guy or weighed twenty pounds more, I’d bust your fucking nose myself!”
“Cool it, Blanchard!” Yates shouted. “He’s right! Who are you to come in here tossing your weight around? Sorry, Hanes. Blanchard’s an ass!”
“So are all government agents if you ask me.”
“ Can I just ask you one more question . . . politely, and with respect?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Has Kicks Iron been around lately?”
“Kicks Iron? You’re looking for him, too?”
“So you know him?”
“Christof has a friend by that name, a big Indian fellow. Haven’t seen him for the longest. I’ll say one thing about him.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re damned lucky you didn’t come in here with an attitude with him around.”
“As if.” Blanchard sneered.
“Right. As if you’d be standing on your feet right now if you’d threatened him. As if that! So you want to arrest him and Christof?”
“Just asking. Let’s go, Agent Blanchard.”
“Why did you do that?” Blanchard demanded, after they were back outside. “You made me look like a jerk, like a damned rookie!”
“You are a jerk, Blanchard. What do you think Smitty thinks about the FBI and the Patriot Act after you pulled that shit? Hell, you just validated every public concern out there!”
“Like I care what assholes such as him think about anything.”
“How do you know he’s an asshole? He’s a boat mechanic, for crying out loud!”
“A mechanic with an attitude.”
“What about yours? You embarrassed me in there. If the Director had heard that obstreperous bull shit about the Patriot Act authorizing us to make people disappear, you’d be on the street. You see it didn’t have the effect you wanted. Frankly, I saved your ass.”
“Like hell! You gave up Kicks Iron. You’re not all that!”
“I improved our knowledge of his knowledge. That’s better than where you were headed. If you step too hard on some of these people, they’ll turn on you, and there’s not a goddamn thing we could have done if he had cold-cocked you!”
“Are you kidding? I’d have dragged him out of there in cuffs, the fucking rebel!”
“I’m not arresting anyone and having them attribute statements like those to the FBI!”
“These Montanans don’t scare me.” Blanchard quipped.
“Maybe they should. This region is different.”
“Different, hell!”
Yates dialed Tibbits’ number on his cell phone.
“Go ahead, Yates.” Tibbits replied. “What did you learn?”
“Check out a Smitty Hanes. He says Christof came into some money, turned over the business to him, and left about a week ago. He also said Christof’s fishing Trout Creek south of the Flathead. Oh, and he’s right-handed.”
“You two keep the shop under surveillance. We’ll pursue Fawcett.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky. One more thing . . . “
”Go ahead.”
“He said he hasn’t seen Kicks Iron. He used the phrase: ’I haven’t seen him for the longest.’”
“Why did they ask for Kicks Iron?” Simmons asked angrily. “Did they reveal their identity?”
“Why did you ask about Kicks Iron, Yates?”
“Now you see!” Blanchard sneered. Yates returned the hard look.
“I thought we might as well get as much information as possible.”
“So he knows you’re from the bureau?”
“Yes.”
“Why did they do that? Your team is going to get us killed, Tibbits! Tell that eager beaver to do what you ask and only what you ask! Damn him! He just burned an angle!”
“We’re all eager, Colonel. You did the same thing in Oklahoma.
Remember?”
“We’re being reckless. If Christof happens to stop by there and learns two agents are looking for him, we’ve tipped our hand. We can’t make any more mistakes like that; none of us! We need a tap on that line. He could be calling anyone this very minute and we wouldn’t have a clue.”
“I'm ahead of you on that one. We have a tap. The boys at the hotel are monitoring it.”
“I don’t suppose your two eager beavers were alert enough to ascertain whether Hanes had a cell phone?”
After chiding Yates and finding they didn't know if Smitty had a cell, Tibbits drove east back to the reservoir and turned south along Trout Creek.
“We do have one huge break,” Simmons said. “two actually: first, a really decked out Hummer shouldn't be that hard to find. It will really stand out; . . . and a serendipitous break.” He spent the time stewing as they headed south toward Poulson.
“It can’t be.” Tibbits exclaimed, staring intermittently into the rear-view mirror.
“What’s got you spooked?”
“I shouldn’t say this, but . . . remember the red pickup we pulled over in Oklahoma?”
“How could I forget? Don’t rub it in, Tibbits. I got your point.”
“I’m not rubbing it in.”
“Then what about it?”
“What are the odds of it being anywhere near Kalispell, Montana?”
Simmons whirled and looked out the back window.
“Surely not.”
“I really do think that’s the same truck. The man lives across the street from Kicks Iron. He also knows we’re with the bureau, me at least. And it must have been obvious we were looking for Kicks Iron. You asked a direct question.”
Silence.
“What should we do? I don’t to want to multiply our list of fuck ups.”
“I’m thinking. If we let on we know he’s following, it works against us. If we stop him, it works against us. That’s a lose-lose. We need to turn this situation into a win if that’s actually him.”
“What are our options?”
“Have the other vehicles switch off behind him.”
“We need to ask ourselves a few questions.” Simmons said after Tibbits set up the tail.
“Okay.”
“For instance, if it’s him, why is he here?”
“To alert Kicks Iron. Why else?”
“He could have done that by phone.”
“Okay, so that means Kicks Iron doesn’t have a phone this guy knows about. But to drive all the way to Montana? You’d have to be very, very close to someone to drive all the way from Oklahoma to Montana to tell them the FBI was looking for them.”
“I don’t have trouble believing it. He lives across the street from the Chief’s family. I don’t have any trouble believing it at all. They’re probably just that close. They’re Indians. They probably view us as the enemy. We’d better handle this is a way that lets him lead us to Kicks Iron. Otherwise, he could lead him to us. That's a nonstarter. It is an ender's game though, maybe our end.”
“How could he know we were here or who we are?”
“Maybe he thinks we’re onto his friend, or maybe he’s tracking us to see where we’re staying. In either case, it plays poorly.”
“Maybe he spotted Yates and Blanchard, or spoke to Hanes.”
“Not necessarily. He could have just happened by while they were inside and happened to see us waiting outside.”
“But we could be anyone.”
“He knows our faces, Tibbits. While we we’re surveilling Blackfoot Marine, he probably made us. I don't believe for a minute that Smitty fellow hasn't seen Kicks Iron for “the longest.”
“He could be doing this on his own. It wasn’t something he expected, which means he probably hasn’t made contact with Kicks Iron. He can’t reach him on the phone.”
“Don't you get it? That’s why he was headed for Blackfoot Marine; to find out from Christof where Kicks Iron was so he could warn him.”
“Of course. Duh!”
“Yeah, and when he got close before he arrived, he noticed us, or recognized your face, or connected us with Yates and Blanchard when they emerged and then looked around and recognized us.”
“And decided to tail us. Talk about adverse timing.”
“From our point-of-view, sure. But from his, pure serendipity!”
“I don’t know whether to cringe or celebrate, Colonel. It’s a matter of who tracks who . . . to where.”
“God only knows where, and that makes me nervous.”
“We’re approaching Poulson. What now? All we know is that Christof is somewhere on the river south of here.”
“There are two. We don’t know which one.”
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“I wish the odds were that good. They’re not, but it’s all we have to go on. Let’s stop somewhere, a coffee shop or someplace he’ll be reticent to park. If we can shake him, the others can follow him. If he hangs with us, we’ll think of something else.”
Tibbits contacted the other vehicles.
“The pickup’s hanging pretty far back,” he said. “We’re about to pull off. Stay with him if he doesn’t stop.”
“Got it. He’s been on the phone the last ten minutes. Too bad we don’t have a van to intercept his cell.”
“I wonder who he’s been speaking with.” Tibbits mused. It’s not Kicks Iron.”
“We can’t know that. Probably Hanes, but Hanes could know Kicks Iron’s number or how to get it. With a possible tap in place at the shop, Hanes wouldn't use that line. Hanes does have a cell phone, I'll bet. For all we know, the entire group might know we’re here.”
“There’s a café. It’s in the open. He’ll have trouble pulling off with us.”
“Good spot. Do it.”
As they parked, Simmons and Tibbits were careful not to give any indication they were onto the tail.
“He kept going.” Tibbits said as they entered.
“Let’s sit by the window, see what he does.”
Sipping their coffee, they waited. The call came.
“He’s heading east, Sir.”
“He’s headed east, Colonel!”
“East! Hanes must have contacted Christof the minute we left,”
Simmons replied, “ . . . and found he was somewhere else. That’s where he’s sent the pickup. He told him where Christof actually is.”
“Don’t lose him!” Tibbits shouted. “He’s leading you to the subject; maybe to two subjects.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“This may be just the break we need.” Simmons said.
After leaving the café, Simmons suggested changing vehicles, but half an hour passed before a local rental could be arranged. In the meantime, Simmons remained out front talking with the agents tailing the pickup.
“Sir, we just passed through Big fork, heading toward Creston.”
Simmons traced their movements on his map.
“Looks like he’s returning to Kalispell. We’ll go north on the West side of the lake. Just stay with him.”
Tibbits came out with the keys to the rental.
“What’s the word?” he asked.
“They’re on the northeast end of the lake. We’ll go north on the west. It looks as though the subject is returning to Kalispell. I’ll follow you.”
“Follow me? Why did we need the rental, then?”
“We didn’t know where he was going. He could have stopped at any point along the water. We’re made, and I want to be close to the action, not hearing it over a radio or cell phone. Still, we can’t very well leave our vehicle way the hell down here, can we?”
“Whatever. Just keep the cell. I have another. I’ll give you a radio so we can communicate along the way.”
Sometime later, as they drove north, Agent Cummins called again.
“The pickup just turned toward Kalispell, Sir. Look’s as if your conclusion he was returning to Kalispell was correct. We’re hanging back, but near the city, we’ll have to close the gap.”
“Contact Yates. Have them switch vehicles at the motel and pick up the tail just before you reach the urban area. You’ve been following a long time. It’s too risky.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Did you get that, Tibbits?”
“I did. Don’t you think we should have Yates and Blanchard report before pulling them off Hanes?”
“Maybe. Follow through and update me if you learn something that makes you think they should stay where they are. Our discussion led to the conclusion that the subject in the pickup may have seen them, so I think it’s wise for them to change vehicles.”
“I forgot his name, too, so I called in and had the Oklahoma recording played back. The man in the pickup is Sky Warrior. He goes by the name of ‘Sky’ Fergy in Tribal records. I also requested a van ASAP to pick up Fergy’s conversations. We’re at a terrible disadvantage at the moment. If we were recording his calls, we could get ahead of him.”
“Good for you . . . and thanks for reminding me of Fergy’s name! Another Cherokee. I'm beginning to feel like Custer. That was so long ago. This has the characteristics of The Outer Limits. I'm starting to get really uncomfortable. I'm asking myself, 'who's really in charge, here.'”
Simmons mind churned with questions and choices. What to do? Hanes and Fergy had to be followed and a tap on Hanes’ phones was probably useless, unless he used it after nightfall. Soon, they’d be listening is on Fergy’s calls as well. Beyond that, everything was open-ended and depended upon where Fergy led them and any data drawn from the taps. This was the part he hated most: the waiting game. It seemed almost as if Fergy was leading them on a wild Goose chase. Was he? A lot depended on the answer. It would also be instructive to learn where Fergy was staying in Kalispell, and with whom if that was the case, so they had to be proximal to him, rather than wandering aimlessly along Trout Creek. Was there anything else they should be doing? Were they missing
anything, perhaps something obvious? He decided they had done all they could do at the moment.
“Colonel, we may have a problem.”
“Of what sort?”
“We can’t raise anyone at the motel.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe their cell batteries are run down, but they have two, so it doesn’t seem likely.”
“You’ve got six agents there with their thumbs up their asses.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. They’re the support, arranging for the intercept unit, the wire taps, and so forth.”
“That’s beside the point. What are your procedures when this happens?”
“We can wait until we’re within radio range and then call, but that’s too long to wonder. Something must be awry in the cell tower. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. I think we should pull Yates and Blanchard off surveillance, have them go by and inform our agents they’re off-line, and check in with us.”
“It seems they would have already addressed the problem themselves. I hate to pull Yates. Then we have two blind spots.”
“On the other hand, they're unknowns.”
“Do what you think is best.”
Regrettably, Tibbits called Yates.
“If nothing is happening and they’re just sitting in the alley across from Blackfoot Marine, it’s likely they can swing by the motel and return without consequence.”
“Yeah, I agree. You're probably right.”
“Come on, Yates, answer the damned phone!” Tibbits said.”
“Taking his sweet time?”
“I’ll try it again. They’re not answering.”
“Maybe there is a problem with the cell system. There’s not a lot that can go wrong sitting on your ass in an alley.”
“Still no answer,” Yates said. “I’m putting a call into the network. This is ridiculous. I can speak with the agents tailing Fergy, but no one in Kalispell. Is that consistent with a tower problem?”
“It must be local to Kalispell. Everything points to it.”
“Or we could be in a hornet’s nest and not be aware of it.”
“I never allow that possibility very far from my thoughts.”
“We can’t do anything about it. We’ll just have to wait until we reach Kalispell.”

SOLECISMS

“Goddamn, a twelve-pounder!” he shouted as he fought the heroic Trout in the turbulent, rippling waters where the stream entered the deep that overflowed the dam. Taking umbrage at the predator’s hook, the finned warrior gave a final, desperate, thrust of his powerful tail and vaulted three feet toward the sky. Falling back, he gamboled off the
edge of the net, where his luck expired. He fell inside. The string was heavy with the addition of this new captive, taut from the dead weight of more than fifty pounds of fish. With the ring once again secure beneath the cobble, the swimming-impaired group
resumed the gentle wagging of their tails in subdued resignation to the discomfort of a nylon chord running into their mouths and out their gills. The glimmer of a smile meandered across his face. How he loved to fish!
He felt happy. For years, he had suffered from frustration and anger. The nights spent destroying NADNARA arrays bequeathed only ephemeral relief from depression, because the federal government just built them again. The America that once was had been slipping away in spite of the gallant efforts of patriots who risked arrest and imprisonment to resist the insidious cancer of NADNARA. It had seemed that before long, freedom would be found only in frayed books on dusty shelves, and the name of anyone who dared read those accounts of the time when men breathed free would have their name reported by the library to Homeland Security. But since the exemplary success of the base bombing operation and the joy he felt as an embarrassed government turned over every stone searching in vain for the “terrorists,” he had known peace. Finally,
modern American patriots had done something meaningful of sufficient magnitude to bring the federal government to consternation. And he had been one of them!
“Enough for today.” He closed his tackle box and walked back across the log dam he had constructed the previous month, toting his string of prized fish to the cabin. It had been so easy. Just position the logs across the stream, place smaller branches in the widest
cracks, and nature would take care of the rest. First, the floating Fall leaves filled every crevice in the upper logs until they were water-tight. Later, water-logged leaves and debris filled the cracks between the submerged logs. Beavers had learned the art and been practicing it for thousands of years. Man was a late apprentice. He knew a man who’d spent almost fifteen thousand constructing a steel-reinforced concrete dam. The fellow had retired to Montana from California. What he lacked in wilderness and mountaineering skills he made up for with cash. More and more greenhorns were immigrating to Montana. His dam had cost only a few days’ sweat clearing a large
enough area within which to assemble his pre-fab log home. Initially, he had planned to construct it with logs hewn from his own trees, but the cash-filled envelope altered those plans. Less than a week after returning from Yemen, a stranger entered Blackfoot Marine
late in the evening, wearing a pull-over mask. Without a word, the stranger handed him a bundle wrapped in an American flag, saluted him, turned, and left immediately. How astonished he had been to find 50 bundles of $100 bills enclosed within the Stars and Stripes, fifty bills per bundle! A two-line note, “In Appreciation for Milk Truck” narrowed the list of possible benefactors. The base bombing had been an ideological action. The Muskets had done it for freedom, not pecuniary gain. Still, he was delighted. His thriving marine repair business made its greatest demands upon his time during the best part of the year in the Rockies. The cash would grant him some respite. The first thing he had done was buy and outfit a brand new Hummer; The camouflage made it look like a military vehicle. The next thing he had done was pay off his lot fronting the stream, one of the dependable, year-round tributaries that flowed into Clark Fork. The second had been the purchase of a prefab log home built of dried, seasoned Pole Pine logs. He’d always considered prefabs a luxury of the wealthy-retirees or movie stars-who flocked to the area in greater numbers every year. Kalispell’s population alone had swollen by twenty percent annually over the past decade, and many of the move-ins searched out and purchased sites just like this one on Montana's streams, rivers, and lakes. He wrapped the log home with stone to three feet from the ground, using natural stone from the Cabinet Range. He enjoyed doing his own stone work, an art acquired helping his Indian friends one summer. Next, he fashioned a grand imposing, stone fireplace. An enormous slab of knotted pine made an impressive mantel. He knew exactly the needs of the lifestyle he wanted. Thus, the stone island centered in the over-sized kitchen sported twin stainless-steel, deep sinks, into one of which he now plopped his string. Disoriented
and generally pissed, his trophies slapped their tails in trepidation until they had gasped their last. Within half an hour, he had filleted, wrapped and frozen the lot, except for a few choice fillets. The smell of Trout Almondine would soon be permeating the walls of his new home as well as the air.
“What a life,” he thought, enjoying a beer on his front porch while admiring his new Hummer; a beer his big Zero refrigerator-freezer combo kept especially cold. “This is as good as it gets.”
The ring was out of place, irritating. It wasn’t his cell. It rarely worked up here. It was the satellite phone. Only a few individuals had that number. If it disturbed him, it would be someone he preferred to converse with. The alluring aroma of broiling trout seized him as he came back in.
“It took you long enough to pick up. We’re you outside?” It was Kicks Iron.
“I was. Where have you been the last six weeks, Brother?”
“Here and there. Did you finish the cabin?”
“It’s not exactly a cabin.”
“Pardon me, I’ll rephrase: Are you in your log home?”
“Sure am! Life to the fullest. I filleted out fifty pounds of Trout an hour ago. “Guess how long it took me to catch that many?”
“Ask me a question I can answer. You know I don’t fish.”
“You’re missing out. It took me less than an hour with my new dam. How are things in Whitefish?”
“Okay . . . for the moment.”
“Why don't you drop by, share a beer, see my place, relax for a few days. You can watch me fish. Before, I was lucky to get a three-pounder. Today, I caught a twelve! A dam changes everything; gives the big ones a place to hole up.”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“What?”
“You need to stay holed-up for a while yourself.”
“Why? Trouble?”
“Possibly big trouble, though I think I stuffed it temporarily
today.”
“That’s why you’re calling. Let me have it.”
“A week ago, that Colonel, Simmons; you remember him.”
“From Fort Benning?”
“In the flesh.”
“I thought he was in a coma.”
“He was. He came out of it. I couldn’t get to him with a pillow. The feds had him under Marine guard. I sent him a message, threatened to kill his wife if he talked.”
“And?”
“And he disappeared from the hospital not long afterward. His wife vanished the same day.”
“Vanished?”
“I happened to be tracking her at the time. She went into a supermarket, but never came out.”
“Witness protection.”
“They managed to get them out, to God knows where.”
“Well, it won’t help them. He doesn’t have a clue who nabbed him.”
“It gets worse. A few days ago, Simmons showed up at my mother’s home in Oklahoma.”
“What?”
“No shit, I swear. He had FBI agents with him. They searched the house; that buffaloed me.”
“I don’t see how . . . ”
“She said they put on as if they were there for my sister’s boyfriend, that he was reported as a drug smuggler.”
“Is he?”
“Fuck, no! Then, I worked it out. They created that phony arrest as cover to get them into the house. Simmons didn’t want her to know he was actually looking for evidence about me. They went through her papers and so forth.”
“How did he know who your mother was?”
“That’s the part that buffaloes me. It seems impossible he could have tracked me.”
“But she called you anyway.”
“No. He managed to smoke her, but a friend called from the reservation. He was suspicious of them and followed when they left. They spotted the tail, pulled him over, harassed him, the usual bull shit. But he’s clean, so they had to walk away. My trail went dead there. But now, they’re onto you. Smitty called me this morning, said the FBI had been by. He was all upset because they had a fed attitude and tried pushing him around. One of them threatened to make him disappear.”
“Disappear? They said that to Smitty?”
“The bitches! I told him not to worry, that we’d see who made who disappear. Then I took a canister of gas, a load of drums, and made a little trip to Kalispell. Had some fun.”
“Jesus! How did they find you, let alone, me?”
“I’m attempting in vain to understand how. When Smitty called, . . . “
”You think it’s NADNARA? How would they get our DNA? It’s not in the system.”
“They have mine from prison.”
“Oh, yeah . . . But they don’t know who you are, so they couldn’t know you were in prison. And in any case, they don’t have mine. Besides, McKay shut NADNARA down. It’s not supposed to be functioning.”
“Yet, somehow they’re onto us. Beats the shit outa me how Simmons pulled it off.”
“What do you think about that, by the way? Getting McKay of all people into the presidency?”
“I think someone did their homework. It was a brilliant strategy. They took out the entire Bipartisan establishment. They knew McKay was out in California campaigning. It was smooth the way they used the constitution to put him in the presidency . . . clever as hell.”
“They thought it through. I tried to reach you around that time to cheer the coup for liberty, but couldn’t reach you. You didn’t possibly have anything to do with setting back the Federal government so severely it’ll never recover, did you?”
“I’ve been about. I can’t stop grinning about McKay being President. No, I can’t take credit for those Bipartisan scalps. Wish I could.”
“You think Shiraz was behind it?”
“He’s shrewd. He thinks deeply.”
“Whoever it was, they did the country an immense favor.”
“Speaking of favors, I need one from you.”
“What do you need?”
“Your explosives acumen. I have a plan to eliminate Simmons, the only witness, and the one who can identify us on sight, but I need your help.”
“Eliminate him?”
“Him and the agents he works with. Don’t you get it? If we don’t eliminate him, you’ll be holed up on Clark Fork forever. I want to draw them into a trap. Fergy drove up from Oklahoma. He wants to help. We can trust Fergy.”
“Why not use local?”
“I am. They smoked two feds for me today while I was involved elsewhere. What I need from you is tactical, but it involves risk.”
“I’ve never been risk averse.”
“I can get the heavy hardware we’ll need from the cave, and the plastic.”
“You know how to use plastic.”
“I need it wired in a special way with a delayed timer. I don’t trust myself, because it has to be activated by a magneto, rather than by ignition.”
“When do you want to do this?”
“We have to do it overnight. Fergy’s leading them around as we speak. He’ll stay in Kalispell tonight. They’ll be forced to tail him until he leads them into our ambush.”
“Where do have in mind for an ambush?”
“Near you. Noxon Reservoir, south end. There’s a dirt road that leaves the highway on the southeast. It trails off in the trees and ends a few yards from the water. We can set up a duck shoot there. Fergy will leave the motel around five am tomorrow. Simmons and his partner will be forced to follow with their remaining agents. We can take them out before a garrison of new agents arrives in response to my work today.”
“No shit! Just exactly what did you do today?”
“Sir, the subject just checked into a Best Western. He’s in his room. Should we return to the Outlaw and ascertain the situation?”
“Hold one.” Tibbits replied. He gave Simmons a questioning look.
“What do you think?”
“Have one team keep Fergy under surveillance and the other proceed to our hotel. Meanwhile, we’ll go by Blackfoot and make contact with Yates and Blanchard.”
Tibbits passed on Simmons’ instructions.
“We should be able to reach them on their radios shortly, Colonel.”
“What a shitty situation, unable to maintain communication with eight agents all this time. It’ll be interesting to see how this got so screwed up.”
“The wireless company insists there’s nothing wrong with the network, and they’ve received no other reports suggesting any equipment malfunctions.”
“Something’s obviously wrong. How else can we account for the inability to reach either Yates and Blanchard or the motel?”
“I understand what you’re saying. I’ll be relieved to resolve this. It makes me nervous.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes in silence. The closer they came to Kalispell, the more active Simmons’ imagination became.
“This is ridiculous. When I’m out of town, I may not call Kaye for two days, and I don’t worry about her. But if I happen to call and don’t get an answer, then I start wondering why. If time passes and I still can’t reach her, I start imagining all sorts of terrible things
that might have happened. This situation is like that, especially after dark.”
“I thought I was the only one who’d experienced that phenomenon. The mind can damn sure play tricks on you. The thing is, I can’t seriously worry about eight agents all falling silent, not at two locations, not from any danger I can imagine. Six agents together can
take good care of themselves.”
“Let’s try to raise Yates on the radio. We should be in range.”
Five more minutes of frustration followed as Tibbits repeatedly tried without success to reach Yates and Blanchard.
“Team One, do you read?”
“Yes, Sir, we read you, but we’re getting nothing from the hotel.”
“We’re farther from you than the hotel, and you’re farther from us than Yates and Blanchard. They all have radios. Something is wrong.”
“We’re pulling into the Outlaw now, Sir. Hold One.”
“I don’t get it, Colonel,” Tibbits said, “I just don’t get it.”
“Your men at the Outlaw might have gone out to eat, but what are the odds of Yates and Blanchard being absent at the same time?”
“What are the odds of every single one of them breaking protocol by being out of contact? That’s even less likely.”
“Sir, we’re at the room. It’s dark. They don’t appear to be gone. All the vehicles are present. We’re swinging around front to the office for a key.”
“Roger, and we’re within a mile of Blackfoot.”
“We’ll know in a minute.” Simmons thought aloud. Tibbits slowed as they drew near to Blackfoot. The shop was dark, no vehicles in the lot.
“They probably followed Hanes to his home.” he said as they passed the dark alley.
“Wait! I see them. They’re parked back in the shadows. See? Back up and pull in front of them.”
The headlights illuminated the alley as they entered.
“I think I see them.” Tibbits said.
“Me too. That’s them. Are they sleeping?”
With the headlights on and the engine running, they walked to opposite sides.
“Yates!” Tibbits cried out. Both windows were down. Simmons froze when he saw no movement. Stepping closer, he foundBlanchard eerily slumped forward on the wheel. He opened the door andpulled him back. Blanchard’s head laid to the side like a limp sausage. Simmons saw the blood.
“Blanchard’s been shot in the side of the head. Looks like a small caliber entry wound. This side of his body is covered with dried blood.”
“Same here; small caliber. It appears someone crept up from behind and shot them unawares in the side of the head. There’s no face-on wounds, no other wounds.”
“No other wounds on Blanchard either. Boy, oh boy! If this isn’t a /sorry situation. How could someone get the drop on them so easily?
They’d have seen them coming in the side mirrors at least.”
“Nothing about today fits. You don’t suppose . . . “
Lights from a police cruiser shot pulsating blasts of color across the brick walls. Halogen light blinded them as it turned into the alley. Suspicious, two officers emerged at once, and walked toward them.
“This alley’s a One-Way. Why are you parked facing their car?”
“Officer, I’m Special Agent Tibbits, FBI. This is Colonel Simmons with Army Intelligence.”
“Why are you in the alley . . . Jesus Christ! What happened here?”
Both officers drew their weapons in a single motion when they realized Yates and Blanchard were dead.
“Show me your ID and keep your hands where we can see them. Did you two just kill those men? Looks like they’re dead.”
“They are,” Simmons replied, “They’re FBI also. Someone shot them while they were parked here on a stakeout. We arrived a few minutes before you and this is how we found them.”
The officers examined Tibbits’ and Simmons’ identification.
“I’m Officer Stroder. This is Officer Margarella. Wait here.”
Stroder returned to the cruiser, picked up the radio, and called in.
“What kind of stakeout?” Officer Margarella asked.
“They had Blackfoot Marine under surveillance.”
“Why’s the FBI watching Blackfoot Marine?”
“It’s in connection with a federal investigation.”
“That’s the Fawcett place. Are you investigating Fawcett?”
“Just a routine follow-up.”
“This doesn’t look routine to me. Where were they hit?”
“Both were shot in the side of the head by small caliber weapons.”
“They must not have seen it coming. The side of the head . . . Hmmm.” Stroder returned.
“Okay, gentlemen. Let me tell you what happens now. I called an ambulance and a tow truck. The bodies go to the Coroner and the vehicle to Police Impound. Captain’s orders, and I have to ask you to follow us to the station. He has questions.”
“That’s satisfactory for the moment,” Tibbits replied, “but their bodies will be gone over by Bureau personnel, probably arriving tomorrow after we report the murders. I’ll brief your Coroner on the procedures. We’ll be happy to talk to your Captain . . . what’s his
name?”
“Jones, just like it sounds.”
“We’ll speak with Captain Jones, but I have two surveillance teams about to report back from the Outlaw hotel. We have to stay in place until then. You’re welcome to wait here with us.”
Stroder grimaced. “Oh, we’ll wait all right! We’ve got a vehicle with two bodies in it, and we have no idea who killed them. For all we know, you may have done it, so until the Captain says, you’re not going anywhere.”
“Why would I kill my own agents? This a matter of national security. We’ll work with you, but we’re on Special assignment and you can’t detain us.”
“I don’t know about that, but we’re keeping you blocked in until the Captain says otherwise.”
The radio interrupted them. “Sir, we’re in the room.”
“That’s my team reporting.” Tibbits said, reaching for his radio. “Copy that. For your info, Yates and Blanchard are both dead, shot in the head during surveillance. We’ve got local law enforcement here with us. What have you got?”
“We’ve got an empty room with seven fifty-five-gallon plastic drums sitting in the middle of the floor, Sir.”
“Seven Fifty-five-gallon drums?”
“I think you need to get here as soon as possible. That’s horrific about Yates and Blanchard. I’ve got a bad feeling about these drums after what happened to those two.”
“Don’t touch anything. We’re on our way, should be there in ten or fifteen.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Simmons spoke up. “Officers, you need to go with us to the Outlaw, either in front or behind. Suit yourself, but you heard my agent. There’s seven drums in the room where six agents are supposed to be.”
“What do you think that means?” Margarella asked.
“I don’t know. Use your imagination. Mine’s suggesting some very gruesome images. Let’s go! We need to move now!”
“Okay, but what I said still goes. You have to talk to . . . “
”We’ll talk to Jones,” Tibbits shouted. “But right now we’re going
to the Outlaw. Come on! Get your ass in gear!”
“Follow me!” Stroder replied, running for the cruiser. “Jim, you wait here for the ambulance and follow up.”
Margarella appeared offended to be excluded from the milieu at the Outlaw, but he stepped out of Tibbits’ path and remained behind as the siren screamed, Stroder leading the way into town. Galvanized by the death of two agents and the prospect of a /scenario much worse, Tibbits was mortified. But whatever he felt, Simmons knew it couldn’t compare with the steel-cold terror wrenching his stomach. He felt like his blood had fled to his feet. He couldn’t get his mind off the drums to concentrate on Tibbits consternation.
“Jesus Christ! What the fuck is happening, Colonel? How could anyone just walk up on Yates and Blanchard like that? It’s not possible! It’s as if they didn’t suspect a thing, had no reason to believe they were in danger. They had to be facing forward to get it in
the side of the head. I can’t see them going out that way. It makes my flesh crawl. And seven drums at the Outlaw?”
“Brace yourself, Tibbits. Your missing agents are dead. Their bodies are in those drums. I know it as well as I know we’re in this car!”
“Goddamn, Colonel. How? Fucking How?”
“I don’t know how. I can’t even imagine, but I know that’s where we’ll find them. I just know it . . . I know it.”
He didn’t hear anything else Tibbits said the rest of the way. He could only picture in his mind how a man’s body would look bent double and stuffed into a drum like Herring in a jar. The expressions of surprise etched into Yates and Blanchard’s faces haunted him. It felt like Georgia, like Potts. He couldn’t breathe; his chest was tight. Their mission-his mission-under Brody had evolved into a travesty of horrors. What would Brody think about it all? Would he consider himresponsible? Who could know this was coming? At the Outlaw, they found two badly shaken agents waiting anxiously outside.
“We wanted to remove one of the rings and look inside, Sir, but we didn’t.”
Tibbits said nothing, but went directly inside. When they entered, Simmons was stunned. The sight of seven drums shoved close together in the middle of a motel room was even more bizarre than he’d imagined. The computers and other equipment had been thrown against the walls in every direction, shards and smashed equipment were everywhere.
“If this isn’t grotesque, I don’t know what is,” Officer Stroder exclaimed after following them in. “I’ve never seen anything quite this creepy. Let’s look inside them.”
“Whoa, Officer!” Tibbits cried, “They could be Booby trapped!”
“Good point. What do you suggest, then?”
“I don’t think they’re rigged,” Simmons said. “Why do you think they put their bodies in drums if not for psychological impact? They want us to see it, reel from how macabre it is. If they wanted an explosion, they could have left the bodies in a heap and wired the
door. They did this to fuck with our minds.”
“Who is they?” Stroder asked. “Who’s fucking with you guys?”
“We don’t know exactly, but I have a good idea.”
“So who?”
“We can talk about that later. Right now, let’s get these rings off and remove the lids.”
“Sure you want to plunge in so quickly, Colonel?” Tibbits was shaking.
“I’ll tell you what: All of you go out and put some distance between you and this room. I’ll do it. Close the door. There’s no use putting us all at risk.”
Without argument, Tibbits, Officer Stroder, and the two agents left and trotted around the end of the building. Simmons marveled it hadn’t occurred to any of them that if the room blew, hotel guests in adjacent rooms could be killed. He hadn’t brought it up because he knew there was no danger. The crew wanted to work on their resolve and he
knew it. Grabbing the lever on the nearest drum, he pulled it out, lifted the ring and removed the lid. The head and feet of a man were the first thing he saw, the arms folded tightly across the chest. It was one of the most revolting things he had ever encountered. So was the stench of piss and shit emanating from the drum. He started for the door, then ran to the bathroom, fell to his knees, and emptied his stomach into the toilet, almost choking in the process.
“God, have mercy! Oh . . . shit, that hurts! God, have mercy.”
His composure regained, he returned to the drum. Horrible. But no blood! So how did they die? And why seven drums? There were only six agents. As a wild man might, he tore the rings open and tossed the lids asunder without looking down. Then he stood back by the door. He could tell there were men in every drum, but his feet refused to move closer. He turned and left the room. Tibbits was peering sheepishly around the
corner of the building.
“The lids are all off. You can go in. It’s safe, no explosives. Just bodies.”
“Oh God!” Tibbits said. He and the others walked back to the room.
“This is some morbid shit!” Stroder shouted.
“Help me pull these drums farther apart so we can get at them more easily, but first, Agent Pratt, snap your crime scene photos. Pratt photographed the drums from every angle, including each drum from above.
“I understand why there’s seven drums, Colonel.” Tibbits said to
Simmons. Simmons just stood in the door, leaning against the jam.
“Why?”
“Agent Lane was a big man, and overweight. He’s in two drums; half in each!”
“Jesus!”
“You guys have some serious enemies!” Stroder said. He seemed beside himself with astonishment. “First your agents watching the Fawcett place, and now this. That’s eight dead FBI! You’re going to have some explaining to do to your higher ups, I’ll bet. This situation is totally out of control.”
“Is that all you can come up with, Officer?” Tibbits snapped, redfaced with anger. “You don’t know shit about what’s happened, so keep your goddamned mouth shut!”
“Fuck it! I’m calling the Captain and reporting the grotesque goings-on you FBI have brought into our town. I’ll take care of the ambulance while I’m at it.” With that, he stormed outside. Suddenly, something hit Simmons. Something about the Stroder’s
contemptible manner at so grave a scene. Something about his attitude toward the FBI.
“We pulled into the alley, and almost immediately they pulled in behind us.” he reasoned. “We were nowhere near the center of town, so how likely was that?”
And there was the manner of the head shots; Yates and Blanchard had been shot in the side of the head, apparently simultaneously. Two assassins were involved. No single individual could have pulled that off. It was as impossible as the Warren report of Kennedy’s assassination. Simmons became aware of his rapid heartbeat.
“Surely not,” he whispered inaudibly, “Surely not!”
But he couldn’t get the possibility out of his mind: the possibility that Stroder and Margarella were the assassins. He could almost see how it had happened. Stroder and Margarella had driven into the alley, probably stopping behind Yates and Blanchard’s vehicle. Yates would have introduced them, told Stroder that they were surveilling Blackfoot Marine. They talked, got chummy, and then . . . at a moment when both Yates and Blanchard were looking out the alley at Blackfoot,-Stroder and Margarella still standing beside their side windows chatting, no doubt-Stroder gave the signal, or Margarella, but Stroder seemed to be in charge, and they pulled out small-caliber, untraceable pistols and shot both of them in the side of the head. Boom! Just like that, just that matter-of-factly! Was such a scenario feasible? It would certainly account for the apparent unconcern Yates and Blanchard had for their own safety. Of course they would have trusted the local cops. They were on the same side. But if they weren’t? On the same side. Then what? Anything was possible. If Simmons thought he couldn’t feel any sicker, he was wrong. Contemplating that scenario left him completely undone. He watched Stroder from his position in the doorway as he spoke to Captain Jones. He didn’t appear horrified, not even upset. And once, he was certain he saw him smile. Could he and Margarella be connected to the crew, to the militia, in some as yet unknown manner? Could he even be one of them?
Quien Sabe?
It took Tibbits and his two agents more than an hour to pry their comrades from their plastic tombs. Finding Agent Lane in two parts, the upper half of his body sawn from the lower and placed in a separate drum, was the most nauseating aspect of the massacre until the discovery that another Agent had apparently been conscious as he was being stuffed into the drum, or became conscious immediately thereafter. Several of his fingernails were ripped loose from the flesh of his fingers, and there were visible claw marks on the underside of the lid. Surely nothing could be more terrifying than finding oneself stuffed into a drum, and trying desperately to claw through the plastic before suffocating. That agent’s entire body was dark blue. He had awakened in hell itself, then died in a vain attempt to escape its bowels. No one could prove it, and no one would probably ever know. But Simmons felt this massacre bore the marks of Kicks Iron, the most vicious member of the crew, or the militia, whatever it was.
By the time the bodies were taken to the morgue and the meeting with Captain Jones ended, it was after 2:00 am When they finally returned to the Outlaw, Simmons lacked the strength to undress. After agreeing to join Tibbits at 8:00 am for breakfast, he collapsed fully clothed on the bed and lost consciousness.

FEAR

Tibbits awoke with a start, so groggy he could hardly locate the phone.
“Hello.”
“Sorry to awaken you, Sir, but Fergy just checked out and he’s on the move.”
“Fergy . . . what time is it?”
“Five, forty, Sir. Fergy left his motel. Were following. Should we continue?”
“Oh . . . shit! We had some terrible things happen last night, yesterday.”
“We know, Sir. Agent Pratt called. We’re behind Fergy in separate vehicles, but we can pull off . . . ”
“No . . . I mean, yeah, tail him. But be careful.”
“After yesterday, we’re taking no chances. During the night we
arranged for chopper cover.”
“You called in a Chopper?”
“Yes, Sir; a Black Hawk out of Denver arrived an hour ago, just in time. He’s flying forward of us so we keep out of Fergy’s view. He can track him at a distance. I attached a high-frequency transmitter to Fergy’s truck during the night.”
“Uh . . . Simmons and I will follow later. I wouldn’t wake him up now, not after three hours.”
“No need. You’ve got your hands full. We’re on Fergy, Sir. You should go back to sleep yourself.”
“I intend to. Which direction is Fergy driving?”
“Presently, it looks as though he intends to rendezvous on the West side of Flathead Lake. He’s traveling south on Highway 93.”
“What makes you think it’s a rendezvous?”
“He’s moving toward Somers at quite a clip. Wherever he’s headed, he’s in a hurry. That suggests a rendezvous. I’ll update you on his route later if he veers from the route we anticipate.”
“Okay . . . do that.”
“But not for a couple of hours. Get your sleep, Sir.”
“Thanks, Danforth.”
Agents Danforth and DeLuca remained in constant radio communication with the Black Hawk pilot, Air One, as they sped south through Somers and Rollins with Danforth in Unit One, the lead vehicle. They were surprised not long after.
“Air One to Unit One.”
“Go ahead, Air One.”
“Subject is turning west toward Niarada and increasing speed. Suggest you adjust by ten.”
“Eighty miles per hour! He’s in a hurry; no doubt about that.”
Danforth said to DeLuca on the radio.”
“I’ll keep up with you.” DeLuca replied from Unit Two.
“I wish I could call Tibbits, but we’ve got to give him some sleep time or he’ll be under par today.”
“Copy that. Today, he’ll need to be up to par. Did you tell him we were up all night watching Fergy?”
“No. I didn’t want him to know. He’d have taken us off Fergy and put Spagel and Flint on him. I want in on what happens today. I’m so racked out over our buddies, rage is keeping me at full-throttle! I have no desire whatsoever for sleep.”
“Tibbits has a lot on his plate today. You know he’ll bring in another dozen agents-at least-and someone has to be at base of operations.”
“He’ll leave them there to handle all that. Spagel’s a twenty-year veteran. He can handle it. Tibbits and Simmons want blood now. They’ll join us. Count on it.”
“It was terrible, those drums. I’d hate to be the one having to face their families. I wouldn’t tell them how they were found. Their wives and children would have nightmares the rest of their lives, Agent Monte’s fingernails scratched off. I can’t imagine waking up crammed into a drum; the horror . . . the horror!”
“It couldn’t have lasted long. He would have depleted his oxygen within a minute.”
“A minute that must have seemed an eternity!”
During the following hour, as they passed Niarada and Lonepine, climbing higher and higher. Fergy’s speed dropped considerably, but he continued without stops.
“This is some thick-ass forest.” DeLuca commented. “If you got turned around in there the only way you’d get out would be to go down until you hit a river or highway.”
“Or ran into someone’s cabin. There are some really nice ones. It’s pretty cool up here.”
As they neared Plains, Danforth considered whether Fergy would turn north toward Clark Fork or south toward Missoula.
“He has to turn north out of Plains,” he told DeLuca. “If he had intended to go south, he would have stayed on Highway 93 along the lake, not taken this road into the wilderness. He’ll turn north if his destination isn’t Plains.”
“That seems obvious. You think he’s made the Black Hawk?”
“No, not at the distance he’s maintaining with the transmitter. Those pilots are damned good at staying in a blind window. They break away on long stretches, then pull in tight where roads and traffic increase.”
“After yesterday’s losses, it’s damned comforting to know he’s up there. Damned comforting!”
“Air One to Unit One. I just received a call from Colonel Simmons. They’re taking a bird to Plains. Tibbits says hold there. They’ll use one of your vehicles.”
“Copy, Air One. Relay we’ll hold in Plains for his call.”
“It sounds like we’re getting reinforcements.” DeLuca said.
“Welcome reinforcement. It’s creepy with only the two of us up in these mountains. I’ll be glad to see them.”
“I wish there had been time to get more firepower.”
“The Black Hawk has all the fire power we need on the road.”
“Sure, he could take out anything from the air, but in a close engagement, he’s next to useless. What we could use are more agents on the ground.”
“I agree. As you said, it would have been nice if there had been time. If a situation develops that requires it, Tibbits will have them flown in within hours. He won’t fool around. He’ll blow them all away before he’ll allow a repeat of yesterday.”
In Plains, Danforth parked at a restaurant.
“Let’s get breakfast while we wait. I’m starved. We haven’t eaten since four o'clock last evening.”
“I didn’t have any appetite after all that.”
“Unit One to Air One.”
“Go ahead, Unit One.”
“We’re at Woodman's Café on the east edge of town. What’s the subject’s status?”
“Stopped for gas. There’s an air strip here. I’m going in for refueling. When I’m up again, I’ll update you.”
“Roger.”
“He shouldn’t need fuel yet, should he?” DeLuca asked.
“He wants plenty of reserve in case Fergy keeps moving. Hell, he could be headed for Idaho, even Canada. Let’s take both radios and cells inside.”
“And we need to remember what happened to Yates and Blanchard and stay alert.”
They ate nervously. As vehicles parked and others entered, they watched with suspicion from the relative safety of a corner booth.
“They don’t pay us enough for this, you know.” DeLuca said.
“Tell me about it.”
“Why did you join the bureau? What was it that appealed to you? Or are you old to remember? For me, it was the intrigue and excitement. As a kid, I used to watch that TV series, The FBI. Ephraim Zimbalist, Junior was my hero. It was my favorite program. I grew up wanting to be an agent.”
“I joined with a friend on a whim. We were two Marines discharged about the same time, and his dad suggested we check it out. He had a Gung Ho friend who was an agent.”
“Has it been what you expected?”
“I’m not sure what I expected. I liked the stories the old salts told when we were rookies, but I knew it was mostly procedure, often boring. You learn that early on. I never expected nor had an assignment like this one has evolved into, though. Always before, we had at least an idea who or what we were looking for. Listening to Simmons’
conversations with Tibbits, I got the distinct feeling that we’re shooting in the dark here. Yesterday’s events prove it.”
“Yeah, except we're the fish in the barrel getting shot! . . . Sorry, that didn't come out right. This case seems more like a guerrilla war than a manhunt because we can’t see the enemy, can’t see him coming; but he sees us. Fergy is small time. Hanes may be nothing. We can’t even charge them with anything that would stick. It’s damned
frustrating. I don’t like it. And we’re sitting here wondering if someone’s about to stand up at their table and start shooting.”
“When you talked about additional agents, I was asking myself what we would do with them if they were here. Fergy’s all we have. What do we do? Form a ten-vehicle convoy and follow him around? It seems pointless.”
“That’s my point. It’s more like a guerrilla war. When you don’t know who the enemy is, they could be occupying half these booths and tables and we wouldn’t know it.”
“Or it could be a single, glib asshole.”
Simmons was very upset. The conversation with General Brody hadn’t gone well. To say he was concerned was an understatement.
“Colonel, are you certain you’re up to this? Last night had to be hard on you. Maybe we need to take a more plenary approach to lower the risk of this happening again.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, General. I’m committed and I intend to apprehend the bastards who murdered the eight agents yesterday. I know it looks from there like we can’t find our ass with both hands, but there has been progress.”
“Make me feel good, Colonel. Itemize the progress. I have to relay this to the President, and he doesn’t relish ambiguity.”
“Several things. For one, we know that Skinhead is actually Christof Fawcett, and of course, you know we identified the Chief as Kicks Iron White out of Oklahoma. And although Smitty Hanes may not be one of them, he’s up to his ass in sympathy and knows more than he’s letting on. For instance, he knows Kicks Iron, not just Fawcett. That’s two out of the three men on the Fort Benning crew, impressive progress! If Hanes revealed knowing two of three on the crew, he must know Lefty as well. And consider this: Apparently, they’re all connected through this area like a hive. Militia must be numerous as fleas around here. Then there’s the way Yates and Blanchard died. I’m convinced that the officers in the police cruiser that followed us into that alley are
their assassins. That extends our vista considerably.”
“That’s a strong assumption. What makes you think so?”
“Everything about it, everything about them. Blackfoot Marine isn’t downtown Kalispell; it’s a couple of miles out, barely within the jurisdiction. There aren’t many patrols canvassing that I’ve seen, and yet one happened by just as we did.”
“That sounds very much like a long shot. It could just as easily have been a coincidence.”
“True, and I didn’t think anything about it at the time. But later, Officer Stroder’s attitude toward the FBI came out. He has obvious hostility toward federal agents, perhaps the federal government.”
“You’re reaching, Colonel. At least, it looks and sounds like it from here. That could be said of half of Montana.”
“General, I’ve seen a lot during my career. You develop a sixth sense about people. Not in every case, but sometimes, it’s very strong. Where Stroder and Margarella are concerned, it’s overpowering. Tolerate my suspicions and have your people check those two out. Tibbits is off balance right now and I need quick action. If they did kill two agents at point blank range, that goes way beyond hostility toward the FBI or Federal government. It would establish that they’re members of the militia, or whatever it is. Militia works for me.”
“I’ll put some people on it. What about backup?”
“Tibbits can handle that.”
“I think you need a lot more power concentrated right there in Kalispell.”
“To do what? Twiddle their thumbs? The best way to handle this for the moment is to bring them in gradually. We’ll follow Fergy to wherever he’s going, accumulate contacts, put agents on them, and follow procedure until we broaden the net enough to get a breakthrough, such as my suspicion of Stroder and Margarella. Tibbits has two agents
left in town, and he’s bringing more in this afternoon from Denver and Boise, small groups so they can’t be easily distinguished from locals and don’t attract attention. Video surveillance will be continuous from now on in the operations center.”
“Are you relocating it?”
“We considered that, but we know it’s fly-bait. We plan to put additional agents watching for repeat traffic, that sort of thing. We’ll have our net re-strung before long, General. We’ll get them. I told you they were good, superior to anything I’ve seen. Ever seen. It may take time, but we’ll get them. By God, I’ll get them!”
“We’re counting on you, Colonel. Watch your flank, and remember the counsel the Amish man gave Harrison Ford in that movie, The Witness: ‘Be careful out there among them English!’”
They both laughed ending the call, but the humor was wry, wry because the warning was appropriate.
After initiating Simmons’ request for intelligence support involving Stroder and Margarella, Brody met briefly with McKay and Andrews, relating the morbid events of the previous day and Simmons’ reactions.
“What does he have to go on?” McKay asked. “It doesn’t appear to be much.”
“It isn’t. He’s following his gut and flying by the seat of his pants, pissed as hell, frustrated as hell, and anguishing over that business with the drums and the agents shot in the head.”
“Do you still think he’s the man for the job?” Andrews asked.
“There’s no one else as familiar with the facts surrounding the militia. He’s certainly capable. And he knows their faces. I think yesterday resulted from neither he nor Tibbits realizing they were in the soup. They were caught with their pants down, incognizant that the enemy was so prepared or bent upon such vicious aggression. Until yesterday, we all believed Fawcett and White would be on the run when they discovered the FBI was so close. Simmons and Tibbits couldn’t foresee such a cunning and deadly attack. Today, their licking their wounds. No, we couldn’t do better than to let them carry on.”
“I suppose not.” McKay agreed.
Tibbits called Danforth from the commercial chopper a few minutes before landing.
“Meet us at the air strip in about fifteen minutes.”
“Copy that. Did Air One contact you?”
“Negative.”
“He contacted us. Fergy just left Plains driving northwest toward a town called Thompson Falls. After that, there are only a few small bergs along the Clark Fork until you come to the Noxon Reservoir. If he passes that, passes Noxon, the next thing is Cabinet Gorge Dam and he’ll be in northern Idaho, the Pend Oreille Lake area. He could be hotfooting it for Canada.”
“We’ll have to hotfoot it ourselves to catch up with him. We’ll see you at the strip.”
“Roger.”
It was an elegiac reunion, yet they drew comfort from each other’s company. The need to move swiftly and overtake Fergy forced a brief exchange.
“Agent DeLuca, ride with Agent Danforth. Colonel Simmons and I will use your vehicle and take lead position. Let’s see what Fergy’s up to today.” He handed DeLuca a pair of binoculars. “I’ll have Air One check intermittently, but I want you to keep constant watch for any vehicle behind you. After we’re in sync with the pickup, if someone maintains a consistent distance for more than a few minutes, alert us. We’ll pull over and force them to pass. We’re spread too thin to take chances. Keep your eyes peeled for the unusual and stay sharp. We know how deadly this militia is. Consider yourselves in danger at all times. With any luck, Fergy will lead us to more of them. No mistakes today, men.”
“We’re with you, Sir. We’ll watch.”
“Okay,” Tibbits said as he and Simmons commandeered De Luca's vehicle. “Here we go.”
“Air One, this is Unit Two.” Tibbits said.
“Go ahead, Unit Two.”
“We’re leaving the strip. What’s the subject’s speed?”
“Fifty-five at most, slower around curves; fast enough for this stretch.”
“Is he in view?”
“Negative; I’m east over the trees out of line-of-sight. Do you need me closer?”
“No.” Simmons said, “In fact, I want you break off and scout the area forward along the highway as far as Trout Creek. As you pass the towns between, locate the perpendicular roads, especially crossroads through the towns so you’ll know where they are. Keep out of his view at all times when you return. Use the transmitter. Is it functioning well?”
“Like a champ.”
“You’re our greatest resource today, Pilot, but also our greatest threat to success. If he spots you, he won’t lead us anywhere. When you return, drop behind and check for vehicles tailing us before moving forward again. Do you understand the instructions?”
“Roger that. Air One out.”
Tibbits drove as fast as traffic would permit to get through Plains, with Danforth rushing behind. Suddenly, flashing lights appeared behind Danforth and DeLuca.
“Shit! Cops are on our tail, Sir. What should we do?” Danforth cried.
“Show them ID. We’ll keep moving. Catch up with us as soon as you’re clear.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Slow down, Tibbits, just for the next block.” Simmons said.
“I hear you.”
They watched Danforth pull to the side of the road. The last thing in sight was he and DeLuca exiting their vehicle.
“Officers, we’re Agents Danforth and DeLuca with the FBI. We’re in pursuit of a suspect.”
“Where’s your boss, Tibbits, and Colonel Simmons? This is their vehicle.”
Danforth was stunned. How could two policemen in Plains, Montana
possibly know which vehicle Tibbits and Simmons were using in Kalispell, Montana the day before? He ignored the question.
“As I said, we’re in pursuit of a suspect. Federal law requires you to disengage. We have to continue.”
“You we’re driving twenty miles per hour over the posted speed limit, Agent Danforth. That violates a local ordinance. We have to ticket you.”
“We’ve shown you ID. Hurry with your ticket. We have to resume pursuit immediately.”
“You’ll resume when we say you can resume. You Feds think you’re above the law, that you can joyride through our jurisdiction with impunity, but you’re not above the law in Plains. If you really are in pursuit, what’s the suspect’s name?”
“It’s classified, a matter of national security.”
“Yeah, right! Well, guess what? Speeding and endangering the lives of our local citizens isn’t a matter of national security. It makes you a threat to local security, so fuck your classified bullshit and your national security bullshit. You’re just two arrogant feds hoping for impunity when you puke all over local ordinances as far as we’re concerned.”
“You ostentatious SOB . . . “
”Verbally assaulting an officer of the law is a separate offense! For that one, we’ll have to ask you to follow us to the station. You may have to see the judge before you resume your bullshit classified, national security pursuit!”
The officer’s cat grin infuriated Danforth.
“Are you sure those badges aren’t phony, Agents Danforth and DeLuca? You seem to have contempt for law enforcement. Or maybe just anybody else’s law enforcement?”
“What’s keeping them so long?” Tibbits said as they raced out of town.
“You think they’re having trouble, Colonel?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. They don’t like feds in this part of the country. On that subject, you may as well know that I think Stroder and his partner killed Yates and Blanchard.”
“What? No way!” Tibbits said. “They’re cops!”
“Why not? It’s a perfect cover, allows them to carry firearms, puts them in a position of control.”
“Should we go back? Danforth should have radioed by now.”
“So we can be delayed as well? Hell, no! Step on it!”
“Unit One, this is Unit Two. Come in . . . Unit One, this is Unit Two. Do you copy? . . . They’re not answering their radios.”
“We’re on our own, Tibbits. They can catch up later.”
“They’ll call as soon as they’re away from town. What could be taking so long? I can’t see the police harassing federal agents, even in Montana.”
“Those cops love having agents behind the eight-ball, even if only for violating a traffic ordinance!”
Colonel, if you’re right about Stroder and Margarella killing two of my men, I want their blood for that.”
“We’ll get those assassins later. I’ve got Brody checking them out.”
With Belknap and Whitepine behind, Air One reporting that Fergy was still on the move, and Danforth and DeLuca still not reporting, Tibbits grew angry.
“It looks like you were correct. They must have taken their sweet-ass time writing that ticket. They’re way behind, now. Another thing: Noxon’s the only town between here and Idaho. I think Danforth was right; Fergy is headed for Canada. If that becomes apparent, we should apprehend him.”
“If he’s running to Canada, he has nothing to offer us. The son-of-a-bitch led us on a wild goose chase around Flathead Lake yesterday to allow his comrades time to kill your agents and pack them into drums. He was part of that, whether we can prove it or not. If he makes for the border, Air One can take him out. This is a Homeland Security operation and he’s clearly a terrorist. We have the authority to strike from the air.”
“How will we explain a Black Hawk strike on a civilian vehicle if we can’t prove allegations that it was a terrorist we blew to hell later? That’s the worst thing that could happen. Why not just arrest him?”
“We won’t have to explain it! We do it when no other traffic is within view. Any witnesses that come upon a burning truck will assume it was a vehicle fire out of control that led to an explosion. In these mountains, that shouldn’t surprise anyone. Everyone runs hot.”
“Unit Two, this is Unit One. Come in.”
“What the hell happened back there?” Simmons asked after grabbing the radio.
“Those officers were real pricks. We were cited for speeding and for verbally assaulting an officer of the law, if you can believe that. We had to follow them to the station and endure a pious judge’s lecture on setting a good example. Then, they followed us until we were outside the city limits. I couldn’t go one mile over the speed limit.”
“Verbally assaulting an officer?”
“That prick pissed me off!” Danforth said. Tibbits laughed into the radio.
“It wasn’t as humorous as it sounds on our end. I’d enjoy a private meeting in an alley some night with him. I’d wipe that smirk off his prick face!”
“We’re just glad to hear from you. Where are you?”
“Probably about twenty miles behind you. We just left Belknap. We’ve had the pedal to the floor and been trying to reach you continuously, but in these mountains . . . ”
“You’d better keep the pedal to it. We can’t hold back. We have to stay on Fergy.”
“Will do. There’s something else you should know, something really spooky.”
“What’s that?”
“When they saw our ID, they asked where you and the Colonel were. They knew the vehicle!”
“I told you.” Simmons said. “They weren’t just harassing them. They’re involved with the militia too!”
“Goddamn! Just how embedded are they up here?”
“They made a slip asking Danforth about us. If they’d thought about it, they would have realized that they tipped their hand. When we get back, we’re placing them and Stroder and Margarella under arrest on federal charges of high treason.”
“High Treason? Come on, Colonel. We don’t have the juice to make that stick and you know it. That’s the kind of thing that breeds hostility.”
“I don’t care if we do or not. Our approach was wrong. We have to strike hard against these traitors. They think they’re patriots. They’d kill us all. It’s time we start softening their smug confidence.”
Tibbits’ chagrined expression belied his feeling that Simmons had lost it.
“Air One to Unit Two, come in.”
“Go ahead, Air One.” Simmons responded.
The subject just left the highway. He turned left onto a small dirt road about two to two and a half miles ahead of you. There’s a large, treeless, rock outcrop about a quarter mile before the turnoff.”
“Shit! Fergy made him!” Simmons shouted. “He saw you, Air One.”
“I don’t think so, Sir. I was sharply oblique to his line-of-sight.”
“Drop behind us and look for tails. We’ll go after him.”
“Affirmative.”
A moment later, the Black Hawk shot past overhead. “Air One, you’re too normal. Go oblique, keep the trees between you and the highway.”
“Roger.”
The chopper veered sharply east and out of sight.
“What’s the plan, Colonel?”
“He made the chopper. Why else would he suddenly leave the highway? He’s heading into the trees so he can’t be spotted from the air.”
“Or so he can watch us pass. Fergy’s not stupid! He knows that chopper’s scouting for someone on the ground.”
“He doesn’t know this vehicle.”
“No, but he’ll recognize us the second we pass that road driving it. And with no communications unit, we don’t know who he might call to report he’s been followed. Let’s grab him, Colonel. He’s not going to Canada, not today, not on my watch!”
“This is unfortunate. I was hoping for new contacts, a militia site . . . something.”
“Air One to Unit Two.”
“Go ahead.”
“There are two vehicles half a mile back, neither maintaining
speed.”
“You think they’re tailing us?” Tibbits asked.
“I doubt it, but pull off and let them pass. We need to wait for your men. We’re not entering that road alone, not even two-to-one.
Fergy has the advantage. He’ll see us coming, and we’ll have trouble spotting him. I like four-to-one odds better.”
A moment later, two SUVs raced past, displaying no apparent interest.
“Let’s go, but only to the outcrop.” Simmons said.
Tibbits resumed.
“Air One, we’re confident the subject has seen you. Hover above
him and give us an exact location. We’ll hold at the outcrop for Unit
One. I repeat, don’t attempt camouflage. Move in and provide us with an
exact location.”
“Roger.”
“There’s the outcrop, Tibbits. The turnoff doesn’t show on this map, but it leads to the reservoir. It’s to our left.”
“Damn, I wish they were already here. If he takes off on foot in these trees, we’ll never find him.”
“Air One to Unit Two.”
“Go ahead, Air One.”
“I’m over the area. No view of the subject.”
“Does the road lead to the water?”
“Close.”
“You see no movement?”
“Negative. I’m gridding over the reservoir now, looking back into the forest and along the bank. Nothing so far.”
“Keep sweeping. Concentrate on the trees. He’s pulled into them. Look from different angles.”
Tibbits stepped out and began nervously smoking a cigarette and calling.
“Unit Two to Unit One. Come in . . . Unit Two to Unit One. Do you copy? . . . Unit Two to . . . “
”We copy, Unit Two.”
“We’re holding beside a large outcrop. We need you fast. The subject may be on foot!”
“We’re pushing, Sir.”
“Push harder.”
A few minutes later, Tibbits saw them and stepped inside.
“They’re flying like a bat out of hell . . . Unit One, we’re reentering the roadway. Stay close.”
“Copy that.”
“Here’s the turnoff,” Simmons said.
“Looks like it’s rarely used, local fishermen and hunters maybe.”
A few isolated drops from dark clouds signaled a downpour was approaching.
“This is all we need,” Tibbits cried as wind began whipping the trees.
“I don’t care, keep the window down.”
The rain became heavier, falling now in sheets. Shielding their faces with raised arms, weapons drawn, they crept forward with Danforth and DeLuca now close behind.
“I can’t see clearly, but it looks like only a trail ahead.”
Tibbits said. “There’s no more road. It ends here.”
“Keep easing forward.” Simmons said. “He’s in there somewhere, and
I haven’t seen any opening in the growth a vehicle could pass through.”
“Air One to Unit Two.”
“God, he’s hovering so low, he must just be clearing the treetops.” Tibbits said, looking up.
“Go ahead. Are we in view?” Simmons asked.
“Affirmative, but visibility is very low. The target isn’t in view. Repeat, the target is not in view. Two boats with outboards are tethered on the bank.”
“How far are we from the bank, Air One?”
“Fifty yards. There’s the subject! Close and to the right of you. Unclear movement in the brush. There appear to be several targets.”
Tibbits stopped. “Confirm.”
“Several targets ahead and to your right.”
“Weapons, Air One?” Simmons queried.
“Not clear, Sir. Visibility is low.”
“Fergy must be talking to the fishermen.”
“That makes it difficult for him to sport a weapon. This works to our advantage.”
“Unit Two, you’ve got company-two more vehicles just left the highway–SUVs.”
“Roger. Air One.”
“I don’t like this.” Tibbits said. “There are too many guests at this party. Fishermen and Fergy in front, two unknown vehicles behind. Danforth, join us outside.”
“It’s coming down pretty hard, Sir.”
“Goddamn it, Danforth! You’re hemmed in. Get your asses out and get into the trees with us!”
As the four of them ran for cover in the brush, the Black Hawk hovered low overhead just above the trees. The sound was deafening.
“Damn, he’s low!”
“He’s trying to see through this shit!”
“Unit Two, four men . . . SUVs . . . “
”Air One, I can’t hear you, move away!”
“ . . . rapidly toward your position. Two of them have . . . I’m in trouble! Moving away for an attack run!”
“Repeat that, Air One. Come back.”
“Attack Run?” Danforth shouted.
“Get farther in!” Simmons shouted, running left. Suddenly, a thunderous explosion rocked the forest.”
“What the fuck?” Tibbits shouted.
Eyes glued upward, they saw the last of a fiery blast. Pieces of metal torn from the Black Hawk were scattering in all directions.
“Hug a tree!” Simmons shouted, diving farther in and pulling himself behind a large pine. Immediately another explosion followed
from their right. All Simmons caught was a bright flash before Unit One vehicle burst into flames.
“Grenades! Take cover!” he shouted. A secondary explosion rattled them as the Black Hawk crashed down through the trees onto the forest floor. Smoke and flames were everywhere in the distance. The Unit Two /vehicle exploded in a maddening boom, deafening them.
“Go! Go! Go!” Simmons shouted, ears ringing as he ran farther in.
The four of them were side by side away from the mayhem before the noise became the drenching rain. Simmons mind was racing as he attempted to sort out the sequence of events.
“What just happened, Colonel?” Tibbits asked above the rain as they hugged the ground.
“Watch for anything. There are at least five men out there. They
took the Black Hawk out with a shoulder-fired missile, destroyed our vehicles with grenades, and tried kill us.”
“I don’t understand this,” Tibbits exclaimed, “Fergy runs into some fishermen, then all hell breaks lose from those SUVs.”
“Maybe they aren’t fishermen, and maybe he didn’t turn down this road on impulse.”
“What then?”
“It’s possible . . . “
”What?”
“They’re clever enough.”
“Colonel?”
“This entire charade might be an elaborate setup. Get us all out here and kill us.”
“Goddamn!” DeLuca exclaimed.
“We can’t stay together, Sir,” Danforth shouted. “With grenades,they can get us all with a single hit.”
“He’s right, Colonel. We have to separate.” Tibbits agreed. “We need them between us. You two go left toward the water and try to get behind Fergy’s group. Colonel, you and I should go right and try to get behind the group from the SUVs.”
“If we run, they’ll see us and blow us away.” DeLuca said.
“In this downpour, we’re harder to see. They’ll more likely hit a tree. They’re our best protection from grenades. Gentlemen, if we don’t make it out of here, it’s been a pleasure serving with you.”
“Let’s just make certain we do get out. Let’s get those bastards!” Simmons said.
“Now!” Tibbits cried.
Like rabbits fleeing bloodhounds, they jumped and darted in opposite directions. Within seconds, a grenade exploded less than ten yards from Tibbits and Simmons, then another. They dove into the brush.
Shots echoed from the direction Danforth and DeLuca had run.
“That was close!” Simmons said.
“We must keep moving, Colonel.”
They raised slowly, then ran again. Simmons felt thorns and branches from the underbrush scratching his face and arms as they ran, but the pain hardly registered. The thought of a grenade exploding any second was enough that he could have run past a bear and left it behind. There was only one time in his life he had been more terrified:
the moment he realized that the explosive belt around his waste couldn’t be dislodged nor inactivated. More gunfire echoed from behind, but they couldn’t see any of the assailants. Reaching the highway, they dove into the ditch sinking into the muddy water before realizing it was half-full.
“Damn! What now?” Tibbits panted. “I can hardly breathe.”
“Wait a second. Let’s catch our breath”
“They must not have seen us that last run. No grenades.”
“I think . . . I think they joined Fergy and the others to press Danforth and DeLuca. Makes sense: Take them out, then everyone comes for us. Let’s work our way over behind the SUVs and shoot out two tires on each . . . draw them back. I’ll run right and you run left and we’ll take cover behind large pines. When they come running, we’ll get them in a crossfire and concentrate on the ones with grenades first. What do you say?”
“Sounds as good as anything else. Anything to get out of this ditch. Let’s go!”
They ran, sloshing and diving in short bursts, covering the distance as quickly as possible, all the while distraught from the gun battle still raging near the reservoir. Suddenly, they were in sight of the still-burning wreckage of their own vehicles.
“What the . . . they’re gone!” Tibbits cried, “They took off.”
They were aghast. No SUVs!
“What? They blew up our vehicles, tossed a couple of grenades at us, then took off? What kind of plan is that? Tibbits shouted.
“At least two of them left, the drivers. There could be two more on Danforth and DeLuca. Let’s give our guys some backup! Stay in the trees.”
They sprinted from tree to tree, gunfire near the reservoir growing louder and louder. Suddenly, silence ensued, then through the rain, they heard a loud roar.
“What’s that?” Simmons asked.
“That’s an outboard! They’re getting away! They must have gotten our men. Quick . . . we still have a chance!”
Trotting forward without regard to their safety, they came within
view of the bank as one boat moved away, the outboard screaming.
“Danforth and DeLuca are in the second boat!” Tibbits cried.
Danforth was pulling the starter rope, obviously intent on following. Two men lay dead halfway to the water, one’s face halfsubmerged in a puddle.
“Wait!” Tibbits shouted, as Danforth pulled hard. The engine sputtered, then started slowly.
“Fergy’s wounded!” Danforth shouted, pointing toward the trees. “He ran along the bank! Go after him! We’re going after the other boat!”
Simmons strained to focus on the two men in the forward boat. He could still make out their faces through the rain.
He froze. Kicks Iron and Skinhead!
“Wait! You can’t take them alone!” he attempted to shout after them, “We’re going with you!” It was useless. His voice was low, already hoarse from yelling. Danforth and DeLuca turned away, pursuing at full throttle.
“Goddamn it! They can’t take them alone.”
“They got these two.” Tibbits argued.
“That was Kicks Iron and Fawcett! They’re no match for them!”
Less than twenty yards out from the bank, the boat exploded in a ball of fire before their eyes. All that remained was splinters falling on the water. The outboard was thrown upward with such force that it landed back on the bank with a smoldering thud.
“Fuck!” Tibbits cried. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
They stood stiff as mummies, without regard for Fergy, watching helplessly as Kicks Iron and Skinhead grew smaller in the distance. Tibbits fell back hard, slamming into Simmons.
“Get down! I’m hit! They must have a high-powered rifle with a scope!”
“How bad is it?”
“I’ll be okay. It’s a flesh wound, passed right through. Tie my upper arm off.”
Simmons removed his drenched shirt, tore out the sleeve, and tied
it tightly above Tibbits’ left elbow.
“Can anything else go wrong, Colonel?”
“Yeah. Fergy’s out there. You wait. I’m going after him. Keep your back to this tree. If you get a chance, take him out. You know that boat was rigged to blow, don’t you? Diabolical geniuses, they are, those two. They planned this whole thing, down to the second boat and the phony getaway. They knew if we were alive, we’d use it to go after
them. Wired to blow. Diabolical genius!”
Tibbits groaned as he sat up, leaning back resolutely against the bark.
“Get that son-of-a-bitch, Fergy. He’s duped us twice. I want that Fucker dead, Colonel; Not apprehended, not to try in court. I want him fucking dead!”
Leaving Tibbits to fend for himself, Simmons stole into the woods. Danforth had pointed left from the boat when he shouted that Fergy was wounded. That was to Simmons’ right, in the direction where the Black Hawk had come down. That was the direction he’d go to find him. He crept forward stealthily, tree to tree, his eyes combing the ground
through the rain for broken branches, crushed leaves, or blood. How bad Fergy was wounded he didn’t know. Even bleeding profusely, perhaps there would be no trail of blood to follow, washed away. But there would be something. He hadn’t gone far, less than 500 yards, when he spotted him, a mirror image of Tibbits, also leaning back against a tree near the burning remains of the Black Hawk. Not entirely a mirror image. He was slumped forward, his hands resting upon a missile launcher placed across his lap. Those hands would never use it again. Fergy was dead. Simmons laid the middle-aged Indian out lengthwise and stood, staring at him for a long while. What road had led this man with sun-dried face and dark, wiry frame to such an end? The expression on his
face was the most dumbfounding aspect of the entire drama. Satisfaction. Pride. Finally, he looked around briefly until he located the charred remains of the pilot, then walked slowly back to Tibbits.
“I didn’t hear anything? Did you give up the search or what?”
“There’s no need for a search. He was sitting next to the carcass of the Black Hawk like he would a trophy Elk . . . dead!”
“Good! We got three and lost two.”
“Three to two? Aren’t you forgetting someone?”
“Oh, the pilot! How could I be so crass? He was a good man! Help me get up. I’m feeling a little better. The bleeding’s stopped. Let’s search these two bodies for identification and hitch-hike a ride back to civilization . . . if you can call anywhere up here civilized.”
“Hitch-hiking’s out of the question.”
“Why? It’s more than a ten-mile walk in both directions, either into Noxon or back to Trout Creek.”
“The pilot didn’t have time to describe the SUVs before Fergy’s missile brought him down, and we never saw them. They know we survived and will be on foot.”
“Good point.”
“If I were them, I’d reconnoiter the highway between Trout Creek and Noxon continuously, at least until dark, looking for anyone on foot. Only shooting fish in a barrel would be easier than killing us on the highway.”
“So I guess we stick to the trees?”
“About fifty yards from the highway, I’d say, and hope it keeps raining for cover. Sure you’re up to this? We could cross the road, secure you in the trees on the other side with one of the grenade launchers and plenty of ammo. I could come back for you.”
Tibbits stood shakily. “In your dreams! There are six ghosts here now. I’m not staying alone, especially after dark. No fucking way!”

INROADS

Simmons wanted to appear phlegmatic during this call to Brody. If the last had been a humiliation, this one would be pure trepidation. TheChief and Skinhead were alive and well; he’d seen that with his owneyes. But Tibbits’ initial allotment of agents was dead; all of them. A Black Hawk helicopter out of Denver-a very expensive commodity-and
its pilot had been lost. Given the overwhelming firepower of a Black Hawk, its ignominious end from a shoulder-fired missile was especially grievous. He wasn’t in the mood to attempt apologetic prose, but Brody, not to mention President McKay, would be horrified by this last defeat. If he revealed the slightest perforation in his confidence, they would likely put him out to pasture like an enfeebled old mule too weak to
pull another log out of the forest. Moreover, it would appear that he, Colonel Simmons, an icon of Army Intelligence, was, in reality, merely a paper Tiger so inept he could be led into ambush as easily as a fish dumb enough to strike a plastic worm.
He knew it was otherwise. The most capable military strategists America could produce had gone down in South Viet Nam, taking 58,000 young men with them, because of the same, austere dilemma he now faced: “Who is my enemy?” The war crimes committed by American soldiers in Viet Nam resulted from frustration over the same, insidious question.
He knew their feelings. He wanted to show up in Plains and Kalispell, guns ablaze, and have his own O.K. Corral. The egregious provisions of the Patriot Act that generated ridicule of Homeland Security were a reflection of the same frustration. But the society the militia had crippled would tolerate no flagrant abridgment of the Bill of Rights.
As the Magna Carta tied the hands of British kings, he found himself trapped–with Tibbits–in that murky, foggy, yet all-important region that lurks between the Rule of Law and government oppression.
These thoughts and others of equal or greater import bore him down as he searched for words–good words-appropriate, consoling words; even lying words. Words intended more as emollient than truth that could keep him in charge of a mission gone acrid. High as they were, McKay and Brody were still only men. And men sometimes eschewed truth in
deference to fables if it forced them to face the abyss. It would be like asking a fervent religionist to confront their beliefs on the basis of fact. There are places where facts have no relevance, a universe where emotion and equivocation are god and goddess of the
realm. In that universe, appealing to reason is to invite oblivion. Staring at the phone, Simmons knew full well it was that universe in which he had become entrapped.
He couldn’t help but feel bitter. Why him, after all? Why hadn’t they kidnapped someone else and let him live his life and die in peace? There were many officers they might have chosen to use and kill. He missed Kaye, and resuming their life together seemed farther away than it had even before leaving the hospital. Why should he be drowning in sorrow, loneliness, and humiliation-his very credentials in question-after so long and illustrious a career? Hell, yes, he was bitter. But he was also angry. So angry that burning villains like Kicks Iron and Fawcett at the stake seemed almost sane, almost civilized. It was anger
that fueled his still-persistent resolve. He would get them. He would make the call and somehow persuade President McKay and General of the Armies, Brody that he was still their man.
The federal government would never in the foreseeable future be the monster Montanans had believed it to be before. With McKay as President, a man who shared many of their basic tenants, they should be pacified. Left to themselves, they would probably resume normal lives, constituting no further threat. But that didn’t imply they would emerge
from the shadows, arms extended, to be cuffed and later electrocuted for high treason. The latest affronts of the militia, however vicious, however aggressive, had in truth been defensive in nature, generated by his pursuit. And why was he pursuing? To protect the homeland? Not really. It was personal. He, the great Colonel Simmons, had been chained to a tree with a neo-slave named, Potts. They had tried to kill him, kill him with as little regard as squashing a roach with the toe of their shoe. That, more than any exalted verse or love of the Star-Spangled Banner, was what had jettisoned him into the present quagmire.
Logic, if logic mattered, would impel him to back off, go home to Kaye and revel in her infectious laughter, feel her arms about him in the wee hours of the night, be thankful in the knowledge they probably had twenty or twenty-five years left to spend together. But he, like most men, was a servant of Testosterone, and his blood concentration was too
high to go quietly into the night. That admitted he deserved the consternation dwarfing him as he continued to stare at the phone. He would rather die than live with the memory of the stinging, bruising defeats of today and the day before. Settling into a foul mood, he made the call.
“I don’t have to tell you the President is very concerned. We know you’re committed and how compromised you must feel. Beyond that, there must be progress.”
“This is a Guerrilla war with echoes of Viet Nam on American soil, General . . . “
”Don’t go there, Colonel. It’s a dead end, an admission of defeat. You’ve hardly begun. Take a different tack. It’s healthier politically.”
“The challenge isn’t political. It’s tactical. We can’t strike an enemy we can’t see. Did you uncover anything significant on Stroder and Margarella? And before you answer, I have two more officers–these from Plains, Montana–to check out.”
Simmons waited for Brody to repeat that he was reaching. The accusation didn’t come.
“We did, and I think we have information that may improve your tactical position. Have you ever heard of the Muskets?”
“The anti-NADNARA organization.”
“Do you remember a professor by the name of Blevins being arrested in San Francisco some time back for destroying DNA sensor arrays during the night?”
“Yes, I do. He was caught in an FBI sting, wasn’t he?”
“He was a Musket. It never came out publicly at the time. The FBI wanted to criminalize national contempt for NADNARA. They made it appear that Blevins was a lone ideologue caught in the act of destroying federal property. They made an example of him, sending a message to other self-styled patriots. NADNARA arrays were being destroyed in a number of cities. It turns out that every one of those cities had a sit-down group of Musket members. This is how it seems to have worked: Anyone can log onto the Internet, type in the word Muskets, and the search engine locates the website for the Muskets. This website gives the impression of being very revealing. It supposedly lists every Musket member in every state. One of our CIA analysts who is one the most astute applicants of biometrics, even behavior metrics, examined the listed membership. It’s distributed more or less evenly across the country. Most of the members joined via the Internet, paid their fees by credit card, and reflect the national antipathy for NADNARA. The list appears innocuous.”
“We checked that list after identifying Kicks Iron and again after identifying Fawcett, but neither of them is on it.”
“We know that. She also found that if you subtract those members who joined via the Internet from the list, you’re left with ten foci, cities in which a large concentration of members live. They happen to be the cities in which the Muskets maintain physical offices.”
“That’s to be expected. I don’t it how it helps.”
“It helps because more than 90% of all NADNARA arrays destroyed were located in or near those same cities!”
“Hmmm!”
“Hmmm, indeed. It seems highly improbable that could be coincidence because the locations of the offices are somewhat random. The Musket Brigade M-Montana, is headquartered in Kalispell.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“The analyst believes that, public activism aside, the destruction of NADNARA arrays in cities where the Musket organization first began suggests there is a covert Musket group in each of those cities whose names are not listed. They are known only to those who comprise it, such as Blevins. The Bureau only learned of him through an informant.
There are informants in all M-Musket groups. They maintain files on everyone who attends a meeting or helps distribute literature, does telemarketing or helps with political activism; copies of minutes also, that kind of intelligence.”
“A covert group of unlisted members. That’s a hypothesis to bear in mind.”
“Neither Stroder nor Margarella is listed as a Musket. Yet, we learned from intelligence provided by the informant in M-Montana reports that both officers have attended at least the last nine meetings. You see, the FBI initially suspected the Muskets of attacks on the NADNARA system, based upon information from an informant who has since disappeared. They were certain of it. Shortly after Blevins was hung out to dry, they lost that informant and an agent he had infiltrated into the Muskets.”
“Lost them?”
“They disappeared from their rendezvous location one night, both of them, and have never been heard of since. The hypothesis that a covert arm of the Muskets was responsible is alluring.”
“If we could connect Kicks Iron and Christof to it, it would resolve the issue of who or what the militia consists of.”
“She did. She did today.”
“How?”
“Just by re-collating information we already had in different files. The wife of the agent who disappeared following Blevins conviction was abducted by a man she described as ‘a huge Indian man.’
He abducted her from their home three days after her husband disappeared.”
“Shit!”
“He took her somewhere, she has no idea where because he kept her blindfolded until they arrived. He kept her more than three weeks.”
“What did he do to her?”
“She doesn’t know. She remembers the interior of the cabin where he took her, being tied to a chair, being spoon-fed a meal, and given juice to drink. After that, the next thing she remembers is standing on a street corner and a police officer asking if she was lost. He called an ambulance shortly. She remembers the ambulance and several days in
the hospital. Even hypnosis was unsuccessful. Her memory is a complete blank. Based upon that, the Bureau suspects she was drugged with Scopolamine.”
“The date-rape drug?”
“Yes.”
“Did he rape her?”
“It’s shameful how he abused her. On examination, she was found to have extensive vaginal and anal tearing, and both corners of her mouth were infected. The only way to say it is that Kicks Iron must have worked her really hard during that three weeks.”
“That’s sounds just like him. He’s a psycho, a real monster.”
“So you see why defeat isn’t an option. We can accept setbacks. You’ve had two doozies already in as many days. The President hates NADNARA and fought against it. In essence, the Muskets are ideologues. But hidden among them are a pack of vicious sociopaths that have to be put down; not for freedom’s sake, but for society’s sake. They’re rotten. The militia you seek is embedded deep within the Muskets.”
“It’s a major inroad to know now where the enemy is hiding.”
“I think you were kidnapped by the worst of them.”
“The officers in Plains probably aren’t listed either and I’d wager they were at the meetings . . . “
”Rather than spend time on the phone, I’m sending the analyst out there. Davis, Miss Rhonda Jean Davis. She’ll have the intelligence with her. She can work with Tibbits’ people and provide insight. She’s good, Colonel, our best. Don't expect her to be obsequious; she thinks she knows how to resolve all of this, has a suspicion she doesn't want to vocalize even to me yet, but if she's correct, thinks could wind this whole this up very quickly. She's anxious to work this case in the field.” Consider her a member of your team, and don't get her killed. She’ll have what we know so far when she arrives. What she lacks she says she can put together better if she’s there with Tibbits’ people.”
“How soon are you sending her?”
“It will take her the rest of the day to copy and compile everything, she says. She’ll likely fly out tomorrow morning or the next. I instructed her to notify you as soon as she arranges the flight. Anything else?”
“Frankly, General, you overwhelm me.”
“See that you put these resources to good use, and try to avoid any more traps. We don’t want to lose you either.”
He breathed a sigh of relief as he hung up the phone. Things were looking up. Did he have good news for Tibbits! He would relay it over a few drinks. He began to feel good again.
The next day, he received a fax from Davis:

Memo to: Colonel Simmons.
From: Rhonda J. Davis, Analyst
RE: Arrival
I will arrive 10:00 am tomorrow. Please have a ride waiting at the airport. Further, I urge you: Take no action until we talk. I have a plan for possible resolution of the matter.
Rhonda J. Davis
“She must be an eager beaver.” he thought.
THE VERGE

"It is well the people of the nation do not understand our banking
and monetary system, for if they did, I believe there would
be a revolution before tomorrow morning." - Henry Ford

I learned about the ongoing drama in Montana when my brother called me, animated about his role in events of the previous week.
“Eric, you wouldn’t believe how naive those guys were. Kicks Iron took out six FBI by spraying aniline gas under the door of their room at the Western Outlaw.”
“This is the first I’ve heard.” I said, peeved and greatly alarmed. “How did you know the FBI was after Christof?”
“Smitty called that morning, said two agents had come by Blackfoot Marine looking for him. A while later, he said, he spotted them parked in the alley across the way watching the place.”
“Did Kicks Iron know?”
“He called Kicks Iron before calling me. Margarella and I drove out there, parked behind the agent’s car–routine inquiry, you know-and struck up a conversation. They told us Blackfoot was under surveillance. We talked for half an hour till they got comfortable,
then we shot them both in the head. They didn’t even suspect anything until the .22 slugs were bouncing around in their skulls. The same afternoon, Kicks Iron released aniline gas under the door of the Op Center the FBI had set up at the Outlaw. He killed six agents at one stroke. Check this out: He stuffed their asses in plastic drums and left the drums in the room. Talk about shock! You should have seen their faces when they
discovered he’d cut one lard-ass agent into and put half in each drum with the plastic sheet wadded up and stuffed in on top of one of them before putting the lids and rings on!
The next day, Fergy led Tibbits . . . he’s the head of the FBI task force . . . and Colonel Simmons; he's with Military Intelligence, into an ambush at Noxon, the reservoir. He took out a Black Hawk helicopter with a shoulder-fired missile before they got him. He went out in a blaze of glory! Kicks Iron and Christof blew two of their agents to hell in a wired boat and wounded Tibbits as they got away!”
“How did Simmons know Kicks Iron and Christof were the ones at Fort Benning?”
“I’ve no idea how the FBI knew. I know they got their asses kicked last week. We wiped out the entire task force except the Colonel and Tibbits, and Tibbits was wounded. That’s something, huh?”
“Oh, yeah!”
“That’s all you’ve got to say? You must be worried they might be onto you?”
“Something like that. I can’t fathom how they identified them. What did you do with the .22 pistols?”
“They’re down a well on Bartell’s old place. Vanished forever.”
“Be careful, Robert. The last thing you need is exposing yourself. You’ve got a family to think of.”
I couldn’t believe Robert had actually helped kill all of Tibbits’ agents, or how proud he was to be in the thick of it. I had hoped all the violence was behind us. The Muskets still existed, but we hadn’t done anything officially for months. The nation was moving in a new direction now, absorbed in recovering from the aftermath of the nuclear attack. It had transcended the worst expectations. People were still flocking south and west to escape the region. McKay’s programs were holding things together throughout the rest of the country, even generating a degree of prosperity. More and more troops were being
recalled amassed. and sent to the northeast to restore order. They were being dropped as advanced cells by airlift, had established mini-bases along waterways deep within the affected area, and massively shipped as far as the rails were true toward the center of the Dead Zone. You''d have thought they were advancing against a foreign invasion. I guess, in a macabre sense, they were.
A few Bipartisans publicly accused McKay of using the crisis as a cover for eliminating
U.S. presence abroad, but the mood of the country was such that ending the tidal wave of violent crime, halting the barrio race wars, bringing down a rash of self-proclaimed, inner-city drug lords who were using gangs to secure air drops, then charging for the food, water, and other supplies, and getting food, water, and medical aid to afflicted millions in other ways were matters of far greater significance than foreign bases. The most massive air operation since the Berlin airlift dropped first thousands, then tens of thousands of tons of food, water, and many essential items into the severely stricken cities 24/7. In a way, it overwhelmed the would-be local dictators the same way Reagan had overwhelmed the Soviets and broke them by outspending them. Medical personnel, engineers, and troops–especially troops-were being advanced by the tens of thousands farther and farther into the chaos by rail in an operation entitled, Door Nail, which had a few cartoons mocking the choice of names in the syndicated papers, but it was starting to work. An earlier airborne troop assault failed because, once in, it proved impossible to provide them with supplies and support. Using the rail system, large military contingents, and massive quantities of supplies could be advanced together, overcoming the problem. A similar effort was ongoing using major rivers, though on a somewhat smaller scale.
These supply and rescue efforts were beginning to have some impact, but things were far from stable. The Nightly News made it appear that in some urban areas, it was building by building and crack house by crack house. Taking on armed civilians in a major city was
proving formidable; Mogadishu to the nth power!
Even amid the overwhelming sense of hopelessness, some people recognized that the seeds of a great turnaround had been sown. Tiffany, my companion, soul-mate and principal object of interest those days, had recognized it immediately. I hadn’t. In my case, reason ebbs when emotion floods. I never claimed to possess genius, but I do come around. It took me longer to appreciate that the Bipartisan cancer spreading from Washington had been excised, together with hundreds of thousands of the most corrupt men in the country, including tens of thousands of unprincipled lobbyists and unethical law firms out to divert the productivity of America into their own and their client’s
pockets. The CFR had been caught by surprised and made extinct in a matter of seconds, along with its entire Washington power base. If there really is such a thing as the illuminati, they suffered the greatest setback of all, at least in the country they most wanted to increase their dominion over. By whom no one knew, but I took for granted that it was a Beyrouti-Shiraz, Russian-Muslim check on U.S. global aggression and could not have been related to the well-organized world-government crowd. Destroying D.C. Was the last thing they would ever do. Absolutely the last.
I guess what I'm saying is that, even though I was far more awake and alert than the majority of American sheep, had even been Founder of the Muskets, even I was having problems with 7/29. That being the case, it must be obvious to all reading this account that the American population had no idea that, although at great price, an “ënemy” that couldn't have been more on their side in ways they couldn't even understand or appreciate had been responsible.
I had met them, heard them admit alliance, and looked back toward the U.S. From Yemen, so though I certainly never verbalized my suspicions, I knew. I became absorbed with careful observation of the national reaction, preoccupied with listening to what people were saying. I found it surprising that ordinary people have a lot of common sense. They understand more about what’s going on than they normally let on. This was riveted home by multiplying comments that perhaps nuking the Capitol was warranted because of our Cowboying around internationally, wanton bullying of the rest of the world, and our eagerness to make blood-enemies of all Muslims.
“America has learned,” President McKay said in one of his now-televised weekly speeches, that,
“Military might cannot protect a free country if its leaders become corrupt. More than six million cargo containers, 90% of the trade goods we import each year, still enter the United States through more than 360 seaports. The most advanced technologies available can only partially scan their contents, and this is the legal trade. We have no numbers to indicate what or how much enters illegally. It is impossible to prevent the
piercing of our borders. “If we had invested trillions in education, job creation, teaching
employable skills, and improving the quality of life for our citizens at home, instead of squandering those trillions on foreign exploitation, manipulation, and power-mongering, society would not have collapsed so readily, nor so utterly, within the affected areas after
the strike. Long-neglect or disavowal of these problems had already brought domestic tensions to the verge of collapse. Destruction of the Capitol exposed how out of kilter our priorities as a nation have been. It merely provided the spark that set off the dark chaos we now witness in so many cities that were not directly affected by the apocalypse in
Washington. We will end the chaos. We will restore order. There are now more than 200,000 military, medical, and support personnel encroaching on these cities. We will assist the survivors and we will bring justice to bear upon those responsible.
“As we rebuild, we must never again allow the leaders of this nation to become involved in foreign intrigues, nor to participate in or conduct foreign wars other than as part of a Peacekeeping Force authorized by a vote of the United Nations General Assembly, not just the Security Council. We are not the world’s policeman. No one country, however haughty, however mighty, can run roughshod through the international community without eventual humiliation. The American dream can survive only to the extent that
American government, not just the American people, observes the principles that made this country great.”
Under such inspired leadership, I saw no further role for the Muskets to play. I intended to let the organization dwindle through attrition. Now this . . . and Robert in the middle of it! I wasn’t certain what to say or do and he sensed as much.
“Why don’t you and Tiffany come up, Eric? We haven’t gotten together in a while. Becky and the kids are asking why Uncle Eric hasn’t been around.”
“Maybe we should. I’m not tied up in a subdivision at present. I’m looking over a proposal from a potential partner, but it’s an opportunity, not an active plan yet. With the money every member of the national leadership came into after the successful completion of project Milk Truck, including Tiffany, came into mysteriously, I don't really even have to build any more subdivisions, but I enjoy it. It gets my mind off of all the recent history that otherwise oozes in from the Outer Limits in wierd ways. I really don't even need a partner. I can finance the subdivision myself.”
“Then come on! And I insist that you stay with us. No running off to Musket Headquarters like last time. Becky would love to meet your companion.”
“But we should probably stay in a motel. Becky’s pretty straight-laced, church and all, and we're not officially married yet.”
“Hold on a second. Becky! . . . “
I heard a muffled conversation. Robert’s hand was covering the phone.
“Forget a motel! She’d love to have you and Tiffany. You can have Cynthia’s room. It’s serving no purpose since she left for Stanford.”
“Are you sure? We can stay in a motel.”
“We won’t hear of it. You stay with us. What, are you and Tiffany checking into the Outlaw, so you can parade her around Simpson's crew? That would be ridiculous and an unnecessay risk if you really think they might be onto you. When are you coming? How about this weekend?”
“Why not Thanksgiving weekend? That will give me more time to balance my affairs.”
“Okay. So it’s on the calendar!”
“Let’s make it tentative, yes.”
“Great!”
“Robert.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t get involved in anything else up there. Okay? Promise me.”
“I doubt there’ll be an . . . “
”Promise me, Robert!”
“ . . . All Right, kid brother. I promise; you're the Founder and it's your baby.”
“Good. I’ll be there unless something prevents it. I’ll call next week if I can’t make it.”
“And this time, plan on staying a while, not running off after a day or two. Pass real time with your nieces and nephews!”
I laughed. “Agreed.”
Truth was, I felt like a week or so with family and friends. I had friends locally, but never spent significant time with them. I was always working, maybe a couple of beers one or two nights a week. This was a good excuse to take Tiffany-she enjoyed getting out, and since we came into so much money, the “couple of beers” with friends had turned
into fine wine and mixed drinks at great restaurants, although we still had our favorite local dives in the mix as well. Going out was just another way of making her happy and an opportunity to spend quality time with her and I liked that. We were close, I having though eaten crow for my obstinacy when she called the day of the nuclear strike. Since
receiving the ‘packages,’ there had been no compelling reason to work. We'd taken weekend trips, toured museums, enjoyed moving everything, including even her salt tanks into the new home we had bought in Calgary, and working with them. We even found time to read at the library a few days. We'd remained active. A good friend of Tiffany's lived in Calgary. Her family had also been involved in the Klamath Indian debacle, which had been reopened under McKay's new Secretary of the Interior. McKay was like a godsend to all of us and all of our causes, it seemed.
“Tiffany, Hon,” I told her after hanging up, “I’ve accepted Robert and Becky’s invitation to spend a week with them during Thanksgiving. I told them I wanted to bring you and they’re anxious to meet you. How about it?”
“I’ve never been there. Don’t you find that strange, and me an Oregonian?”
“You’ll love the family! They’re real people. You’ll meet my nephews and nieces. The two youngest, Brad and Eric are nephews, bundles of energy.”
“Named after you; how sweet!”
”My two youngest nieces still at home, Pamela and Roberta, are in their teens.”
“How many do they have? It sounds like a troop.”
“Five, but Cynthia’s at Stanford. She didn’t come home for the summer. She’s trying to cut a year from her program with Summer classes.”
“She’s not even coming Thanksgiving?”
“She’s spending it with her boyfriend’s family.”
“Uh huh! I see. I love large families, like mine.”
They want us to stay with them and use Cynthia’s room. The last time I visited, I stayed in a motel, so I didn’t spend as much time with them as I could have, especially the kids.”
“Won’t that be crowded? You want privacy, don’t you?” I laughed.
“It’s a very large home, Hon; they're well off, and the grounds are extensive. They live
outside of town, twenty acres toward Whitefish. Horses, the works. We’ll do other things too, and have plenty of time to ourselves. I’d like to make a week or two of it. Except for Thanksgiving weekend, the kids will be in school, and they both work. Becky teaches English and you know Robert’s on the police force. There’s a lot to do and see up there during the days, and at night, when everyone’s home together, we can eat with them, enjoy the kids, set up and talk late . . . “
”I’d love to. Especially when our minds aren't on something else. We'll just keep enjoying every night like we enjoyed the night at La Cantina.”
“I fibbed though. I didn't tell him we were married, or I'd have to listen to big lecture when we arrived about all the reasons we should have gotten married there so everyone could have been involved and excited about it.”
“Why not? Are you ashamed of me?” That coy look. God, it dripped with sex.
“Of course not, as if you had to ask. No, Robert has gotten himself into a scrape with the Feds trying to hunt down Carl, Christof, and Kicks Iron. He and a fellow officer killed a couple of them.”
“Are the feds aware of what he did?”
“No, but there's more for him to tell.“
”We have some catching up to do. A long drive is a splendid idea!”
“We do have much to discuss. Some things have occurred I need to bring you up to date on.”
“But not now to spoil our evening?”
“Right.”

A SIMPLE REQUEST

I had to delay a planned trip down to Portland after getting a call from the Marina in Huntington Beach. My Richardson was still there. I hadn't decided what to do with it yet, but I didn't want to part with it. It would always be my pride and joy. A lot of me was in that boat. “Your battery must have run down, Mr. Stroder, or perhaps the bilge pump has burned out. Your Richardson has taken on a fair amount of water.”
“How badly? Is it up to the engine?”
“No. That was the first thing we had the boys check. She’ll probably be okay for another week, but we knew you’d want to know. It could be something more serious.”
“I appreciate the call. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Very well. I’ll have them check it occasionally for you. If it looks like it might reach the engine, I’ll have them pump the bilges for you.”
“So much for my discount ticket.” I thought.
I called Tiffany on her cell. She was out shopping somewhere for the afternoon, looking for some new duds for the Kalispell trip.
“Hello, Love.”
“I just got off the phone with the marina in Huntington Beach. The Richardson is taking on water. We haven’t been using her enough. A wooden hull has to be worked, stay flexible. But we've been so busy the last month. I'm going to have to fly down there and check her out. The water's not up to the engine. The owner's going to keep an eye on it
and pump the bilges if it gets much higher before I get there.”
“Are you going to move it to Vancouver? You said you'd have to fiberglass it to put it on one of the freshwater rivers or lakes here in the inland.”
“I still haven't decided, Hon. I'll think about it while I'm down there.”
“Should I wait here until you have a chance to examine her?”
“Yeah, until tomorrow night, anyway. I’ll grab a commuter flight and get a rental. As soon as I know what’s up, I’ll call.”
“Are you calling your brother?”
“It won’t affect our getting there by Thanksgiving weekend. Those three days are the hard dates. I allowed plenty of time for us. I think a new battery or pump will resolve the problem, for a month at least.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you. You know I'm missing you terribly. I don't like being away from your body even one day!”
God, how I loved her.
I’d considered selling the Richardson, but it seemed rude somehow. She represented a special achievement, a goal based upon effort. And had effort been required! To look at her now, no one would suspect she’d ever been abandoned, put on blocks and left to rot. My grandmother is known to have repeated often as a young woman, “I’m going to wear out, not rust out!” She lived into her nineties.
That’s how I felt about the Richardson. Since things had worked out between Tiffany and I, and because money was no object, I was considering having her tugged to Aruba. My comment about losing the discount ticket to Portland aside, I wasn’t worried about money these days. None of us were. After 4/23, everyone who’d gone to Yemen had a
visit from a masked stranger. He always appeared at night, and always with a package. I first learned of the mysterious visitor when Christof called, reporting he’d received a package and a Thank You card. I thought about the implications of that simple card more than I worried about the ethical import of taking the money. There were legitimate
concerns. We had no idea who the rogue was. Who did he represent? Was it an individual, an organization, even a nation or nations? There was no way to tell. And why was Christof selected? The latter question evaporated when Kicks Iron called only a week later, reporting that he had received a package, apparently from the same man. He tried to ascertain who it was from, but the man said nothing, just shook his head back and forth. A few days later, Tiffany called while I was out and told me he had been by our place. I asked if she had attempted to identify the source. No, she hadn’t, and frankly wondered why he appeared with two packages, one each, since she hadn’t been involved in operation Milk Truck, hadn’t even known when or where it would take place.
“This raises the question of what these gifts are for, Eric. Apparently, they are related to 4/23.” she had said.
“It's a card saying Thanks for Milk Truck, but the criterion for payment of so much money to each of us was who was in Adan, or rather, Sa'eb. You were there, plus carried out operations with the lighters.”
“Those operations were my beef; they really had nothing to do with the interests of Beyruti and Shiraz and the others associated with them. It still seems like unearned money on my part, or maybe a way to get more money to you, since they know we're together and the others won't object to my getting a package.”
“Like the Feds paying informants or financing Sting operations?”
“In the same vein, don’t you think?”
“It depends on which side of the money your viewing from.”
“Are you being cute? Explain.”
“No, I’m not. Do you think the Feds think they’re corrupt because they spend so many millions every year in their operations? Do you think when a college graduate or someone in the military joins the FBI or the DEA or the ATF, they say, ‘I’m becoming an agent because I want to become corrupt.’?”
“Of course, not. But many do.”
“That’s a subsequent deterioration of purpose, no different than a sincere new politician starting out with every intention of achieving something noble, then later becoming corrupted by the Old Guard.”
“How does this relate to the gifts Muskets are receiving? You didn’t form the Muskets with the idea of becoming corrupt, did you? I don’t think you did.”
“No, and I don’t want to become corrupt. That’s why I think it’s highly questionable accepting $500,000 in cash from a stranger who could represent anyone.”
“The money, the gift, is a statement. It wasn’t offered in exchange for anything. It came later, after we had already achieved the core of what we intended. All of us incurred significant risk destroying Laser Net arrays; look what happened to Blevins, for
Christ’s sake! We put our hearts into trying to dissuade the Federal government from further eroding the Bill of Rights and further undermining the Constitution. Nothing the Muskets have done has been for money. It never was. This seems no different than someone bequeathing funds to any of a thousand other non-profit organizations
they believe in and whose cause they want to further. For that matter, it might even have come from someone in the Old Guard who really doesn't believe in Laser Net representing Independent or Libertarian interests.”
“That's a good way to handle it, Tiffany. It makes a lot of sense looked at that way. You know, based upon your statement, the money isn’t for us as individuals, but for the Musket organization.”
“If it was for the Musket organization, it would not be given to individuals. It’s the benefactor’s issue. Perhaps they feel that if a Musket can be put down as far as Blevins, it’s equally appropriate to lift those the government hasn’t destroyed.”
“If that’s the case, your analogy of a bequest to a non profit corporation doesn’t apply, unless they anticipate further operations in the future. People don’t endow organizations for past work. The endow them to enable further work.”
“Admittedly, but that will be our call. If, when, and where we decide to undertake further operations or promote certain incentives.”
“What if, as I suspect, the gifts are benign? What if–especially with McKay in office–there are no further operations. That makes the money benign.”
“It always helps to be financially independent. I know from having lived in a once-wealthy family that wealth allows you to stand atop higher mountains.”
“The gifts aren’t large enough for that. Just enough to allow a few comforts.”
“Well, then accept it as a Thank You as the note attests. I certainly intend for us to enjoy it. It is enough between us to lay the solid foundation for a secure life. And it's over and above anything else we might do, like more subdivisions eventually as you've been
talking about. We can build that room-size Marine tank you’re always talking about onto the new home in Calgary! We could build it together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Yes, we could, but I'd rather build it into a home on Aruba, where we can spend time when Canada's snowed in.”
We had left it there for the time being. Now, with the Richardson pressing me for a decision, I had to do some serious thinking. There was a subdivision of nice homes on the end of the island opposite the volcano. Maybe it was time to take a hard look at the ones on the market.
When I arrived at the Marina, I walked out on the dock and out to the slip where the Richardson was berthed. To my astonishment, she was sitting high in the water. I checked her out, noting that a new marine battery (they're not cheap, not the good ones) and a new bilge pump had been installed. I presumed the marina had taken care of her for me and I'd pay them on the way out. I walked back to the shop and bought a
six-pack of Coors when the cashier told me the owner would be back in a few hours. I had nowhere else to go, so I decided to take her out for a run. It was a nice day and less than three-foot seas. Abundant sunshine. When I turned the key, she started right up. I'd installed a big Chrysler and a new box to handle the increased torque and hadn't had a single problem with it. I popped a Coors, and stowed the other five cans in the galley fridge, then changed into beach wear, shorts and a pull-over with boat shoes. As I was about to untie her and back out of the slip, a man walked up and stepped from the dock to the transom.
“Can I come aboard, Eric?”
I powered down and turned off the key. “You already have. What can I do for you?”
He was dressed very much as I was, had a huge backpack on, and was sweating profusely.
“Got another one of those?” he asked, smiling.
“Friendly enough,” I thought. I was suspicious generally, but something about him made me feel relaxed. I grabbed a cold one from the galley and came back up to the rear deck. He had shed the weight and laid it on the seat so he could sit and cool off.
“Oh, thank you. I've been standing and walking around the marina in the sun for over an hour. This feels cold.” He took a long pull.
“You know my name. What's yours?”
“Oh, sorry to be so rude. I was just thirsty. I'm a friend of a friend. Spritz calls me Sir. Gallahad, but my name is Stuart Gallahad. Nice to meet you at last, the famous founder of the Muskets!” he said, extending his hand. I took it.
“Gosh, I haven't heard from Spritz since . . . “
“Adan?”
I was taken aback. Stuart knew about Adan. That gave me an uncomfortable feeling.
“Spritz told you about Yemen?”
“Spritz tells me about everything. I'm his best friend. He loved the Amran hills there. My father was a friend of Mr. Hogan that owned a hardware store in Susanville. Too bad what happened to him and all. Spritz and I are like brothers, probably closer than him and Randy.”
“So he sent you to meet me? Listen, I'm just going to work the hull a little, so why don't you accompany me for a little bit?”
“That's an offer I won't turn down. Thanks.”
“You mind unhooking the lines, and I'll get us out of here? And to keep your backpack from getting wet, I'd put it below on the bed forward of the galley and head.”
A few moments later, we were underway. I got another beer myself and felt the ocean breeze on my face as I pulled out from behind the breakwater and began watching
her bow slice through the green water of the Pacific. Not very far out, I dropped anchor, shut off the engine, and took two canvas boat chairs up onto the bow. While he he coming up to join me, I dropped the swim ladder over the side and dove into the
cold water for a brisk swim. He was only seconds behind. Climbing out, we sat in the sun and enjoyed the rest of the beer, chatting.
“It's a coincidence you caught me here. I came to check on the boat.”
“Oh, no. It wasn't a coincidence. His contacts told him they'd arranged for you to come here.”
“Who? What contacts?”
“I'm not supposed to say. He sent me to meet them and give them a sealed glass canister of his bug creation in a special cooler. They gave me something for him and something to give to you.” He rose, went below where we had stowed his backpack in the cabin so it wouldn't get wet while were out, and brought an envelope topside.
“You're not supposed to read this until I'm gone, by the way. Spritz said it was for your eyes only.”
That could only mean one thing: Spritz had arranged for delivery of his Doomsday virus using his friend as a courier. Sheesh.
”I don't know about Spritz,” I said, “He talks a lot, too much I think.”
“Not really. He talks to me and to no one else, and he doesn't meet anyone in person since he returned from you guy's mysterious trip only to discover his virus was aptly named. That's why he's not here himself. Let me give this to you though.”
We chatted a bit more, but only small talk, neither of us in a position to divulge any more the other didn't already know. At length, we enjoyed the brief trip back and secured her.
“I've got a plane to catch, Eric. I appreciate the break. It really cooled me off.”
“To where?, I asked as he stepped onto the dock.
“Wouldn't you like to know? Spritz sends his warmest regards. You mind if I take another one of those cold Coors with me?” He smiled, almost breaking into a laugh.
“Sure,” I said, picking up the empty. I brought out another, popping the top for him. “It's a pleasure meeting you, Stuart . . . Sir Gallahad! Do me a favor and take care of Spritz. And tell him to stay in contact with his mother. Tiffany told me she and the kids were
living in a mobile home and that they were in a pitiful condition when she visited Martha posing as Spritz's girlfriend.”
“That was Tiffany? Well, I'll be. He'll be surprised to learn that. He thought it was some kind of Fed looking for him, a trick!”
“That was before I married Tiffany.”
“Wow. Do I have a lot to tell him! Don't worry about his mom and his siblings though. They're not living in a trailer any more. She collected a big wad from an insurance settlement. They're living in South France now.”
“You're kidding?”
“No. In fact, unless you make a trip to France, you won't be seeing me or Spritz again. We leave on a flight to Paris mañana! I was going to tell you anyway. I just wanted to keep you hanging.” We laughed.
Eric, we're going to join them. You know both Spritz and his mom speak a little French.”
“No. I actually don't know that much about Spritz, to be honest, except what he told me, or rather me and another person over there. But take care of him, Stuart. He took his father's death hard. Probably won't ever really get over it. He's troubled. Really. I'm glad his best friend will be close at hand. Keep him in the straight and narrow, okay?”
“You got it, Bro. He and I are going to find some sexy French wives and live on the Riviera now that he can well afford it. His mom and family live very close as well. Everyone of them is rich now, so why not enjoy it, huh?”
“Life takes funny turns, strange turns.”
“See you, Eric.” he said, shaking my hand with a firm grip, then turning and walking away.
“I watched him walk back toward the marina store, drawing heavily on that second Coors.” Then it hit me.
“Hold on, we forgot your backpack!” I darted back into the cabin and grabbed it.
“Damn, no wonder he was sweating; this thing's heavy.”
He hadn't stopped or look back.
“Stuart, your backpack!”
He just raised his hand holding the Coors high and yelled back, “That's not mine, it's yours. I'm glad to get rid of it. It's heavy as hell. Enjoy it, Bro!”
That set me back. I sat down on the seat with it on the deck in front of me. It couldn't be enough explosive to blow me and half the marina to oblivion. That just didn't fit. If so, he wouldn't have told me so much about Spritz, his mom, his siblings, and him friend all living in southern France and partying on the Riviera. God, if he could see them now, Mr. Hogan must really be feeling proud of what he'd done. He saw it like a crystal. A clear crystal ball into a possible future requiring only his stepping through the curtain and across the great divide if that's what it was. I couldn't help but feel respect for a man who could and would do that to spare the woman and family he loved. Ugh! What a thought to entertain when Tiffany entered my mind. There had to have been a better way. But one thing was for certain. He didn't need his Harley now.
I took the backpack below, sat on the bed up forward, and opened it. It was packed very tightly with bundles wrapped in paper like grocery bags are made of and taped well. I knew immediately then what it was, but held my breath, because this pack was very large compared to the packages the mystery man with the mask had dropped by and
left with Tiffany in May. After prying one loose, I took my pocket knife, cut one open, counted the smaller banded stacks of bills it held and the number of bills in one stack. If anyone had been looking at my expression at that instant, it would have strongly resembled Popeye, the Sailor Man, but this spinach was even greener. Then, I remembered the card and opened it.

“Thanks for coming to your senses and helping us all do the same.
Thanks for the Muskets. Thanks for your friendship all these years,
and may we remain thus for many years more.” It was signed,
“Carl. PS: See you in Kalispell.”

Carl was alive and well. I almost cried.
“See me in Kalispell? How could he know we were heading for Kalispell? My God, Carl . . . It was you! You, your Uncle Wady and company pulled off 7/29 didn't you? I know you did.”
If he was psychic, he had to have heard, so intense was my cognition. I decided to keep it to myself and Tiffany about Sir. Gallahad showing up at my boat in Huntington Beach with a backpack from Carl, routed to me through Spritz, acknowledging me as the founder of the Muskets. It was clear to me now that I had been only a facilitator. They were the heavyweights, the real Muskets: Christof, Kicks Iron, Carl, and Spritz. Tiffany was in their league too. Although I had given birth to it all, I was but the visionary. The form. The structure. Those five were the substance. They had done it with little help from
me. They had changed the course of a nation. But for the Muskets, NADNARA would still be operating today. McKay would not be president. The world would now be watching America rise Phoenix-like from the ashes of those greatest of apocalypses-4/23 and 7/29. No foreign armies were massed on our borders. That wasn't even what it was about. The rest of the world just wanted us to play fair, and be generous with our great
national bounty without squandering it and forcing them to do the same. America would set a different example in the future. I could feel it in my bones. And were it not for the night I called them and invited them over to discuss forming an organization called the Musket Brigade, it never would have happened. Worse yet to me personally, I would never have met Tiffany. I sat on the bed for a time and wept.

“Try two or three million.”
Silence.
I knew her mind must be racing. Then I heard it. She was my soul mate indeed. She was crying.
“It brought it all home to me, too, Tiffany. I know it was Carl who was the ringleader of 7/29, with Beyrouti and Shiraz supplying the depth and power necessary. You watch when we get to Kalispell for Thanksgiving. That's when we'll find out.”
“Oh, Eric. Come back and hold me. We truly are one flesh, you and I. I can't stand being apart from you even for a day or two. I feel as though my heart has fled with you. Bring it home to me, Baby. I can't wait to get my arms and legs around you.”
We both laughed through our tears. I knew neither of us was the same person we had been before we were married. We had become something else, a new entity more powerful than the sum of its parts. I don't think any man has ever been more devoted to a woman than I felt devoted to Tiffany.
“I don't dare fly with this backpack. It's far too large to be a carry on and I wouldn't consider letting it out of my sight. I'll rent a car and drive back. I should be on my way home within an hour or so.”
“Have you made a decision about the boat?”
“Yes. I'm going to have her tugged to Aruba and glassed. That new power plant can handle the weight. I have yet to run it at more than half-power, even the night we took her sixty-five miles and dropped anchor on the leeward side of San Clemente island. I want to get a winter home set up on Aruba on the end opposite the volcano.”
“Thank you, Eric. Thank you for ensuring so many more wonderful nights at La Cantina, and so many days on the ocean in the sun. Thank you for the paradise you have made my life. I love you so much.”
After tender good byes, I paid the owner, thanked him, and told him of my plans.
“I have a friend who could get your boat to Aruba.” he said. “He wouldn't tug it. We can just lift it out with belts the same way we set her in the water and put her on timbers on the deck of his freighter. It's safer for the boat and will cost a lot less as well.”
“Can you arrange it? I'd really appreciate it.”
“I’ll be happy to. I'll call you as soon as I can get some details from him.”
“Thank you so much, John.”
“Eric, I'm happy to help. It's been great having a fellow contractor as a tenant in that slip.”
John was a contractor turned marina owner, and we had grown close over the time I'd had my boat there.
As I drove north, heading back toward home and Tiffany, I thought a lot about Carl. I remembered a conversation we had had and a story he had told me when I finally spoke to him after 4/23 when he called.
“Don’t take so much credit, Eric,” he had said. “That’s just your innate fear talking. We three accomplished Milk Truck. You weren’t there. You weren’t there when the informant and agent were handled. You’ve never been on the front line, except in the strikes against Laser Net. We took it much farther. You didn’t conceive Milk Truck.”
“What are you implying? I planned that operation.”
“Not single-handedly. If I recall, you were opposed to 4/23, at least initially, according to Christof and Kicks Iron, and you haven’t appeared that enthusiastic about it since. We owed you allegiance because the Musket Resistance was your baby; that, and because when you brought your brother into the plot to derail the train and get the Technetium, we were convinced we had misread you. But you do go up and down, Eric. You’re on-again, off-again. We all know that, even Tiffany.”
“So after all we’ve been through, I’m the subject of everyone’s conversations. Everyone’s concerned about my commitment, even now.”
“It doesn’t matter any longer. You saw it through like the rest of us. You've just never thought it through. We can only honor you. What are friends for if not to prod each other along?”
“Prod each other along, huh? And I’m the Proddee, of course.”
“Is that so bad? Does it make one friend less than another? I read a story once, Eric, probably fiction, but it’s bound to have happened in real life sometime.”
“What's the story? Is it about some friends like you and I?”
“Very much an analogy. Two friends were caught in a blizzard some distance from home. As they struggled to make it back to safety, the one suffering most from the piercing cold sat on the ground and told his friend to leave him. He felt comfortable because he was already numbing, and he refused to get up. He was ready to sit there and die. So his friend began beating him with a stick across the back, ignoring his shouts of pain. Seeing he had no choice, the man got up and began walking against the freezing wind and ice again. Every time he started to give up, his friend would whack him across the back again with the stick, no matter how loudly he screamed and cursed or how resolutely he swore off their friendship.
“Finally, they reached home, both of them barely alive. But they made it. After recovering, the reality of what his friend had done . . . that he had saved his life, dawned upon the one who had wanted to give up several times along the way and the two friends fell into each other’s arms in tears. I never forgot that story. I don’t ever want to forget it. That’s the kind of friend I’ve tried to be. I know the blows have hurt, whether they came from me, or from Tiffany, or from Christof and Kicks Iron. But we are all your friends. We have been true to you. We helped you guide the Muskets through the blizzard, and now we’re home. So don’t trouble yourself because someone thought the story of the Muskets was so moving, so inspiring, that they gave the protagonists a gift after 4/23. That doesn’t make the giver an antagonist.”
“You and Tiffany, Carl. I don’t know.”
“What?”
“The way you two put things. Your blizzard story and her example of the FBI agent down the street and mushroom brownies.” I laughed. “I wish I could think so absolutely.”
“Mushroom what?”
“Never mind.” I laughed.
“Purity of thought is the Ruby of the soul, so they say. I’m glad you and Tiffany finally got together. She’s good for you. You ought to marry her and settle down. Forget all this. Be satisfied, enjoy the fulfillment.”
I had!
Since 7/29, we had, at least Tiffany and I, anguished over the possibility that Carl was no more. Now, to learn he was not only alive, but without doubt, at least to us, along with Fahad and Beyrouti, the one that had engineered the plan that altered the course of a nation. Since, no one had heard from him, not even Christof. Now, I had the note and backpack and would be seeing him in Kalispell. I could hardly wait for Thanksgiving.
So I wasn’t worried about money. I was, however, aware that if Tiffany and I were to enjoy it and our life together, we’d have to stay alive . . . and free! I didn’t want Kicks Iron or Christof to come to me, not with the Feds on their tails, but visiting one’s brother is totally innocuous, and while there, I could arrange a sequestered meeting at Christof’s place. He’d been bugging me to visit.
My mind returned to Tiffany. Before our marriage, although she had accompanied me to Yemen and been intimately involved with the Muskets–in the most literal sense, Tiffany hadn’t done anything more serious than smash NADNARA arrays. With McKay as president, there appeared to be no further need even for that. The EPA and environmental extremists had been bankrupted with the destruction of the Capitol. It
was their power base. The nation would have to address a new location and the enormous costs of a new Capitol elsewhere, as Brazil had done when they built Brasilia from the ground up. An enforcement collapse was certain for the entire Code of Federal Regulations because there was no money available to fund further misadventures. Federal government was consigned to Federal Buildings across the country. Since 7/29 the towering granite fortresses of the State capitols loomed much larger by comparison, and the states had even less money. The quest for a vendetta was no longer necessary. But she had exacted her pound of flesh from those she knew were most responsible in her family's case anyway and seemed to have gotten it all out of her system now. Isolating her from the mounting jeopardy that had almost snared Kicks Iron and Christof was essential if she was to remain free and safe as my long-term companion, wife, and lover. If she became a wanted felon, her ass would be in the sling like theirs, and possibly mine if I wasn’t careful.
These thoughts occupied my mind on the drive back. If they hadn't imparted lingering concern, I might have had the misfortune of the pleasantness of sleep overcoming me on the road, as I had no intention of stopping until Tiffany was in my arms. I would spend some time with Tiffany, stash the cash, and then take the flight to Portland to talk
to a potential partner in a subdivision, telling him face to face that I was no longer interested in building another housing tract, as I was involved in a new business elsewhere. Then Tiffany and I would head for Kalispell for Thanksgiving.

GROUNDED

“ . . . belts and put your seat backs and tray tables in the upright position.”

Disturbed by a hand on my shoulder. I awoke to see a smiling Flight Attendant.
“Sir, would you raise your seat back for landing?”
I complied, albeit wearily. “That was quick.” I said, as she walked on down the aisle. Glancing at my watch, I was astonished.
“It’s way past the time it takes to get to Portland. What happened?” I asked the woman sitting next to me.
“You were asleep during the announcement. The Captain said just about the time we were approaching Portland that we’d been diverted to Las Vegas, but would only be on the ground long enough to refuel, then we'd take off and fly back to Portland. We won’t be leaving the aircraft.”
“Mechanical problems?” I sat up and looked out at the engines on our side. “Did he say?”
“I thought it must be, and I was frightened, but he said it was nothing to worry about. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong, but I’m still nervous.”
I looked down.
“We’re landing. Whatever it is, they caught it in time. That’s a hell of a way to wake up!”
“You slept a long time and I didn't want to wake you.”
The plane touched down, and the familiar reverse thrust slowed us quickly. When the Captain turned off the runway, instead of continuing on to the gates, he allowed the plane to roll to a stop.
“This is weird. I wonder if it’s a problem with the landing gear and that’s why we’ve stopped moving. All we've done is get off the main runway.”
“At least we’re safely on the ground.” she said, relief written across her face.
It was a minute or two before anything happened. I half expected to see a Fire Truck, but none appeared.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Captain’s voice filled the plane, “I apologize for the delay. We’ll be moving into position for takeoff shortly.”
A Flight Attendant opened the main door and let the steps down. It was then that I noticed two vehicles approaching. Not trucks, but cars, Suburbans, Both were black, like official vehicles.
“Maybe we’re picking up a VIP.” I thought. “It makes sense with the federal government temporarily centered here.”
They slowed as they approached the plane, stopping at the base of the steps. That had to be it, a VIP. I thought at the time whoever it was must be very important, because two uniformed Marines boarded first to check out the aircraft. They looked at each passenger as they walked clear to the back, before returning to the front. As they came to our row, one of them spoke to the woman next to me in the aisle seat.
“Ma’am, could you step this way please?”
She paled, but stood. The Marine led her toward the back, not the front. The second Marine then asked me to do the same. We’re they confiscating our seats? How rude!
But he was walking me toward the front. I looked back to see the first Marine re-seating the woman.
“What’s going on?” I asked, finding myself in the aisle, sandwiched between the two of them.
“Mr. Stroder, we’ve been instructed to remove you from the aircraft, without cuffs if you accompany us quietly.”
I can’t remember which emotion was strongest. I oscillated between shock and terror. First Kicks Iron, then Christof, and now me. The fabric of reality was fraying. My world was coming apart at the seams. I followed sheepishly, embarrassed that the plane had been diverted to Las Vegas because of me. The back door opened, and I was directed to enter the lead vehicle. As I did, one of the Marines followed. Now, one sat on either
side. The driver was also a Marine, and sitting in the right front seat was another. They said nothing as we moved away from the plane, followed by the other vehicle. I wondered if that was four more of them. As we moved away, I saw the steps retract. The door close, and the plane begin to move again. What the hell must the passengers be
thinking? Who must they have thought I was? And, how the hell did anyone know I was on that plane?
The next thing I knew, we had left the airport and were heading for the strip, passing casino after casino. Vegas was even more crowded than I remembered, thousands of excited visitors aghast at its wonders. We turned toward UNLV, but then pulled into the lot of the MGM Grand, not halting until we were around back and had pulled into an unloading dock.
“Follow me please, Mr. Stroder.” The Marine to my right said after stepping out. Four new faces, all Marines, emerged from the vehicle that had followed us. They joined the four in our vehicle, and I found myself walking within a perfect box of eight Marines, three per side, front and back. I didn’t know they taught them how to do that! My hands were free, but it was obvious I was in custody. I couldn’t step in any direction but forward, almost in a cadence with them.
“Maybe I’m still on the plane and this is a crazy dream,” I thought.
But it was too real. Plus, I never rode an elevator in any dream I could remember. The MGM Grand? What in hell was going on? One of the guards inserted a key into the control panel, disabling the elevator indicator lights and bell, a security precaution, I suppose. I don’t know how many floors up we rose, but it was near the top. When the doors opened, I found myself facing an enormous lobby and a single Marine, this one in full dress uniform. I watched the elevator doors close on my previous, stone-faced escorts.
“What’s this about?” I asked, disturbed by a military escort.
“Please follow me, Mr. Stroder.“ He actually smiled!
”Why am I here?”
“I was told to escort you to a meeting in one of the Conference rooms.”
It’s a strange sensation to be walking as freely as a celebrity, being formally addressed as Mr. Stroder, but not there by choice. I had absolutely no idea who waited in a conference room in the Federal Complex to speak to me, or their agenda, other than it had to have something to do with the Muskets. The question bedeviling me was
exactly what they knew, or thought they knew, that would lead to the in-flight diversion of a Portland-bound flight originating in Calgary to Las Vegas on my behalf?
Under the right circumstances, I can exhibit impressive bravado, but my heart pounded from the gnawing uncertainty of these surreal events and circumstances. I must have seemed a barely sentient being to the dozens of people we passed. All were busily involved in various activities, some urgently involved in that human hive. They paid little
attention as we strolled by.
“Approaching with the subject.” The Marine spoke into his radio.
The Subject!
If I was considered “the Subject,” it was definitely a police matter, as if I hadn’t already gathered as much. But in the Federal Complex that occupied an increasing percentage of the MGM Grand? That meant FBI! Did this have something to do with Robert? Damn! If only he hadn’t gotten himself involved with Kicks Iron and Fergy. But to protect the Muskets, he would have done anything, just as he had helped arrange the reinforced concrete pour on the tracks, a vital action in the plot to derail the train and seize the technetium needed for the Blevins reprisal. He was under Kicks Iron’s spell from that time, and Milk Truck was more than payback for Blevins in Kicks Iron’s mind. To him, the Blevins sting was just fodder he could use to intimidate me into supporting a reprisal of far higher, moral purpose-what President Jackson had done to the Cherokee, the Trail of Tears. And though he had the features and complexion of his white ancestors, Christof had mostly Indian blood himself, which conferred a razor-sharp significance to the mission. They were thick as thieves. If not for Carl’s prominence in the operation, and the fact it was Arab blood and money that financed Milk Truck, I would have considered the operation purely Indian. That was why Kicks Iron insisted upon the base in Georgia. The White man had stolen the homes and property of the Cherokee as soon as they were
forced to leave Georgia behind. They had also betrayed the Dakota Sioux so they could get their hands on the gold in the Black Hills. And here I was, sitting in the MGM Grand because of the long-delayed consequences of those actions. It suddenly struck me as hypocritical that the same ones who say that happened long ago and should be forgotten think there will be a judgment when Christ returns for things much farther removed. Odd. Ironic.
We turned down a wide hall with desks situated intermittently as far as I could see. Both men and women worked, stood, and spoke in differentiated groups centered around each desk as though each was the pulse of a nerve center. Next, we turned down a narrower hall, and every door we passed was a conference room with a different number. Groups of well-dressed men and women entered and exited various rooms. A great deal was going on here. Things the average Joe never thought about or considered. A nation was being run from these unlikely quarters. Suddenly, we halted.
“Wait here.” He said.
As if I planned to strike out on my own in this place!
He continued on, speaking into his radio before stopping a few doors farther down. A young woman emerged, thanked him, and motioned for me to approach. As I neared, she smiled. Smiled as if I was a former classmate!
“Eric, I’m so glad to meet you! I hope the suddenness of all this didn’t upset you too much. Let’s go in. I’m Rhonda Davis.”
I entered, stood speechless, and scanned the room.
“Thank you.” she told the Marine again as he closed the door. There was no one else here. I was alone with a woman named “Rhonda” I had never seen before in my entire life. I would have remembered a slight, lithe brunette with a cropped, Charleston
hairstyle, small, pointy breasts, and features so sharply etched that the line separating her lips from her face could cut paper. She looked like a Cylon Barbie on Battlestar Galactica might have looked.
“Please, sit down, Eric. Relax. Help yourself to the drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I feel I already know you. I’m aware you love seafood, but confess I don’t know specifically which you prefer, so I ordered an assortment. The Chefs are gifted and quite accommodating here.”
I’m easy when it comes to seafood. I would have relished anything on the tray. Every toothpick was thrust through broiled red and green bell peppers, onion, olives and three or four seafood items. Several fish were represented: Pickled Herring, Broiled Orange Roughy, Cod, and Flounder, plus shrimp, squid, crab, oysters-fried and on the halfshell-
even a small crystal bowl of Sturgeon caviar. I'd eaten many ounces of that caviar in Canada. Someone wanted to impress me! Rather than speak first, I selected an assortment of hors d’oeuvres, spooned some caviar into one of the crystal dishes (everything was crystal), grabbed a dozen fancy, assorted crackers, poured a bottle of Orange juice into one of the glasses (crystal) with ice, and took a seat. Rhonda Davis made a pretense of not watching, but I caught her stealing occasional glances as she removed a stack of folders from her leather briefcase, the only other item on the large, Cherry conference table besides the hors d’oeuvre and drink trays and her radio. I took the spot directly opposite, downed half the glass of fresh-squeezed to ease my anxiety parched throat, took a bite of Rye cheese cracker with caviar, and sat back. Seeing my obvious enjoyment, she smiled, quite pleased with herself. In fact, she bristled an air of confidence as evident as a static charge. Her manner, dress, accouterments, makeup, and approach were all polished. Too polished. She selected a few hors d’oeuvres herself, but seemed more interested in coffee. Perhaps her hors d’oeuvres were to make me feel comfortable eating in front of her.
“She doesn’t know me as well as she thinks.” I thought. I was much more uncomfortable with her sterling regard for detail and the lingering silence of the Whoever speaks first at this point loses game than with whether she watched me eat or not. I decided to let her think she’d gotten the better of me.
“Thanks for lunch. The caviar is delicious.”
“I did okay?”
“You did well.”
“Thank you for the complement, Eric.”
So formal! I finished my orange juice, reached for another bottle, and refilled the glass. A knock at the door interrupted us. Rhonda half-glided over and opened it.
“Sorry to disturb you, but you said to bring them in as soon as they arrived.”
“I did, and I’m glad you have them. I know he’ll appreciate it. If you don’t mind, place them in the corner . . . over here.” She pointed to the corner inside the door on our left, to their right. The guard entered with my carry ons from the plane, placed them as
instructed, then left, closing the door behind him.
That astonished me! I was certain there hadn’t been time to search for my bags after the plane landed. As I thought back, struggling to remember details, I was even more certain. The only way my bags could be sitting in the MGM Grand was if they had never been mixed with the other baggage. Had they kept them separate in Calgary? I should have carried them on myself. And I didn't remember anyone taking them from the baggage compartment when the plane stopped. There hadn't been time. At that point, I was too shaken to even remember them when the marine was walking me to the front of the aircraft. No member of the crew had left the plane when the Marines parked beside us on the runway, nor had the Baggage compartment door been opened. This was a good time to try a question. The answer would disclose the key to a more disturbing one:
When was the decision made to divert me to Las Vegas?
“I’m surprised my bags arrived so quickly.” I tried to seem only mildly interested. “I know they didn’t have time to go through the baggage when they escorted me from the plane. It took off again almost immediately.”
“Your luggage came separately . . . on another flight, a different airline. That flight just happened to arrive about the same time as yours.”
So! Why hadn’t they just sent me on that flight as well? I remembered walking to the restrooms in the airport after checking my bags. They had to have diverted them while I was taking a piss before take-off. I had fallen asleep soon after and never realized it. Was it to prevent a scene in Calgary that they pulled that maneuver, fearing I might escape, or because they had no legal authority to touch me in Canada? It must have been the latter, and/or give someone time to go through them carefully looking for clues or information during the flight.
And why did I fall asleep so quickly after the drink cart serviced us soon after take-off?
Had I been drugged? Hell, was it as simple as wanting me to experience astonishment at being pulled off a plane with an hors d’oeuvre tray suitable for a king? Maybe they wanted to fuck with my mind, screw with my sense of reality. If it was the latter, it had worked. However cool I might be trying to play it at the moment, my confidence had been dealt a severe blow.
“Okay, Rhonda Davis, how about telling me who you are and why we’re sitting across the table from each other in Las Vegas.”
“I work for the government.”
“I gathered that.”
“I analyze things.”
“You’re a psychiatrist, psychologist?”
“Neither. I analyze information; people as well, but not in the way a mental health professional does.”
“Who do you work for, which agency? The FBI?”
“Why would you assume FBI? Have you committed a crime?”
“I heard the Marine guard refer to me as the ‘Subject,’ and we both know I wasn’t asked if I cared to make a stop at the MGM Grand on my way from Calgary, Canada to Portland!”
“I’ll tell you who I work for later. I promise. But first, I think we could make progress more quickly if you just think of me as someone with a great interest in helping you. I gave my word to a dear friend of yours, and I believe a person should be true to their word, don’t you agree?” Interesting response.
“I do. Which friend of mine did you make that promise to, Rhonda Davis?”
“I promise, I’ll reveal which friend later also. The project I’m working on presently actually does involve the Bureau, but I'm not a member myself, only attached at the moment. Can I ask you a straightforward question?”
“You haven’t answered mine. Why should I answer yours? What are you hiding? Or, why are you hiding it?”
“Are you the founder of the Musket Resistance?”
A tremor of alarm drew the strength from my spine as if it had turned to Jell-O. I felt relieved to be sitting. This could be leading anywhere, but was most likely connected to recent events. It could be about Robert, or perhaps related to the humiliation of Tibbits and Simmons in Montana. Both possibilities made sense. But where did I come in? A particularly important question was “How do I want to appear to this interrogator?” If they had anything on me, anything solid, I wouldn’t be sitting here eating caviar. More likely, I’d be rotting in a cell somewhere, charged with something specific. Besides, the
official Muskets weren’t guilty of anything. So the last thing I should do was act as though they were, or that I was. That was the most she could know about me, other than Laser Net arrays being destroyed. But that wasn’t likely for two reasons: It had been a long time since I last took out an array, and McKay is opposed to Laser Net. I decided to go for it. To be the ideological zealot innocent of any crime.
“Yes.” I smiled, “But you characterized it wrong. It's the Musket Brigade, not the Musket resistance. But I kind of stay in the background to prevent harassment. How did you know?”
“Your name came up, and as I said, I spoke to your friend.”
“Recently, we haven’t sent out any brochures or staged any protests. NADNARA was our beef, and the president has shut down Laser Net. As Muskets, we are solidly behind President McKay. We just wish there had been more men of his caliber and integrity before any of the recent events that have resulted from their mistakes. There’s no
present cause for the Muskets to espouse.” I waited as she glanced at her notes.
“When I looked over your website and examined the list of members, I noticed your name wasn’t on the list. Was that just an oversight?”
“No. I set up the website. I considered naming the Founders, giving us the credit. It seemed . . . I don’t know . . . rude, somehow. Maybe arrogant. I wanted the Muskets to be a national , grass roots group of concerned citizens. If I put my name or the names of other founders out front, held us up like that, it would lessen the organization.”
“Lessen it how?”
“I’m just a builder, just an ordinary Joe, Ms. Davis. Any NADNARA sympathizer could point to me and make light of the whole group. After all, how many builders command intellectual regard? ‘Look at that fellow,’ they’d say. ‘He’s nothing but a construction worker, and a fool at that, to attack NADNARA.’ It wasn’t humility, just an awareness
that icons get attacked all the time. The grass roots rarely come under attack. They vote. So I emphasized the grass roots members. Everyone knows there has to be a founder. Someone started it. Beyond that, it’s what the Muskets stand for that matters, not who they stood behind.”
I’d thought that question through long ago, and I knew the answer was credible.
“Very well put, Eric.” Her smile seemed genuine. “I hated NADNARA too. It made the nation seem like a police state. If you’d caught me at the right time, I might have joined the Muskets myself!”
I laughed, but I knew more was coming. Questions not so easily accommodated. She paused again, looking back over her files. I had a hunch she was killing time, that she knew every word her files contained, maybe even had them committed to memory. I wondered why I was speaking with a woman rather than a man. That’s Chauvinistic, but
it still seemed out of Kilter. Indeed, nothing about this situation seemed consistent with my ideas of what to expect. For starters, it does something to you to know that your sitting in the same building as the president of the United States. Not only the president, but most everyone else of real importance in the federal government. My arrival here was anything but conventional. Even the caviar was out-of-place unless it served a deliberate purpose. Not being asked if I wished counsel present was only slightly less realistic than being questioned in the absence of being charged or being read my rights. Was it possible she was just exploring? If so, I could expect to be released to continue on to Portland later today.
That was another issue. I didn’t want Tiffany to arrive at the airport and me not be there. She would expect me to call her in advance if that were the case. Portland was a long drive for her if there was no connecting flight to Calgary because of the hour when I finally arrived there. My cell was in a locked pouch on the side of one of those two bags sitting in the corner. It would be better to spend the night. I could ask Rhonda how long she planned this meeting to continue, but that might become apparent within a few more minutes, or questions. Then again, they knew I was flying to Portland and so must have tracked me to the airport in Calgary. To know such specific details about my movements,
they must have tapped my phone in Calgary. So they already knew about Tiffany. If I mentioned needing to call her, would they apprehend or detain her as well? On what basis? She’d done nothing they knew of or could or would accuse her of under the current administration. I had a couple of hours more at least before it would become critical to address the issue and get in touch with her. Perhaps I could merely use the pay phone. I’d seen dozens of them at the junction where this hall turned off, outside the public restrooms. I would wait a while, ask to relieve myself, then try to call and see what happened.
The next hour was spent like two friends chatting after a five-year separation. We spoke of my background, what prompted me to found the Muskets, my home life. Rhonda seemed interested in knowing everything. I don’t feel she was putting on. I think I’d have sensed it. She moved the discussion to my forays into Mexico in my youth, various trips I’d made, asked how long I’d stayed usually, what art had I collected, hobbies? Then she asked with a sympathetic expression,
“I understand that one of your cousins and her children were involved in the tragedy at Waco many years ago?”
“Yes. I took it hard.” How did she know that?
“I can see how you would. What exactly happened?”
Rhonda wanted to fish, so I’d give her a worm. I pulled out my wallet, removed the picture of my cousins I always keep with me, and handed it to her. She accepted it graciously, even gravely, then smiled as she examined the children’s faces.
“They’re so cute, these girls! They take after their mother.”
“Took after their mother. They’re dead, remember? They were real people and they died for nothing.”
“It’s tragic, I agree. How did you feel about Koresh?”
“He was a Dork! I told her so. As far as I was ever able to learn, though, he wasn’t guilty of any crime. The church made money at gun shows, owned an arsenal between them, but this is America and there’s nothing illegal about it. They were set up. My cousin and those girls were shot to death by FBI agents as they tried to escape the building after it was set ablaze.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I think any reasonable person who saw the government’s own footage shot from helicopter at the time–there were several excellent documentaries that showed it, one in a theater in San Francisco, in fact, I think it was probably shown to some members of congress. Anyone who saw the heat signature from their weapons would come to the same conclusion. The hardest hitting and most conclusive is the film that played in San Francisco for a while. Those were dark days for the country, about the same time the FBI murdered innocent civilians at Ruby Ridge after–once again–creating the crime, setting up that tax evader.”
“You don’t believe he was a tax evader?”
“Tax evader is what the government calls people who don’t pay taxes. It’s a deliberate pejorative. He didn’t believe in taxes. His argument was that the income tax was only a few percent when it was initiated, and the government promised it would last only a few years. Since then, it’s been as high as 90%! No matter what the rate, the government spends it all and billions more, just like they spent all the Social Security Trust Fund after passing legislation that permitted them to loot it. When it’s time to “give them cake,” there won’t be any cake! Don’t you get it? You’d think they’d have more important fish to
fry than pursuing some nobody hick, poor as a stick, and his family into the woods where they lived in a shack! Like I said, those were dark days. I doubt we’ll see anything like that under President McKay.”
I was trotting out my primordial indignation, but it was preferable to talking about more recent events in Montana. I knew this was a new, more Constitutional government. My sentiments probably varied but little from the President’s. I hoped so! If not, the worst
result would be that I wouldn’t win any personality contests. I didn’t say a word in favor of violence, only emphasized that the government was the source of the violence.
“Did you approve of Timothy McVeigh’s Federal Building bombing on the anniversary of the Waco thing?”
“Thing? It’s known as the Waco Massacre.”
“The Waco Massacre, then. Did you approve?”
“I don’t approve of innocent people dying any time, especially women and children like my cousin and hers.”
“Then you didn’t approve.”
“I didn’t, but I understand McVeigh’s mentality. I think I can identify with how he felt: The frustration, the way the government tricked the Jury when the Waco survivors were tried. The jury wanted to acquit, but the prosecution pressured them into giving the survivors just six months in jail to make a point; begged them to do it. Everyone on the jury knew they were innocent, and the prosecution realized if they were acquitted, the government would look like pigs. The jurors relented, since six months was a minor sentence. Then, before they even got home, the prosecution appealed the sentences under Federal Minimum Sentencing laws and the judge’s hands were tied. Instead of acquittal or six months, he had no choice but to give them life! McVeigh meant to
avenge what the government did at Waco. He wanted to nail their ass to the wall by giving them some of their own medicine! I’m sure that was his thinking. Reporters caught the foreman of the jury on the plane home and informed her of the deception of the prosecutors. She said right there on the air that if they’d known what the government was up to, they would have acquitted them all! Did you notice how quickly the media fell silent after that? The matter was hushed up as though a king was in the White House and had ordered a blackout. McVeigh was ex-military. He knew how to do a lot of damage. It was terrible what he did. Most of those who died were civilians, not agents. They just worked there. He admitted himself later that if he’d known there was a
nursery in the building and that all those kids would be killed, he would have had second thoughts about the mission. It backfired. As I said, I disapprove, but his mentality for undertaking it isn’t difficult to grasp. Can’t you, or do you avoid asking yourself questions of that sort? Most Americans don’t have the stomach to confront that much reality, and some are just rednecks too brainwashed to see through anything but eye-holes cut in sheets.”
She laughed, but it was measured. She was evaluating my question within the context of my precious answers. She knew damned good and well that if she wimped out on my question, it would affect my answers to any others she put to me.
“Your cousins are very beautiful,” she said. “We both know they would be alive today if the Waco Massacre hadn’t occurred. The children McVeigh massacred in Oklahoma were also beautiful and would be alive today if Oklahoma hadn’t occurred. What reasonable person could approve of either massacre?”
It was interesting she said, if “Oklahoma” hadn’t occurred, because if Waco hadn’t occurred, McVeigh would never have hit the Federal Building there on the anniversary of the Waco massacre. It all went back to Waco! Still, I gave her a ‘B’ for a guarded answer, as she had sought balance over blame. I wondered how many other Americans without a personal stake in either tragedy sought solace in the same approach. In my experience, most didn’t give a shit about Waco . . . or about anything else. Hell, they don’t even vote, so what else could be expected?
Her questions were craftily arranged. But as my feelings were also justifications, it could only help in the long run to reveal my patriotic rage, so I didn’t display animosities toward her personally for asking. On the other hand, I didn’t want to carry it so far that
she might think me shallow. A squawk from her radio interrupted us. It bothered me that only she could hear what was being said. Without her earplug, I’d have heard everything.
“Yes . . . very productive, consistent with my brief. Is that a fact? Sure . . . Shall I, or do you . . . Very well, I’ll inform him.“
She removed the earplug cord and wrapped it around her radio.
“Well, Eric. As much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, a major development has altered my schedule. You’ll be joined by someone else momentarily. I’ve been instructed to move to a different conference room. I’m to speak with someone else.”
“You said you’d answer my initial questions, but you haven’t. I’ve certainly gone into detail replying to yours.”
“I understand that, Eric. I do, and I’ll keep that promise. For the moment, though, I’ve been instructed to meet with another individual in a different room. If you’d like, I’ll answer your questions over dinner.”
“I need to make a trip to the end of the hall. There’s no delicate way to tell you, but I need the Men’s room.” She laughed.
“You know where it is.”
Opening the door, my thoughts were what excuse I would give my Marine escort for using the phone. But he wasn’t waiting outside. I looked both ways, but saw no one interested in me. I couldn’t believe my luck.
“See you, Rhonda.”
“Soon!” She replied, disappearing to the right. She seemed to be
half-running farther down the hall. The Marine waiting at another door. I didn’t wait for him to return. I walked briskly to the restrooms. There, I reached into my pocket for change and momentarily, Tiffany’s number was ringing.
“Thank God,” I thought. “It’s at least an hour before she has to leave for the airport.”
There was no answer, but I was able to leave a message. Then, I did utilize the Men’s room. After emerging, I peeked around the corner. No Marine!
Was it possible that I could just walk out? I wondered. Not without my bags; my laptop was in a protective Targus carry on that took half the room in the larger bag. Seeing no Marine in either direction, I walked back down the hall, resigned to continue the interview with whoever had replaced Rhonda, but only my bags were in the room. I quickly slipped my notepad and pen from my shirt pocket and jotted a note that, finding no one here, I assumed the interview was over. I placed it next to the tray, lingered for five minutes, during which I forked a few shrimp and ate crab not to appear to anxious to leave. Then, peering outside and seeing no Marine and no one headed toward the conference room, I slung one bag over each shoulder and strutted back through the Federal milieu to the elevators, panic almost overtaking me. What if the doors opened and Marines were there? I decided to take the staircase. After all, I was headed down,
not up. And further, had I been arrested? No. Had I been ordered to remain after Rhonda left? No. So fuck ‘em! I dropped dozens of floors, but wasn’t counting. At the Lobby level, I eased open the door. No Marines. Great! I walked out, mingled with the gamblers, and
disappeared into the sidewalk traffic outside the front entrance.
“That was too easy!” I intoned. “They must have gotten their wires crossed. That makes my departure no seem to anxious. No one was available to ask when I had left the conference room.”
My problem now was how to get to Calgary. But this was Las Vegas, so I might be able to get a direct flight. If I used my real name, they might divert the plane again. I felt I could bet on that! Fortunately, all original Musket founders had alternate ID in the event we ever confronted this kind of situation. I took a cab to the airport, and waited standby for the next flight to Calgary would arrive before Tiffany could. I would then walk to the gate where anticipated me arriving, as she had my itinerary. I had already called and told her no worries, just to pick me up as planned. Nobody showed up looking for me. Why should they? Mabrey Masters, to my knowledge, isn’t wanted for anything anywhere, and they would certainly assume that the airport was the last place I’d go. After calling my friend and explaining over the phone what I had intended to explain face-to-face in Portland, which he had accepted graciously, I waited half-confident and half-nervously. Still, I suppressed a grin until my name was called, the final call for boarding passed, and we were airborne nonstop to Calgary. By my watch, I wouldn’t even be late! Even if my message hadn’t reached Tiffany, she’d be there. If it had, I’d rent a car. No. Mabrey Masters would rent a car, and drive home to Tiffany.
In either case, I intended to enjoy the flight. The only thing that gnawed at me, and would continue to gnaw at me later, was that I didn't have that dinner with Ms. Davis and get the answer to my question, “What friend?”
After thinking about it, I decided her not returning, nor anyone else, was probably her attempt to avoid keeping that dinner appointment. The offer of dinner seemed awkward to me anyway, perhaps even a violation of protocol in her position.
I never had a problem catching a wink, so almost two hours passed in sweet dreams of Tiffany and I on coral reefs, snorkeling, catching Tropical fish, eating Argentine beef and lobster. I could have spent the time worrying about the certainty of eventual confrontation. I could have pissed it away in anxiety. But when the announcement came to raise seat backs and tray tables, I felt quite refreshed. It had been a strange day! So strange that it seemed more like a dream than reality. I would have laughed if I hadn’t known differently. All that mattered at he moment was getting home.
I couldn’t believe Tiffany was waiting in the gate area. She didn’t know about Masters, and I had only told her I might be delayed.
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“Yes,” she said, “Your friend, Rhonda told me you had changed flights and to wait for you at this gate. I’m so happy to see you.” We had an especially urgent embrace. There had been a moment today when I thought I might never be holding her again.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes. Are you in good shape?”
“Sure.” I said, looking around, about to shit my pants. “You say Rhonda called?”
“Yes. She apologized for your delay, but didn’t explain why you were delayed.”
“Oh, well. Nothing is too far-fetched to seem implausible today,” I thought.
“Yes, I slept on the flight, so I feel a hundred percent.” It was half true.
“Good. That means we’ll be having some fun soon!” She smiled. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” I said. “You can’t imagine my joy at being here!”
“You paled there for a second. Who’s Rhonda, by the way?”
“I’ll tell you after we’re on the road. We have lots to talk about!”
“Is it as bleak as the expression on your face?”
I hadn’t been cognizant of my expression, but it seemed futile to attempt a cover up.
“Worse!”
“You’ve fallen in love with her and you’re here to tell me?”
“God, no. I never met her before today. I’ll explain everything.”
Let’s leave!” she exclaimed, “You can bring me up to speed after we put some distance between us and the airport.”
Mustangs are great cars. They really are. The last one I’d ridden in was a restored 1966, the second year after they came out. It lived up to all the mystique of the covered sheet advertising campaign. I guess I thought that after abandoning the shape, little else remained but the name. If so, I thought wrong. She insisted that I drive hers home.
We were almost halfway to the house before either of us spoke a word. I didn’t want to ruin the thrill of the ride, and I think she hoped whatever I had to reveal was, or could be reduced to, paranoia, because she seemed outwardly to have forgotten me even mentioning it, and that wasn't Tiffany.
“Eric is given to paranoia,” she would say to herself. “Whatever he fears probably amounts to nothing else.”
“I was kidnapped from the Calgary-Portland flight this morning.” I said, finally letting the shoe drop.
“Kidnapped?”
“Would you believe they diverted the plane to Las Vegas and took me under Marine guard to the MGM Grand?”
Tiffany looked at me in utter bewilderment.
“Pull off the road and tell me about it.”
I took the next exit and parked at the first place I saw, a parochial BBQ place. “Shall we go in?”
“Yes, you just knocked the wind out of my sails, but I was waiting to eat with you when you arrived, so I''m starved. I want to know every detail. After we order, you can explain what you said.”
We both love BBQ, so it didn’t take long to order a half-rack for her and a rack for me with the trimmings.
“Rhonda diverted a plane to Las Vegas and you were escorted to the MGM Grand.”
“It was exactly that. I fell asleep right after taking off in Calgary and woke up as we were landing in Vegas. The plane stopped as soon as it had turned off the main runway, but before reaching the gate and two vehicles filled with Marines parked beside it. The next thing I knew, I was on a high floor in the Federal Complex, being interviewed by a government agent named Rhonda Davis, and-this will really get you-enjoying a seafood tray President McKay might order. I kid you not.”
“Slow down. What did she want?”
“To know almost everything about me.”
“And?”
“And . . . about the time I expected some difficult questions, the phone rang–something major had occurred–and she told me she’d bring me up to speed later. All she said was that she had to go interview someone else. I asked to go to the Men’s Room and relive myself. When I stepped outside behind her, no Marines were waiting.”
“And you . . . ?”
“And I called you, left a message, used the Men’s room, grabbed my carry-ons which had been stowed in the corner of the interview room, jotted a note that no one had come, waited a while longer eating some of the delicacies on the tray, then put a bag on each shoulder, took the staircase down at light speed, grabbed a cab to the airport, call Johnson and explained I couldn't get there as planned but had decided not to continue with any further housing tracts, and caught the first nonstop commuter flight here, using an alias.”
“Then how could she call and tell me when to expect you, especially if you used an alias. This is heavy, Eric.”
“I know. As soon as you told me she had called, I knew that they had been watching me the whole time, saw what flight I took, obviously learned of the alias, or she couldn't have called you. I don't think she left for another interview. I think it was a test to see if I would stay and meet with her and talk over dinner at which time she had promised to tell me who the friend of mine was that she had spoken to, at whose behest she was interested in helping me, or if I would leave.; after thinking about it, I decided it was a deliberate delay and an opening for me to leave so she wouldn't have to keep her promise to answer my questions.”
“The friend who got her involved in helping you? Now I’m really confused?”
“Believe it or not, after hours of conversation, we never got to that! Nevertheless, though she didn’t tell me who it was, she said she had spoken to someone who cared about me, and the first thing she asked of substance was if I was the Founder of the Muskets.”
“How much danger do you think you’re in? You may have been in the Federal Complex, but if they wanted you, and she knew your arrival time, they would have nabbed you the second you left the plane. They didn’t. Maybe she had already found out what they wanted to know. Tell me every question she asked and how you replied to each.”
Tiffany listened intently as I rehearsed the meeting almost verbatim. Then she spoke.
“It's amazing how sharp your memory can be under the right degree of stress.”
“I thought I’d caught them with their guard down. I acted so cool and relaxed all day, I assumed they never suspected I might take off. I was thinking I might have to get out of the country, for a while. I didn’t know what to think.”
“Obviously, you were paranoid, with good reason this time. However, it’s apparent you can relax. They just needed to confirm something and did.”
“Just the same, I intend to be very careful.”
“And we’ll soon be on our way to visit your brother, so let’s have a good time tonight. I've been waiting to eat you alive ever since she called. We’ll have a wonderful time! I feel better already. I’m just glad it wasn’t what I feared, another woman.”
“There’s no other woman. There couldn’t be. Tiffany is for Eric, now and forever.” She snuggled even closer and kept her head on my shoulder until we pulled into the driveway. I discovered soon enough that she had been dead serious about eating me alive!

FAMILY

“The virtuous man goes in mourning because of
what has happened in the land . . . “
- The Egyptian Ipuwer Papyrus

The day had arrived. My Esplanade was packed for the trip, and we had battened down the hatches at home. A friend of Tiffany's who lived a few houses from us would be taking care of the salt water tropicals . . . a real science. I'd never imagined anything having to do with keeping fish could be so complex; three cycles: ammonia, nitrite, and nitrate, all involving different bacteria which lived in the slime coating and protecting all fish, but Tiffany had prepped her well and she had the only key we had left anyone to gain entry to our home. We had avoided the entire subject of events in Kalispell intentionally until we were on our way so we wouldn't get our attitudes bogged down in the implications and paranoia that would overtake us when it was all aired and in the open involving the two previous showdowns the FBI had had with the Muskets closest to us. But now it was time for serious matters and discussion.
Tiffany took it hard when I explained that Simmons had somehow located both Kicks Iron and Christof. She didn’t fear for herself, but for them and even more for me. I confessed my desire to enjoy some time with my brother's family, then ship some of our belongings and the Richardson to Aruba and enjoy life together after establishing a winter home there. Tiffany queried why I hadn't pushed for Merida, Yucatan, knowing how much I loved it. That was easy, I told her.
“Two words: La Cantina.” But there was more I wanted to run past her.
“We’re both great snorkelers and Scuba divers, Tiffany. You love saltwater fish and now, I've gotten hooked. With the Richardson and a stake the size of ours to get started, we could collect all around the Caribbean, become a wholesale supplier of tropical fish, build a business. We’d have a hell of a time collecting on the reefs, and being just off the Venezuelan coast, as you've emphasized, we’d be close to the source of many fresh-water Tropicals as well. What could be more fun than making money doing something we both love and never having to be separated again? Can you imagine? You said in Adan you wished you could collect tropicals from the warmest sea in the world, some of the most beautiful fish in the world. We could even do that in the Red Sea with our connections. There's no end to what we could do gathering high-value, high-priced, rare salt water tropicals and invertebrates as well. We'd make great money having the time of our lives; extensive travel, exotic places around the globe, and we don't have to wait to get started. John called me from the marina yesterday and has a freighter lined up to carry the Richardson on deck mounted on timbers and strapped; easy on the boat getting it to Aruba. After I finish glassing it, which we can do together as a project after we locate a place on the water to have our boat, tank facilities, and offices. It will be seaworthy to go anywhere in the Caribbean while we're reef-hopping.”
“Eric, my love for you is as strong as a woman can feel. You just described, literally, heaven on earth to me. But Eric, do you remember that song by Westlife, “It's Hard for me to say I'm Sorry?” INSERT LINK BUTTON
“Of course, that was on their early 2007 album, right? It was my favorite of the year!”
“Well, Eric, those two beautiful voices were describing how I feel about you. I just want you to stay, too. You're my life, my soul . . . After all that we've been through, I couldn't stand to be kept away, just for the day, from your body; wouldn't want to be swept away, far away from the one that I love . . . you're just the part of me I can't let go . . . You're gonna be the lucky one, and I intend to make that happen at all costs. ' . . . I promise to.' I don't want a 20 years to life holiday far away from each other after all that we've been through. Kicks Iron and Christof are at risk as long as Simmons is breathing, Eric. We can’t just fade into the Caribbean and leave them holding the bag. They did your bidding, after all.” She began to cry.
I desperately wanted to equivocate, because they hadn't arrested me in Las Vegas. They couldn't, because I hadn't “been the front line,” as Carl put it and she was a blank to them. Her statement could only lead to putting one of both of us there as squarely as those eight Marines had conducted me from the vehicle to the Federal level of the MGM Grand. But I couldn't. She had just split my soul wide open. I never wanted to forget this moment. She had just said, 'I love you' in the most passionate, deeply felt poetry my soul had ever heard or felt. I began to cry too. My heart was wrapped around hers in what I can only describe as spiritual rapture. El Pastor was now in second place to the song she had just verbalized, and would be our song.
“You're the leader, Eric, the figurehead. You'll have to be involved, take the reins until this blows over or until it ends one way or the other, or they're going to make a mistake. Maybe just one, but one that will get them caught and perhaps take you down with them. What happens to us and our dream life then? Your own brother has now become involved directly. He's gone way beyond grabbing the Technetium. You can't allow this fiasco to continue. We all have to remain free. It's the reward for what the Muskets have accomplished, the reward for putting this country on the right path. We were the ONE, and we proved that Hassan was right, bless his soul.”
She was also right and I knew all hell was about to break lose. Who was I kidding? It had already begun.
We arrived at Robert and Becky's with a newly forged commitment: It was time to wind up the Muskets once and for all, tie up the loose ends if possible, and put an end to the crisis, whatever it required.
Blevins had been baffled the day his close guard friend had said,
“You're going to love what's happening, 'Professor Blevins,'” an accolade everyone applied to him lately.
“What's that?,” he responded, asuming someone of importance was there to offer their sympathy at his plight, or perhaps the warden was relenting and permitting a classroom to be set up and provided with the extensive library the Mises Institute had offered to contribute.
“I think I have a pretty good idea what it could be.”
“Not a chance. You're being transferred out, and you won't be returning. Don't worry about your things; they'll be forwarded with you.”
That hardly sounded like something he'd love. He suspected his activism in the prison population had led them to a decision to put him in isolation along with the letter Bomber, if he was still alive, so he would have no opportunity to influence anyone.
He held his breath as the guard escorted him to the warden's office, fearing the worst. As they entered, he noticed their was a military official there with a marine guard and the warden. No one else was in the office.
“Blevins,” the warden said, “You are hereby released from our custody into the custody of Colonel Simmons and his escort.”
Blevins was pale and speechless. His greatest fear had materialized. No one said anything further after he and the Colonel signed a sheaf of papers and his guard friend removed the cuffs and leg irons. He accompanied them like a sheep being led to the slaughter as they followed the tortuous route to the processing entrance. As he stepped into the fresh air outside the walls of the prison that had confined him so long, his emotions overcame him. Here he was, outside those walls, yet headed for yet more confining ones. He began to weep, unable to contain his awful plight.
The Colonel put his arm around him, which surprised him.
“Blevins, why are you in tears? You've been set free!”
”Yes, but I know where you're taking me.”
The Colonel's arm pulled him close in obvious sympathy.
“I think you misunderstood me. We're taking you to Las Vegas. You've seen bars for the last time . . . with a few conditions.”
He almost fell; the Colonel and marine guard grabbed him as his knees gave way, catching him before he hit the ground.
“Relax. You're in good company. No more cuffs or leg irons for you.”
Recovering, they helped him from a sitting position.
“I don't understand . . . “
”You will. I'm not authorized to say more. Be patient. Breathe free.”
Breathe free? He had forgotten what that was like. He kept waiting for someone to give him commands.
A Black Suburban was waiting, a single vehicle. He remained mute as he entered, Colonel Simmons entering behind him. The marine guard entered the driver's door. No one else was in the vehicle.
Soon, they were at the airport, but instead of entering one of the buildings, the marine drove to a large aircraft, obviously military, and they exited the vehicle and boarded.
Simmons directed him where to sit, seeming intuitively to know that Blevins had lost the ability to make his own decisions as a free man. His heart went out to him.
A WAC attendant approached.
“Look this over, Sir., and check off your choices. After we're airborne, I'll serve you. It will be a privilege. I've long admired you.”
This was so unusual and surreal that Blevins couldn't even return her kind statement, merely saying, “Sure.”
After they were up and away, she returned and he gave her the checkoff list.
“Thank you, Sir.,” she said.
He noticed that Simmons and the guard, farther forward, were embroiled in their own conversation, no one paying any attention to him. He felt very strange being out of his cell, yet without cuffs or leg irons. He wanted to relax, but the mystical nature of it all wouldn't allow it. Maybe it was a ruse to keep him from flying into a rage.
When they had been in the air for almost two hours, Simmons finally approached him.
“We'll be landing soon. You'd better finish that last rum and coke quickly.”
“Landing where?”
“Las Vegas. We've already begun to descend, so you'll see it come into view momentarily.”
Blevins downed the last of his third drink. He really wanted to relax. They had helped him along, but he was still perplexed and agitated by the suddenness and strangeness of it all.
“See, there it is,” Simmons said, taking a seat beside him and buckling up. Blevins did likewise, handing the empty glass to the smiling, gracious host.
As he looked at Vegas in the distance, he couldn't imagine why they had brought him here. The establishment of the new Federal government in Las Vegas had been kept from the prison population, and even the Mises Institute visitors hadn't replied to any questions of that sort, telling him that if they did, it would be the last time he saw them, and that they would be arrested for violating national security. His questions had ended abruptly at that point.
“Would it violate any rule for you to tell me why we are landing in Las Vegas?” He looked Simmons in the eye.
“You're about to find out. Just relax. All of your questions, and I know you must have many, will soon be answered.”
“Will you be remaining with me?”
“No, but I won't be far away.”
They landed at the airport, but instead of approaching a gate, rolled to a stop just off the main runway.
“Here comes our ride.” Simmons said.
Sure enough, two black Suburbans were arriving, obviously aware of their arrival before they did. It was frighteningly uncanny. He tried to remember if there was a maximum security prison anywhere near this area, but drew a blank.
Soon, he was escorted by the marine to the lead vehicle and in the back seat, the marine following. He was sandwiched between two, with two in the front seat. Almost immediately, they were underway.
Leaving the airport they headed further down the strip. Blevins was at an utter loss at that point. Soon, they had turned off the strip and into the MGM Grand. That was the strangest thing of all. They couldn't possibly be here for entertainment, surely.
As he was asked to step out, the four marines were joined by four more, and he found himself boxed in by eight marines.
“Stay with us, Sir.,” one of them said. He couldn't see Simmons or what he was doing. He was at the edge of reality himself.
It was even stranger entering the busy casino; slots ringing, the lights, the color, some of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and for a very long time. This just made him miss his wife all the more. They proceeded to the elevators on one side and soon, he was in one with the eight marines. One inserted and turned a key. As they rose, he noticed the indicator lights which reported what floor you were passing had been disabled. Now, he was even more perplexed. Asking one of the marine politely to allow him, he grasped the brass bar, feeling faint.
“Relax, Sir. You're safe.”
“Safe?”
No man had ever been more baffled.
Momentarily, the doors opened, and a marine in full-dress uniform stood there, smiling.
“Follow me, please, Dr. Blevins.”
The elevator doors closed, the eight marines remaining inside. What in god's name was going on?
Soon, they turned down a very wide hallway lined with desks, small groups of very busy people surrounding each. No one paid the slightest attention to him as he followed the marine.
They turned right down another hallway, and he noticed that every room was a conference room. Strange.
At length, the marine stopped.
“Wait here, Sir.,” he said, just standing there.
“I'm here with the subject,” the marine spoke into a radio. After about a minute, a sharply dressed young woman emerged from a conference room they had passed and was half walking, half running in their direction. This was Twilight Zone with a capital 'T.'
“Dr. Blevins, I'm so delighted to meet you. I've been a fan of yours for a long time!”
He followed her into the room like a three-year-old might as the marine escort left in the direction from which she had come.
Upon entering, he noticed no one else was in the room, just the two of them.
“Make yourself comfortable, Dr.,” she said, laying her briefcase on the table and beginning to remove a small stack of manila folders. He was taken aback by the platter where she directed him to sit opposite her.
“I hope the meal is satisfactory,” she said. “I know you like steak. The chefs here are very gifted. I hope the prime rib is appropriate.”
Blevins was beside himself as he sat. The prime rib was steaming as though it had just come off the grill. The accouterments were all his favorites. Fortuitous, as he was still hungry after the lunch served him on board the aircraft.
“This is for me?” He asked.
“I hope it doesn't disappoint you.”
“No. It's just that this is my favorite meal.”
“Yes, I know. It's medium rare, as you like, I'm told.”
“Told by whom,” he wondered. The only time he had enjoyed such a meal behind bars was on Christmas day.
She sat opposite him, arranging the folders in front of her.
“Go ahead, don't wait on my account. I've already eaten,” she said, smiling.
“Can I ask a question?”
“Anything you wish.” She was absolutely charming. He was entirely off-guard.
“Where am I, I mean, I know this is the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, but why here?”
“This is the new center of the Federal government, Dr.”
“The The Federal government is in Las Vegas?” He was stunned beyond belief. “I'm told president McKay and the First Lady were equally surprised when their flight from California landed here, so you're in good company.”
“The president is in this building?”
“The heartbeat of America,” she said, smiling.
“Can I ask another question.”
“Go right adhead, Dr.; Call me Rhonda. How rude of me. My name is Rhonda Jean,” she said, standing and offering her hand. Blevins did likewise.
After they sat, he asked,
“Why am I here.” He was actually holding his breath.
“I just want to ask you a few questions.”
His heart sank. All for nothing. It suddenly hit him. She was about to ask him to give up his closest friends, something he would never do. It must have been very obvious to this lady, because noticing his expression, hers turned to utter and total sympathy.
“Dr. Blevins, you weren't brought here to betray anyone.” She already knew his terror and despair. It was written all over his face.
“Then why . . .”
“You're a free man. Under no conditions are you being returned to prison, if that's why you're so crestfallen. Your wife and two oldest sons are two doors to our right. Whether you choose to answer my questions or not, you'll soon be rejoining them.”
His family? Two doors down?” Totally devasted with grief and joy, he burst into tears. The woman was so moved, she leapt up, came around to him and embraced him as a sister might.
“Dr. Blevins, I'm so sorry this had to be handled this way. Had it been my call, I would have arranged it entirely differently, but I didn't even know you were here until minutes ago. I didn't know your family was here either, but I was enjoying a very pleasant conversation with Eric, two doors to the left.
If any man had ever been more surprised and dumbfounded, Blevins couldn't imagine who.
“So you're asking me to betray Eric?”
“How can you betray an innocent man, Dr.? As far as we know, although he founded the Muskets, he isn't guilty of any of the things Kicks Iron, Christof, and the unknown third member of their crew are. And we know Eric isn't that third individual.
Every word she uttered stunned him further. How could she possibly know so much? It was uncanny within any imaginable context.
“You have me at a complete loss, Miss . . . Rhonda what?”
“Just call me Rhonda. I empathize with your astonishment, but thought we might as well cut to the matter at hand that concerns you.”
“Which is?”
“I know Eric is your closest friend, so we thought you might be anxious to help him and his disarmingly lovely wife.”
“Tiffany? Are you telling me Eric and Tiffany are married?”
“Shouldn't they be? My specialization is information analysis and Biometric analysis. I can't imagine any two people more perfectly matched, ideologically, emotionally, or, pardon me for saying, sexually, especially given the intensity of their passion the night before they flew from Aruba, where they took a de facto honeymoon before they were even married.”
That was the most telling statement Blevins had heard. It revealed that they had no knowledge of Yemen, Fahad, or the Russian. For the first time, he relaxed . . . completely. He knew exactly how he was going to deal with Rhonda.
“I know what you're thinking and already knew you'd be thinking it. I just didn't realize we'd be sitting here, that they were capable of getting you here so quickly.”
“What are you saying?”
“I already told him that the purpose of my interview was to help him, because a dear friend of his had asked me to.”
This couldn't be a god sitting across from him. Obviously, she was among the brightest people he had ever known.
“Okay, I'll take you at your word . . . to Eric. What do you want to know?”
“First, you don't have to answer a single question. You're leaving here with your family. Your answers will be entirely voluntary. You may respond or choose not to. It will have no effect on you, but a great deal of effect on Eric and Tiffany.”
“Why do you say, 'and Tiffany?' I don't know a single person more innocent than she.”
“Because I'm a woman, too! It would utterly destroy my world if the man I loved were taken from me-I wish I had such a man. I couldn't bear it. I would probably entertain taking my own life if I was as close to anyone as Tiffany is to Eric. He's her soul mate in every sense of the word. So the real question is, do you want to help them or not?”
“You know you don't even have to ask, Rhonda.”
“Then we're on the same page. You know his older brother, Robert, of course . . . “

When Tiffany and I pulled into the ranch road leading to their home, I had a lump in my throat and another in my chest. Worse, I had absolutely no idea how things were going to play. I had missed Robert terribly, and Tiffany was anxious as I to meet them, especially Becky. There are times in one's life when your world seems to go 'out of phase.' I don't know of a better way to put it. Mine was very much out-of-phase at the moment. Still, the joy of being here and about to see them all detached me from those feelings. Nothing seemed to be troubling Tiffany. She had the celerity of a Navy Seal on a mission. Something like Christof. It almost made me wonder why she hadn't chosen him or someone like him instead of me. Strangely, it seemed almost unfair to her that she had become enamored with me. I cringed at such thoughts, but they should give you a pretty good idea of where my head was at the time.
“My goodness, Eric; you told me this was a ranch, but look at those horses! Arabians one and all!”
As we continued along the road leading to their home, she commented about the Norwegian cattle.
“My God, Eric. I didn't know cattle that large existed anywhere on earth. They're as tall as me at the shoulder! Beautiful, like Herefords through a magnifying glass. Where in the world did Robert and Beck get them?”
“They're Norwegian. Notice the Herefords on the other side of this road? Robert plans to interbreed them, producing a unique hybrid that will yield more than twice the beef from a single steer!” Even I was becoming completely separated from my previous thoughts as I experienced her excitement.
“You'll be even more surprised when you see the back five acres over the next week.”
“How so?”
“He has more than 300 Ostriches there, all imported.”
“That must have cost a fortune!”
“Becky comes from a very wealthy and powerful family, Tiffany. Robert didn't marry her for that reason. But he's lucky to have her. She loves him completely. Having grown up surrounded by wealth, that's the last thing she was looking for in a man. Her first husband was an adulterer. It almost killed her when she discovered it. She came home one day earlier than expected and found him porking a woman she had thought was her best friend. She literally stole him, and they were married shortly after the divorce. Robert is just the opposite, raised to think like me. We were raised to believe that marriage is forever.”
“I love you, Eric. I was raised exactly the same way.”
“Don't open the door,” he said, as they pulled up in front of the house. “They have trained Doberman's. If you step out, they'll pull you to the ground and one will hold you by the throat until directed otherwise.”
She became frightened out of her wits.”
“Oh God, Eric. I'm scared to death of Dobermans.”
“Don't be,” I said, dialing Robert's number on my cell. “Once Robert or Becky is present, they'll stand by. When instructed, they'll sniff you, and from then on, they will attack anyone or anything that they perceive as a threat to you.”
That seemed to help.
“Hey, Bro., we're arriving out front.”
“He'll be waiting outside when we get there.” I told her, closing my cell.
“Oh, look, Eric. They're all lined up like a greeting party!”
They were indeed. The children were lined up between Robert and Becky, and their smiles were broad. He knew it was time to loosen up. They'd all be jumping him soon, full of love, and he wanted to return it.
When they came to a stop, all ten Dobermans were in a line behind the family, sitting on their haunches, an incredible thing to see. Robert had paid a fortune for their training, worth it to any covert Musket. Anyone who tried to sneak up on that house after dark wouldn't hear or see anything until they were within fifty feet. Then, they would be attacked without warning . . . from behind. It would definitely ruin their day. When Robert or Becky became aware, they'd find them with their weapons ripped from their grasp and their neck securely in the jaws of one or two of the ten. Each had a station. Getting in would be easy. Getting out would be impossible.
I opened the door and stepped out. The two Dobermans on the left moved between me and Robert.
“Down!” Robert shouted. They sat, sniffing me as I passed. Robert and I embraced. It had been quite a while.
“Come on out, Tiffany!” Becky cried.
“Seeing how the Dobermans had obeyed in my case, Tiffany lost her fear, but she didn't have time to get to Tiffany, because Roberta and Pamela ran to her immediately and hugged her simultaneously. They seemed to know that she was the most precious thing in my world. I almost cried. Tiffany did.
“Oh, you girls are so sweet!,” she said. “We're going to have so much fun!”
Becky had walked up and she and Tiffany almost fell into each other's arms. They had never seen each other before. Had I not been similarly preoccupied with Brad and my namesake, I would been brought to tears.
“Let's go inside.” Robert said. “Line!”
“Tiffany seemed blown away when the Dobermans formed two lines, one on each side, through which we walked to the porch.
“I've never seen such well-trained dogs in my life!” she said to Becky. “I didn't even know it was possible.”
“Wait till you see what they do when Robert points and shouts, 'Hunt!' while you're here. It overwhelms me every time I witness it.”
“Why?”
“You remember the movie, Jurassic Park?
“Who wouldn't?”
“Remember the scene where they're running, and the Raptors close in at angles from both sides, converging on them?”
“It scared me to death just watching it the first time. I was frightened out of my wits!”
“Well, it's something like that. That training cost us ten thousand dollars, a thousand per dog.”
“I'm overwhelmed.”
“So will anyone else be if they're foolish enough to try to sneak up on this house. The dogs are never visible, When did you first see them?”
“I was looking for them, because Eric had told me not to open the door until you or Robert was outside. I saw them only seconds before, about the same time I saw you.”
“That's how well they're trained. It gets better, though.”
“I don't know how. You wouldn't catch me sneaking up here in the dark. I don't relish the idea of my throat being in one of their jaws!”
“If they're outnumbered, it doesn't work that way. They're trained to kill. One of the trainers, as protected as they are, even with chain mail around their necks and full leather, including gloves, was almost killed during Blackhawk's training.”
“Blackhawk! Isn't that . . . “
“Yes, but several of them are Muskets.”
She had already anticipated Tiffany's question.
“Outnumbered, they don't just attack from behind, disarm, and hold. They know how to count.”
“What do you mean?”
“Say, more than ten assailants are involved.”
“Okay.”
“The ones above ten will be disarmed and their necks snapped by dogs working in pairs before they know what hit them. Only the remaining ten will be disarmed and held.”
“Christ! I would have bet a thousand dollars such training was impossible.,” Tiffany said, “because I've never heard of anything remotely similar before. Does Eric know this?”
“Of course. If you two decide to move here, I've no doubt he'll have his own dogs.”
“We live in Calgary. He actually wants a summer home on the island of Aruba, within sight of the coast of Venezuela on a clear day. It's very special to us, because that's where we fell in love. Plus, we're both avid snorkelers and scuba divers.”
Robert and Becky had a very beautiful home, furnished luxuriously. It was markedly different than the one I had already designed for Aruba, but hadn't shown Tiffany after she pulled me down from the sky and planted my feet firmly on the ground. But the time would come. Then again, this wasn't the Caribbean. I couldn't have done better. The massive stone fireplace in the center, opening on two opposite sides, was almost unique. The massive Pole Pine beams supporting the roof in the hexagonal central area, a good sixty feet in diameter, began at the joints of the hexagon with the opposite end of each resting upon the fireplace chimney edge, notched to fit, just beneath the roof. The knotted pine boards running hexagonally around the center added an elegance rarely seen. The thing that most affected Tiffany was the huge chandeliers made entirely of Elk horn.
Our wonderful time with my family had finally begun.

ATTRITION

"A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and he carries his banners openly. But the traitor moves among those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not traitor, he speaks in the accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their garments, and he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of a city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to be feared." - Cicero, 42 B.C.

“You're a hell of an analyst, Miss Davis. My hat's off to you,” Simmons said as they concluded their briefing. “I'm stunned how easily you discovered who Lefty actually is.”
“I was stunned, too, more by his background and professional activities by far than that he was involved in your kidnapping.”
“So where does that leave us, exactly?”
“As I stated, we've reduced this to the simplest terms. After reviewing all of my conclusions and recommendations with General Brody, there are very few salient points. I want to emphasize that these are the only points, Colonel Simmons.”
“You have my attention. Go ahead.”
“Okay. Blevins has received a full pardon from president McKay and has rejoined his family. It won't be made public, but get around gradually. The president felt Blevins and his family had suffered more enough. However, neither he nor his sons may contact any of their friends. They understand that if they do, his sons will take his place in prison, although he will remain free. He revealed sufficient information to allow us to entirely eliminate Eric and Tiffany, conditionally in Eric's case. Likewise, as Blevins gave up Carl to save Eric, Carl will have a conditional life sentence, but only if he gives up the foreign sources of the assistance the Muskets received to pull off 4/23.”
“Eric had foreknowledge, Miss. Davis. He must surely know where the radioactive isotopes originated.”
“Likely, but Carl can provide that information, since we've no doubt the source is the same crowd responsible for 7/29. We need Eric for something much more locally specific. I just haven't arrived at a way to persuade him to divulge it. He would never betray Carl, Kicks Iron, or Christof.”
“Continue.”
“Kicks Iron and Christof must be put down. No arrest, no trial, no publicity. The president and General Brody will not allow the nation to be made a laughing stock internationally. If it became known that a domestic militia was responsible for 4/23, the checkmate of the misdirection would become fixed. We can't allow it. Further, the excesses and morbid cruelty of the pair go far beyond ideology. They simply must disappear, in addition to the officers that killed the agents in their car by deceit.”
“That means a direct confrontation. And Robert, Eric's older brother, must die along with Margarella.”
“That's another problem with approaching Eric again. His brother has to be taken out before we approach him. Then, I believe the loss of his brother will be so devastating that he will give the GPS coordinates of the cave where Kick's Iron and his arsenal are likely located as he seems to have disappeared. We shouldn't have any difficulty locating Christof, since we know he has a decked out Hummer and is somewhere along the Trout creeks. We think we know he was responsible, along with Kicks Iron, for the armory heist that supplied them with their arsenal.”
“Okay,” Tibbits said, having remained silent during the exchange, “Let me see if I have this correct. First, we take out Margarella and Stroder. No warning, nothing. Then, you will approach Eric and promise him that he and his girl go free provided he gives up the coordinates of the arsenal where their hideout is located. What then?”
“We're betting that once Robert is killed, as Carl is Eric's childhood and closest friend, he will show up for the funeral, or shortly after to comfort Eric. We want Carl in custody and flown out of the area before we make the final move on Kicks Iron and Christof, unless they fall into our lap.”
“Well, that won't happen except in your dreams, Miss Davis. They are far too cunning, and it must be obvious that their radar is razor-sharp after their failed attempt to eliminate Tibbits and I, though they came close and eliminated an entire cadre of Tibbit's agents along with a Black Hawk.”
“That's not what I was implying, Colonel. If Carl is in custody and Robert is dead, Eric will be far more likely to cooperate. He is very much in love with Tiffany. Knowing them both as I do, though I never met Tiffany, but would know her on sight from the surveillance videos I've watched and heard, neither would be able to bear his being sentenced to life in prison. It's our one shot to take out Kicks Iron, the most egregious of them all.”
“Okay, Tibbits. We have our marching orders. Rule One. We can't take them out together. Muskets are a hive here. We have to get each at night, while they're sleeping with their family.”
“For Robert, that should be a cake walk,” Tibbits said. “People come and go, but they basically live as a family. We've watched the home for weeks. We'll have to come in from the rear, but after looking at Miss Davis' satellite photos, you couldn't pay me to creep through hundreds of Ostriches. They scare the hell out of me, plus the fence is to high. We should approach from one the sides, surround the house with ten or fifteen agents, cut the power, then knock the doors off their hinges and rush in, swat-style. He'll be bagged within minutes. Margarella will be more difficult.”
“Why is that?, Rhonda asked.”
“He doesn't live out in the country, way back from the road like Stroder. He lives in town on a street where the houses are less than a hundred feet apart. When we take him, the neighbors will hear the racket and likely converge on the scene. There's also almost no way to approach without being in full view except for a few trees. Almost certainly, someone would alert Stroder.”
“Hmmm.” Rhonda was heavy in thought.
“It will have to be a Hit and Run operation. For operational purposes, I would consider everyone within blocks in every direction a possible Musket. We descend like locusts, eliminate him, and disappear.”
“Either way you approach it,” Rhonda said, “I'd be willing to bet that Christof will be alerted within minutes.”
“We've already thought that one through, Miss Davis.” Simmons said. “Tibbits has ten agents, Special Forces types, on their way here now in twos and threes. Two of them actually know this area and have hunted here. They're the ones that told us to forget the Bitter Roots. Even if we sent a platoon in there, it's likely not one of them would ever be seen or heard from again. Kicks Iron knows those mountains like the back of his hand.”
“And?”
“We'll be sending those ten agents into the Trout Creek area to locate Christof. His Hummer is like a big flag. He hasn't emerged once since the two agent masacres. He knows we're after him. Once he's located, his place will be assaulted at the same moment as Margarella's. When all the shooting stops, Margarella, Stroder, and Fawcett will all be dead. Only Kicks Iron will remain. It seems that creates exactly the situation you need to follow through on your plans for Carl and Eric.”
“How do you feel about this scenario as a whole, Agent Tibbits?” Rhonda asked, “and are you certain you'll have enough agents?”
“As we're the ones setting the traps this time, eyes wide open, it's time for payback. I can think of no superior approach.” And the ten agents the Colonel referred to aren't the only ones that will be involved. Fifteen others, all seasoned, are on their way as well.”
“You won't mind if I discuss this with General Brody, then, either of you?”
“Not in the least.” They replied.

We'd ridden horses together the entire day. The boys and the girls are talented riders, professionally trained. Tiffany had learned to ride in the same way as a child. Somehow, I hadn't been aware of that. The eight of us moved like an Army unit in Custer's day as we moved almost in perfect form together. When we arrived back at the house, Tiffany accompanied the girls to put out the feed for the Norwegian Reds. The girls and she had spent half a day with them the day before. Notwithstanding their enormous size, they were like pets, the children had spent so much time adoring them. They had named them all. Becky had expressed concern to Tiffany that was a problem when the day arrived that one of them was converted to two large chest freezers of choice beef.
Back at the house, Tiffany engaged Robert in a discussion about them. I sat observing Tiffany while the girls were showering. The boys were still caring for the horses. It was admirable how well Robert and Becky had divided the labor. Not a single employee was there except once a week, when several Mexican fellows arrived to clean out all the stables and distribute the contaminated hay over an area where Becky had a flower garden with a waterfall planned. I had noticed that the boys so loved the horses that they rarely returned until dinner, usually served about sundown or later.
I was enjoying a cold beer and listening when a horn sounded out front.
“Just a moment, Tiffany,” Robert said. I accompanied him to the door. As soon as he opened it, I noticed one of the Dobermans just outside it, on his haunches, one paw pointed in the direction of the car sitting there with its lights on and surrounded by the other dogs.
“Good boy! Line! This one's the pointer,” Robert said.
That was a new point I hadn't known about.
The door opened, and a man emerged from the car after turning off the lights and the engine.
“Damn, if it isn't Carl!” Robert shouted.
Sure enough, it was. I half walked, half ran toward him. We embraced, with Robert's arms around us both.
“Why didn't you call, you sly fox?” Robert asked, as we walked to the door, the Dobermans sniffing Carl as we passed.
“Are you kidding? After what's gone down recently, you can be sure there's a communication van not far from here to intercept cell traffic, and it's a given your line is tapped.”
I was so happy to see Carl, I hardly heard either of them. I just wanted to sit and talk with him and listen to him reveal the details of 7/29. Tiffany was standing in the door when we got there. I thought she was about to jump out of her skin the way she almost pounced on him, hugging him as desperately as a long lost brother.
“Carl, you're like a man risen from the dead. We feared you were until Spritz' friend showed up in Huntington Beach while Eric was there. You must tell us everything that's happened since 4/23. We've missed you terribly.”
“I've missed all of you, too! Eric told you I'd be seeing you when you arrived in Kalispell, didn't he?”
“I kept it a secret. Need to know. Things have happened lately that have us on guard and very ill at ease.” I said.
That wasn't lost on Carl. He nodded, a more serious look on his face.
“That's the main reason I'm here, he said,” in addition to missing you. “Also, I promised Christof I'd visit him at his new log home on Trout creek. He's really proud of it. Have you been there, yet, Eric?”
“No, and we'll talk about why.”
“I'm glad you haven't.” He replied.
Robert seemed surprised by the turn of the conversation.
“At ease!” Robert shouted. The dogs disbanded, returning to their stations.
“Well trained,” Carl observed as we all went inside.
As we sat, Robert handing out cold ones all around, Becky returned with the girls in their pajamas.
“Hello, Ranch Queen,” Carl said, rising again.
“You're full of surprises, Carl,” Becky said, smiling and giving him a hug very like Tiffany's. Tiffany was soaking it all in like a sponge as the girls jumped into her lap. They had really become attached to her.
“You'll be staying with us, won't you, Carl?” Becky asked.
“For a couple of days. Then, I'll be visiting Christof. Kicks Iron will be there at the same time. Christof has been bugging him to come by too.”
“I was already developing an uneasy feeling. We were in the middle of a hornet's nest. While Carl seemed super cautious on the one hand, he sounded cavalier on the other. Tiffany was looking at me with an expression revealing she had the same concerns. We were here, after all, for more than a vacation. We had come to put an end to the drama. With Carl here, mentioning Christof and Kicks Iron in the same sentence, it was tantamount to saying the Ft. Benning crew was having a reunion, all together at one time in the same place!
“Roberta, Pamela, help me in the kitchen,” Becky said. “Let's get supper ready for this crowd!”
They stood, each grabbing one of Tiffany's hands to drag her along. She smiled at me with a, 'See you later' look.
“Hold on a second, Guys,” Robert said, walking to the com center on the east side of the room, opposite the window out which the lights in the horse barn were clearly visible.
“Check, Brad,” he said, “Update.”
“A okay, Dad.”
“Supper's in 30; time to hotfoot.”
“On our way to the pen. Out”
“That's slick shorthand.” Carl said as Robert rejoined us.
“This is a regular. They still have to load the truck and take care of the Ostriches. You know boys!”
“You waste no words on the radio.”
“Oh, they're well-trained. That's nothing. We have a drill almost every week. They boys love it. It's a game to them. Serious to me, of course.”
“Supper's ready, Men.” Becky announced. At the table or on the patio?”
Robert looked at Carl and I.
“That's up to you,” Carl said. I nodded in agreement.
“The barn lights just went off. The boys are on their their way to the pen. It'll be twenty minutes before they're here. We can get started without them. We might as well eat at the table since it's easier.”
We all rose and started for the dining room off the kitchen. Tiffany and the girls had heard and were already setting out plates. Then they and the women started bringing out the spread.
“I've been smelling Becky's cooking ever since we walked in the door,” Carl said.
There wasn't anything particularly special about Becky's cooking in my opinion, but she did okay. I had the idea that raised with a silver spoon, she had only learned when she was engaged to her first husband. It's hard to mess up good sirloin, though, and to her credit, she knew what medium rare, medium, and medium well meant and never missed with her great kitchen open air broiler. The potatoes wrapped in foil and left on the edge of the grill were always dead on. Tiffany had been giving her some great ideas on vegetables, Becky expressing appreciation. They were like sisters, now. Roberta and Pamela were always anxious to help, being big like their mom and Tiffany. It wasn't five minutes until we were all surrounding the table.
Becky looked at Robert as if asking a question. I was used to the drill.
“You go ahead,” he said.
The girls folded their arms and bowed their heads with Becky. Tiffany and I had already learned to do likewise along with Robert. Carl followed.
“Pamela, it's your turn tonight.”
“Thanks, Mom,” she said, offering a sweet prayer of Thanksgiving, now only two days away. The enormous Turkey had already been purchased and all the trimmings. Tiffany had offered to help. This was going to be a hell of a Thanksgiving dinner, I knew.
After eating, Carl, Robert and I walked to the front porch to smoke and talk.
“Where's my car?” Carl said. He had left the keys in the rental.
“Brad had that in the barn with doors closed behind him less than five minutes after you arrived.” Robert said.
“I didn't see them.”
“I contacted him on the radio. It's just standard procedure. You know that.”
“He had to ask for my keys the first day we arrived,” I said. “We haven't used our car since. Robert's very shrewd when it comes to security. This place is unassailable, although we're all going to have a serious talk about ending the saga that's been raging recently. It's gotten completely out of hand. If we don't check it, Kicks Iron and Christof are going to make a mistake, and when they do, we could all end up going down, and I'm not going to let that happen.”
“That barn isn't what it appears to be, Carl,” Robert said. “It sits atop a concrete basement, totally hidden. The front end is a parking garage. The back end is a fortress. Kicks Iron stocked it well, though nothing near the hideout in the Bitter Roots.”
“You fellows have really thought this through.” Carl said.
“That's just the problem,” I said. “They haven't. They're going to get us all killed.”
“What's wrong with you, Eric?” Robert asked. “We've done nothing but kick ass before you showed up.”
“You've been very lucky, but you've shot your wad. It has to end now. Completely end. When I share with you what happened to me less than a week ago, you'll understand. The tables are about to be turned. I'm certain of it. They're onto every one of us except, perhaps, Carl.”
“Brad to Dad.”
“You're overdue. Hotfoot it.” Robert replied into the radio he'd brought out onto the porch.
“There's traffic.”
Carl and I exchanged glances, not understanding Robert and his son's code language.
“Origin?”
“Pointer says east, house side of the pen.”
“Wind, and come. Join your mother and sisters in the room.”
“Copy.”
“We have guests.” Robert said. “Pointer will beat the truck back. He's fast as hell.”
“Fill us in, Robert.” Carl said, perplexed. I didn't know what 'traffic' meant either.
“Someone has entered the property on the east side, just this side of the back five, the Ostrich pen. It's procedure now.”
“Someone?”
“I hope for their sake, they can run fast. When Pointer gets here, I'm sending the dogs. God help them if they're inside the fence line when the dogs get there. No Trespassing – Dogs on Patrol signs are posted every 25 feet all the way around this property and can't be missed; they're phosphorescent at night, stupid fucks.”
“What now?” I asked.
“It isn't a drill, so we're going to have to go through the hassle of assuming an assault. I'm going to beat the shit out of those guys once their down and held. Let's tell Becky and Tiffany.”
He was obviously very put out. Carl and I followed him in.
“Becky,” called out as we entered.
“Yes, Sweetheart.”
“Brad just checked in. There's Traffic.”
“Girls, Safe Room. Tiffany, come with us.”
“What's happening?” She asked me.
“Someone has entered the property on the east side this side of the Ostrich pen. The boys are on their way back. Probably hunters or poachers after one of the Reds. They don't know about the dogs. As soon as Pointer gets here, Robert's sending them. He and Becky have this all worked out. We just need to go along for the ride until the dogs have them pinned.”
Tiffany looked concerned.
“Probably nothing serious, Tiffany,” Carl said. “But you can't be too careful if you're a covert Musket.”
“Eric, would you stay here on watch with the women and the girls? I'll take Carl with me.”
“Sure. Have you got a gun . . . in the house?”
“You'll find everything you need in the Safe Room. Becky will fill you in. Don't worry, you'll be as safe as if you were in Fort Knox. We'll be back as soon as we can, probably less than fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. You'll be in communcation, right?”
“Of course.”
He and Robert moved toward the door.
“Here comes Pointer already.”
“He really is fast,” Carl said. “That's one hell of a dog, Robert!”
“Inseparable from Brad and Eric. Had they been in the slightest danger, he'd be taking down the source. They'd hardly see him coming. As soon as I send the dogs, we'll get weapons and a vehicle from the barn and head for the for the entry point.”
Carl was amazed how calm Robert was. He must have rehearsed this so many times that it seemed like a drill to him. As soon as the dog arrived, he spun around, sat up on his hauches, and pointed with his right paw.
“Hunt!” Robert shouted. Carl watched dogs appear out of nowhere, numerous as a pack of wolves. Initially, they followed the one Robert called, Pointer, but then split and began dispersing to the left and right of him.
“Amazing!” Carl said, as they reached the barn. “I'd rather have them on my side than a squad of marines!”

Simmons, Tibbits second, a seasoned agent by the name of Conrad, and fifteen other seasoned agents were moving fast, almost at a full run. Simmons was glad he had gotten back in top form over the past months, or it would have entirely beyond him to keep up. He knew that at the same time, Tibbits' team was taking out Margarella, and the eight ex-Special Forces guys were hitting Fawcett. He couldn't help but smile thinking about the satisfaction he was feeling.
“How long before we get there, do you think?” He asked Conrad, running alongside him with eight agents in the lead and seven behind them.
“As intensely as these guys have studied the map and looked through binoculars from the trees the last couple of days, they're running a bee line. We'll be there within four minutes by my count.” He sounded as if they'd actually made the run before, though he hadn't. Simmons was happy to have some well-trained men with him, and in force. It seemed almost unfair, because Stroder wouldn't have a chance. Too bad. After the last two agent massacres, he wasn't taking any chances this time. He had seventeen on his strike team, counting himself, Tibbits had twelve, and the eight about to fall unawares on Fawcett totaled thirty-seven, a truly impressive force.
As they topped a low ridge, Simmons could see the lights of the house clearly, especially the floodlights illuminating the area around it. Almost as soon as they appeared, the entire place went dark.
“You think we've been somehow spotted, Conrad? The place just went dark.”
“Frankly, I'm surprised it wasn't dark already. Most folks around here seen to turn in early. They couldn't have a clue we're here.”
Simmons noticed Conrad was panting heavily, just as he was, but his pace hadn't slowed. The lead men had divided and fallen to either side of them.
“Your men are well trained, Conrad. I like watching how they move.”
“Every one of them has done something like this before.” Conrad said.
Suddenly, Simmons heard shouts from behind, then screams. They were running dark, but something was happening. The whole group came to a halt, spinning on their heels. Simmons couldn't believe his eyes. Five men were on the ground, motionless; others screaming at the top of their lungs.
“Dogs!” Someone shouted. Shots were being fired, but not many. Their men were dropping like flies all around him. Without the slightest warning, two flying dogs had Conrad' s neck in their jaws from different sides, wrenching him to the ground. He was certain Conrad was dead before he hit in a heap. A few of the others began firing, it seemed aimlessly, but before they got off more than a shot or two, they were down too.
Simmons was completely panicked. He took off to the right at a full run, running faster even than when they were under attack at Noxon lake. Whatever was happening was beyond his control. He had only one thought: Run! The screams from behind were blood-curdling. He soon tripped over something, totally exhausted. He jerked around barely in time to see a Doberman Pincher headed straight for him. No, two! He began began firing wildly, trying to hit them, but they seemed to be moving back and forth even though at a full run. Finally, one dropped, but the other had his arm and crunched down so hard, he was certain the bone was being broken. He lost the grip on his gun. Suddenly the beast was snapping at his face as he pushed against it with all his strength, when from the side a massive set of jaws was the last thing he saw as they closed over his neck with the force of a hydraulic press.
The chopper pilot knew something was wrong. He was in live radio contact and heard horrific screams before it went dead, apparently dropped. Dipping and diving, he turned on the spotlight. He couldn't see anything but bodies, everywhere and at every angle possible. He had heard shots, but not enough to account for this. Then, he noticed dogs holding some of the men down.
“Goddamn! This is a first!” He caught a glimpse of a man just outside the edge of the beam. He focused back. Without doubt, the man was walking from one agent to another, shooting them, then moving to the next as soon the dog released its hold. They had the agents by the necks. He spun, bringing guns to bear. Then, he saw another man off a little distance. Swinging the beam to him to see how many might be involved, he saw a single man, pinned by two dogs being shot repeatedly in the chest by another man. He had a line of fire on that one and opened fire, clearly taking him out with multiple hits.
“Die, Motherfucker,” he shouted aloud. The dogs had fled. He had missed both.
Swinging around to take out the other man, he saw nothing but dead agents. No dogs, and no other man. He began reconnoitering, swinging the beam wider than he normally would, trying to get a fix. Nothing. He decided to land.
Upon exiting the chopper, with the beam rotating full circle, he counted seventeen agents dead, plus the one assailant he had eliminated, totaling eighteen dead. Then he caught a glimpse of two dogs heading straight for him and barely got into the Black Hawk before they got to him.
“Stupid! Fucking Stupid!” he yelled at himself, his heart racing, getting airborne as quickly as possible. Several high-powered rounds struck the craft as he pulled away, but had no effect. Soon, he was low over the trees moving away at a high speed. He considered an attack run, but someone needed to report that this mission had gone down hard to the last man by a combination of dogs and two shooters, only one of whom he had managed to take out. He swung about and headed for Kalispell at high speed, repeatedly trying to contact Unit One, but out of range.
“Robert's back!” Becky said, pressing the large, red button that opened the steel door to the Safe room.
“Thank God,” I said. “I'm pissed at him. He had us worried. He said he'd be in communication, and neither of them bothered to let us know what was going on.”
“Eric, I'm more worried about the poachers than I am them. You have no idea what those dogs can do. They didn't go out to protect the dogs. They went out to get the men released. Once those dogs hear, 'Hunt!,' whoever they find is in big trouble. If they hear, 'Kill!,' it's all over. Fast.”
“I still don't think it's that much trouble to at least say something.” I said. Tiffany was staying out of it, just relieved whoever it was had been dealt with. She had an idea after listening to Becky that they'd never try to lead off one of those Reds again, if that's what their intention was.
When I reached the front door, Robert had an anxious look on his face. He was obviously very agitated. And I didn't see Carl.
“Where's Carl?”
Becky, Tiffany, and the kids were right behind me, equally anxious to learn what had happened.
Robert didn't answer at first. He just plopped down on the sofa and sat there as if in shock. Then I knew this had to have been more than poachers. I gave Tiffany a look and headed for the front door. She followed close behind as Becky was saying, “Robert. Would you please answer me. Why are you so pale?”
As soon as we were outside, I ran around the house and looked as far as I could. The floodlights were back on. But I couldn't see Carl at all. The jeep was just sitting there in neutral, running.
“Tiffany,” I said, as she held my arm with the same grip I remembered on the road from Adan to Ibb when we were hugging the ground in fear of our lives, “This was no poacher. Something major has gone down. I've got to go look for Carl.”
“I'm not leaving your side, Eric; never again.”
Before I could even get to the Jeep, she was already in.
“I know where east is, and I know where the corner of the Ostrich pen is.” I said, whipping around, hitting the high beams so I wouldn't collide with any Reds, and flooring it. I knew the gate dividing the front half from the back was open at night. The horses were fed alfalfa and grain, so they only piddled nibbling the grass during the day. At night, the Reds were allowed to wander into the back to keep the grass eaten down.
We hadn't even reached the low rise about halfway back before we saw the scene. There were bodies helter-skelter everywhere. I swung to the right circling them, and had almost completed the loop around them when we noticed two more off to the right.
I stopped.
“We have to find Carl,” I said, “because his body is here among all the others.”
We jumped out, and began looking around. I was going to suggest that Tiffany go one way and me the other, but her grip left no doubt we were moving as one. We had the high beams focused on the main group while walking from body to body, many with their throats ripped out, couldn't find Carl.
“ He's one of the two over there,” I said, pointing at them. “Let's get back in and drive over.”
As we were moving, dodging a couple of Reds, Tiffany shouted in my ear, jarring me.
“Eric, look! Their van is leaving the barn.”
“Oh, no. Surely not.”
“There running, Eric.”
I stopped at the two bodies, anxious to conclude what we were doing and then try to intercept them.
One of the bodies was lying across the other, gun still in hand as we approached.
“Oh, no, Eric. It's Carl. He's dead!”
“Hold together, Hon. We knew that.”
The man he was lying across had been shot several times in the chest. Although we could see Carl's face clearly, as soon as I turned him over to see the man underneath he had obviously killed, we saw that at least a third of the back of his head had been blown off. In addition, his body was riddled with holes. The neck of the man underneath looked as if it had been almost ripped apart, the head at a weird angle. Carl had shot him several times in the chest.
“I can't stand to see any more, Eric.” Tiffany cried.
“Nor can I. Let's see what Robert and Becky are up to.”
We'd hardly gotten back into the Jeep before another vehicle came tearing out of the barn.”
“What the hell?” I said.
“I know what they're doing.” Tiffany said, tightening her grip.
“Obviously in headlong flight.” I replied.
“Her parents are wealthy and powerful, you said yourself. Becky and the kids are heading straight there. Robert is either fleeing to Christof's place, the Bitter Roots, or the National Headquarters. No one knows where that is.”
“I'll know momentarily.” I said, opening my cell as we drove, arriving at the entrance to the barn before I had even dialed.
“The keys are in ours. Run and get it while I call Robert, Hon.”
She first hesitated, then took off like a bat out of hell.
The phone was ringing, but Robert wasn't answering. I kept getting diverted to the message option after several rings.
As she pulled alongside, jumping out and running around to the passenger side, I climbed in.
“He won't answer. He's lost itl I've called for times.”
“We can't stay, Eric. There's no telling who will be showing up here and it could be any minute.”
I didn't need to answer. We both knew what we had to do. I skidded to a stop in front of the house, leaving the Esplanade running in Park, and we both ran for the door. The dogs were were there, but knew and ignored us.
We threw everything that was ours in our bags. No woman every packed so quickly. I had the bags loaded and she was beside me, purse in hand, I know in less than five minutes. Two minutes later, we were racing toward Kalispell, keeping watch for oncoming traffic. No one knew the vehicle. It had been secluded at Robert and Becky's ever since arriving. Anywhere we went was always with them in one of their vehicles. I was so thankful Robert had that security policy. We were careful to drop to the speed limit when meeting other traffic. Amazingly, as we reached the city limits, mingling with bustling traffic there, we hadn't seen a single emergency vehicle. Then it hit me.
“Tiffany, we have to know if that assault was for Carl or Robert.”
“How?”
“If it was for Robert with a force that size, another would have hit his partner at the same time. We need to swing by Margarella's house and see if anything out of the ordinary is apparent.”
“Eric, I think we need to drive nonstop to the Headquarters where we know we'll be safe.”
“He's my brother and he's on the run. We have to determine if we can which one they were after.”
“You're right, but I'm scared to death.”
“It won't take but a few minutes and in this vehicle, we could be anyone driving by.”
She said nothing further, but was pressed so tightly against me, I was glad it was an automatic.
We had hardly turned down the street when we saw two ambulances and at least half a dozen police cars out front.
“Eric, turn around!”
I started to drive on by, but instead pulled into the first driveway on the right, backed out, and quickly turned right on the main road out of town.
“That was close, Love.”
“Now we know it was Robert.”
“But so many?”
“As many agents as they lost the last time they were engaged by Muskets, it would surprise me if their numbers had been much less. Once he calms down enough to answer his cell, I'll let Robert know about Margarella. Becky's going to have to play ignorant when they show up at her parent's place, and they will. They'll probably be easy to convince that Robert had told her nothing of the murders. Robert's going to have to get to Canada and catch a flight to somewhere in Europe, not this hemisphere. Becky will have to liquidate their livestock and sell the house, then take the kids and join him. They can never come back.”
I pulled into a gas station to fill up. Other than the airlines, I hadn't used anything but cash stateside since 4/23. There was no trail to follow. There was a hamburger joint across the street.
Tiffany had gone to the Ladies room while I filled up, meeting me at the register when I paid. As we walked to the car, I told her the last four hours had taken a lot out of me.
“I need to eat before we continue. Let's get a burger across the street.”
“I'm hungry too.” She replied.
As we sat eating, she had been silent for a long while; indeed, we had both been awestruck. Then then spoke.
“Eric, at this point, we're clear and clean. But as long as Kicks Iron and Christof are on the lam, nothing has changed since the day we arrived. We have to somehow follow through. It's too late for Robert, now. And poor Carl. If he had even suspected . . . ”
“I lost my best friend today. It leaves a hole in my soul. The only thing keeping me going is you, Hon.”
“I love you, Eric. You're not going down if I'm alive, not as long as I can draw breath. I think you should call Christof and fill him in. The best thing for all of us is for him and Kicks Iron to leave the country too, and never entertain returning.”
“I don't know if they're capable of that with their Indian blood. Leaving their own country goes against everything they've done and stand for, especially if it's not elective. I think they'll fight to the death first. I really do.”
“They could take you with them; and me, if they wanted.”
“I don't think they're capable of that, either. But I think you're right about calling Christof.” I pulled the cellular from my pocket on the way out and dialed as soon as we were back in the car, heading west.”
“Hey, Bro! If I hadn't seen it was you calling, I wouldn't have answered the call after the day Kicks Iron and I've had!”
“Kicks Iron is with you?”
“Surprised me, walking up on me a couple of days ago. I've been lying low since the day he called and told me what had gone down at Blackfoot and the Outlaw.”
“Hold on. I'm putting my phone in the dock so Tiffany can hear what's been said.”
“Tiffany, are you enjoying your vacation? That's quite a spread they have, isn't it?”
“Hi, Christof. A wonderful place. Yes, it's been glorious . . . until today. How about you and Kicks Iron. I'm surprised to learn he's there with you.”
“We're not there, not at my place. We had to hotfoot it out of there, and fast!”
“What happened, Christof?” I interrupted.
“Ten shit heaps happened.” Kicks Iron answered. Christof had docked his cell too.
“Hey, Kicks Iron. So we're having a four-way here. Bring us up to date and Tiffany and I will do the same. Your day couldn't have been as bad as ours.”
“As if! Like I said, Kicks Iron slipped out of the forest, tapped me on the shoulder and told me break off and bring my catch inside, so I did. Then he told me I was being watched.”
“Watched?”
“Yeah, big time, by eight men. They didn't know he was here when made a move on me tonight about four hours ago. They seemed to come out of nowhere. If I hadn't been aware they were there, it would be Kicks Iron speaking to you alone now.”
“You said they made their assault about four hours ago?” Tiffany asked, as we exchanged stunned expressions.
“Almost on the nose, not long after sunset. As soon the shooting started, and I mean serious shooting, Kicks Iron and I lifted the rug I have covering a tunnel out. We moved quick and emerged behind them. They didn't know it was there. They were closing in systematically. We took out six of the eight from behind with grenade launchers. They weren't prepared for that.”
“They weren't like the pussies Tibbits had before,” Kicks Iron added. They were military or ex-military. They were good. They'd have gotten us if Christof hadn't had the foresight to put that tunnel in before he built the house.”
“They weren't there to capture, Eric.” Christof continued. “They were there to kill. Simmons and Tibbits aren't playing any more. One side or the other is going down. The last two guys laid down a smokescreen, so while they were busy, we went back to the house through the tunnel, grabbed a couple of things and ran to my Hummer, tearing out of there as fast as we could. If an assault was underway, that was potentially just the first wave. Just as I was turning away from Trout creek onto the road, two more caught me in a crossfire. If Kicks Iron hadn't been there and ready for anything, that would have been it for me. He took them out with grenades as well, although my Hummer has a few serious scars.”
“Where are the two of you, now?” Tiffany was pale.
“We knew at least two had survived and had no doubt reported in. That meant we had no choice but ditch the Hummer. I took a risk stopping at the Outlaw, figuring it would be the last place Simmons and Tibbits or their men would hang, because we keep a good watch on it. I'd called a couple of guys and they brought a fresh vehicle, meeting us two blocks west where we had gone on foot to meet them, keeping an eye on the Hummer. Right now, we're heading west.”
“So are we. Are you going to the Headquarters?”
“We thought about it, but we need to regroup. It's too hot around Kalispell and somehow, beats the shit outa me, they seem to know almost everything about us. It fucking bizarre, man.”
“We're headed for the mountains, Guys.” Kicks Iron said. “No one can touch us there. When we come at them again, it's going to be shock and awe.”
“There's already been shock and awe today, partners,” I said. Tiffany had a See what I mean? Look on her face, clearly terrified further. “Without calling first, Carl showed up around four this afternoon. We were so happy to see him, we were almost in tears. We'd wondered a long time if he had gone out with 7/29 being right there in D.C., but actually, he spearheaded it.”
“You should have picked up on that the day it happened,” Kicks Iron said.
“Is he with you?” Christof asked, anxious to talk to him as well.
“No, Christof,” Tiffany replied. “He's dead!”
“What?” they both gasped in unison. I could just imagine what was running through heads right then.
“Come on Eric and Tiffany. Pick up the pace. What the hell happened at Robert and Becky's and how did Carl get dead?”
“Becky had made a great dinner with Tiffany and the girls' help. We had all enjoyed eating together. Then Robert, Carl, and I went out on the front porch to smoke and talk. We'd hardly settled in when Brad called Robert on the radio from the Ostrich pen, where he and Eric were, reporting traffic.”
“I know what that means. He's got those boys trained well, always conducting drills.”
“Well, this was no drill. Robert asked me and Tiffany to stay with the family; he and Carl left to send the dogs and drive to the corner of the back five on the east side. That's where Brad said the dog was Pointing. Robert seemed to think it was just hunters or poachers wanting to lead off one or more of the Norwegian Reds. He seemed more annoyed than concerned.”
“That's Pointer. If he sent the dogs, I almost feel sorry for whoever breached the perimeter.” Kicks Iron added.
“I've never heard of or seen dogs as trained as those,” Tiffany said. Becky told me they attack from behind at angles like the Raptors in Jurassic Park and can disarm and pin anyone in seconds, that they'll kill them if they're outnumbered.”
“They're definitely something else,” Kicks Iron said. “So go on, what happened.”
“Robert didn't bother reporting as they went, which pissed me off since we were inside their Safe room and didn't have clue what was happening. Then, after the longest, Becky pushed the button and opened the door, announcing that they were back. We all came rushing out, me, Tiffany, Becky, and all four kids only to see Robert coming in the front door alone. Becky was asking repeatedly what had happened. I was asking where Carl was. Robert just walked over and plopped down on the sofa, saying nothing. He was so deep in shock, he was somewhere else. I motioned to Tiffany and we stepped out front. The Jeep was just sitting there running, the driver's side door open. We climbed in and headed straight for that back right corner to determine what had happened and find Carl.”
“Fuck me!” Christof shouted.
“It was a coordinated attack on us all, Christof.” Kicks Iron said. “That means they somehow knew Robert and Margarella killed those two agents at Blackfoot.”
“I'll get to Margarella in a minute,” I told them. “We weren't halfway there when we saw what looked like Civil War battlefield. There were bodies everywhere, lot's of them. We counted eighteen. One of the last two was Carl, riddled with holes and the back third of his head blown off. He had shot the man he was lying across repeatedly in the chest, still had the 9mm in his hand. Then we noticed their big van pulling out of the garage, followed shortly by another vehicle tearing out after them like a bat out of hell. Tiffany figured Becky had taken the kids and boogied for her Dad's place, and Robert was getting as far away as he could as fast as he could. We weren't about to be found with eighteen dead bodies, so we grabbed our stuff from the house and took off ourselves, heading toward the Headquarters. There was no telling who or how many might be en route, because the assault had failed utterly. Not one agent remained alive. I think a chopper was involved. What took out Carl was no ordinary weapon. He was torn up really bad. Anyway, we weren't going to hang around that O.K. Corral.”
The silence was deafening. There were four heads spinning nowl
“They got Margarella, too.” Tiffany said. “I didn't want to, but Eric had to know if the assault was for Robert or Carl. If it was for Robert, the same would be happening to Margarella. They would have to strike both simultaneously. If he was okay, they knew Carl was there, although he had insisted no one could have known when he first arrived.”
“When we turned down his street, there were ambulances and cop cars gathered out front, so we turned around and got back on the highway heading west. Only now are we feeling pretty safe. No one in Kalispell knows my Esplanade. Robert parked it in the underground garage the day we arrived. No one even knew we were there as far as we know. That's a pretty good wrap. I think you two should divert to Headquarters. We need to have a long, serious Pow wow about what happens next, before the rest of us end up dead. That's not how this story's going to end. We have a lot more to tell you. Robert won't answer his phone, but we're assuming that's where we'll find him as well.
Tiffany squeezed my hand as we held our breath awaiting their reply.
“They really got their asses creamed by the dogs,” Kicks Iron said, plus the eight we got. That's a body count of two, Carl and Margarella on our side, and seventeen plus eight, twenty-five on Simmons and Tibbits' side. That's a far worse rout than last time. If they have any sense, they'll pack up what's left and go home. They won't be able to pull another sneak attack on any of us, or on Robert, again. Becky's old man will protect her and the kids. It's terrible they can't be with Robert, but you won't see him going back to that place, especially since they got Margarella. He'll know that's exactly where they'll be watching. Did you say ambulances plural at Margarellas, Tiffany, or Eric? Kicks Iron asked.
“Two for certain,” She answered.
“Then I suspect they lost at least one or more additional agents taking him out.”
Tiffany was getting impatient.
“Are you two going to meet at the Headquarters or not. That's where we're headed, and it sounds like you're not very far ahead or behind us.”
At length, they agreed.
“This was like a war campaign today,” I said to Tiffany after the conversation ended.
“I told you it was totally out-of-hand, Eric, but this exceeds anything I'd foreseen. I can feel the walls closing in, but did you see how Kicks Iron assessed it? Like it was a great victory for our side? That's exactly why you have to get them under control. If you can't, it's time for a different approach.”
I wondered if she was considering killing our two remaining closest friends, but didn't want to know. I thought I'd just wait and see what the four of us, five if Robert was waiting, could figure out. Indeed, the walls had closed in. Christof couldn't go home. Robert couldn't go home. Carl was dead. True, the trail had ended today for Tibbits and the Colonel because they wouldn't have a clue where to look next. They didn't get their target at Roberts, but they got a far bigger one in Carl. They just wouldn't realize it when they loaded up the carnage scattered about. I wondered what would happen when they arrived. The dogs would let them approach, then disarm and pin them. There would be no one there to tell them to release. Ten dogs, no nine, because Carl, no, the guy he'd killed, had apparently shot the one dog we found dead a few away. But when they arrived to see what had occurred, they would get another big surprise, and it might as well be Raptors.

BRING IT ON

“Some of the biggest men in the U.S. are afraid of somebody, are afraid of something. There is a power so organized, so subtle, so complete, so watchful, so interlocked, so pervasive, that they had better not speak above their breath when they speak in condemnation of it.” Woodrow Wilson


“Unit one. This is Air one. Unit one . . . this is Air One, come in Unit One.”
Tibbits reached for his radio.
“Go ahead, Air One. This is Unit One.”
“The mission failed, Sir. Repeat. The mission failed. No survivors, Sir. One target down, entire assault team eliminated by two targets and dogs.”
“Repeat, Air One. Two targets and dogs eliminated entire assault team?”
“Roger that, Sir. I took out one target, lost the other with the dogs.”
“How many dogs, Air One?” Tibbits was certain he was about to collapse. He sat on the front bumper of the vehicle nearest him. If the entire team had been lost, that meant Colonel Simmons, the only one who could ID his kidnappers, had been killed. His heart shrank.
“At least five to seven, Sir., my count. Two almost eliminated me while I looked on foot for survivors. There were none.”
“Return to base and submit a full report, Air One. Out.”
“Roger that, Sir.”
It seemed very like the end of the world-his world-to Tibbits. Somehow, Margarella had detected his approach with a dozen agents. What seemed easy to achieve had been anything but, and he felt he and his remaining nine agents were in danger even now. Margarella had sequestered himself such that they hadn't been able to spot him at first, even entering front and rear simultaneously. His wife and children were in the corner of a walk-in closet when they found them. Margarella had killed three of his men and almost gotten him before he was put down. And put down he was. No arrest, no trial. Put down.
However, losing three he couldn't leave and a fourth badly wounded and unable to stand or walk necessitated remaining even as neighbors, the ambulances, and police vehicles began converging on the scene. He had had no choice but to call 911, because he feared the fourth might die otherwise. The Hit and Run had evolved into a Hit and Remain, and he was very nervous.
Only minutes before Air One reported in, he had been contacted by the two agents familiar with the area. They had reported that six or eight involved in the assault on Fawcett had been killed.
“You got Fawcett, though, right”
“Negative, Sir. We were about to close for entry when we were attacked from behind, we don't know by how many, but they grenade launchers and our men were being rapidly eliminated. Henry and I had no choice but to seek cover. As we did, we noticed Fawcett and another very large man escaping in the Hummer. We took shots, but they got away. When we arrived where two of our best had been positioned to prevent any potential assisting vehicles from entering that road, we found them both dead, horribly mangled. They got them with grenades, too, Sir.”
“Is anyone alive?”
“Negative, only Henry and I.”
“Troy, we have a situation at Margarella's. Serious. We lost three, so couldn't leave. Now, a fourth is en route to the hospital in an ambulance, and we're almost surrounded by locals we can't consider friendlies. Get here as quickly as you can. I'm calling Simmons and asking him to bring his men also. It's a potentially very dangerous situation.”
“We're on our way already, Sir.”
“Try to close the distance and reduce the time.”
“Will do.”
Now this. He knew who the large man was . . . their prime target along with Fawcett. It had to be White. Why hadn't they noticed him and reported the changed odds before? There wasn't time to waste on that issue at present, but it sickened him to know that both of their prime targets were on the loose and he had no idea where they be headed. If they were headed there, he and his men were already dead if they weren't gone when they arrived, and that could be almost any minute. There was no Simmons, nor any of his men to call for reinforcements now. It was game over. Their only shot was to get to the hospital. Not all of the doctors and medical personnel there could be Muskets. If he and his remaining men were there, they should be able to remain safe until a significant force or a large enough military helicopter could arrive to extract them. There were no more options and no more leads. He ordered men to get into their vehicles and proceed directly to the hospital. The huddled officers made no move to prevent them. That could only mean that neither the surviving target at Stroder's place nor Fawcett and White had contacted them, at least not yet. If either had, he was certain he and his agents would be eliminated and never found nor heard from again.
Underway, he dialed Miss Davis' number. She was an unknown in the city, actually staying at the Outlaw, completely safe because she was undetectable.
“Hello, Agent Tibbits. Did we get the three?”
“We got Margarella, but at a cost of three agents. A fourth is en route to the hospital as we speak and we are as well, our numbers reduced.”
“What about Stroder and Fawcett.”
Simmons and his assault force might have gotten Stroder, but we can't be sure.”
“Well, Simmons knows if it's Stroder. What exactly did he say?”
“Nothing. He and all sixteen of his men are dead. Stroder had another man with him, and attack dogs.”
“What? Two men and some dogs killed Simmons and his entire force?”
“These weren't normal dogs. Air One reported he heard screams, horrible screams, followed by silence. We got there, he caught a man in his spotlight. The dogs had the agents they hadn't killed disarmed and held by the throat. The man was just walking from one to the other, putting rounds in their chests, another man was doing the same. He took out one of them, but the other and all of the dogs got away. He landed, counted eighteen dead, then saw the dogs coming for him. He barely got back in the Black Hawk before they got him.”
“This is inconceivable, Tibbits. What about Christof.
The two agents familiar with this area reported that a man, undoubtedly White, was with Fawcett. They don't how in got in, because they had been continuously surveilling the place for days. As the eight assaulted, they were attacked from behind. They don't know by how many, but six of the eight were killed by grenades, forcing them to seek cover. They saw White and Fawcett fleeing in the Hummer. Worse yet, the two agents stationed to prevent any vehicles from turning onto the road to Fawcett's place were found dead, so they got them on the way out. They're both at large.”
“The very two we most wanted.” Rhonda sighed. “This is so horrible. It's a nightmare, Tibbits.”
“Miss Davis, listen to me carefully, please.”
“Yes.”
“Contact Denver. I want you to make two things happen as quickly as humanly possible.”
“What two things?”
“Have two military choppers sent to extract me, you, our men, and the wounded agent and get us out of here. There's no reason for anyone to remain. It can only lead to more deaths on our side, possibly before sunrise, and I don't want you or any of us to be among that number. We should be relatively safe at the hospital until they can get there and land on the lot. All trails have been lost. No leads, no opportunities, not now.”
“And the second?”
“Have two more with armed military land at the Stroder place and recover all eighteen bodies to be identified when they return to Denver. We need to know if Robert is the one target we got. Tell them to shoot any dogs on sight and to apprehend any individual they encounter and bring them to Denver as well.”
“I'll follow up immediately.”
“Miss Davis, time is of the essence in both cases. I can't overemphasize that. Then meet me at the hospital bring everything sensitive with you.”
“Let's end the call, so I can get this done. I'll call you with an update as quickly as possible.”

As we drove along, drawing nearer and nearer the National Musket Headquarters, Tiffany and I had been largely silent. We were both tired, but we couldn't consider a motel, because we desperately wanted to know if Robert was waiting. I had tried on the half hour to reach him, using the prepaid phone I bought for occasions, but he had refused to answer. I hadn't noticed any wounds when he returned to the house, so he hadn't died somewhere. Why wouldn't he answer his own brother. I wasn't about to leave a message, creating a voice record. I was as angry with him as I was worried about him. Tiffany was outraged also. We weren't worried about Becky and the kids. They were in safe hands. Neither of us had stopped mourning Carl's loss, but we had stopped speaking of it. The matter at hand of greatest importance, and we both knew it, was Kicks Iron and Christof. We could not resume our life together as planned in peace until they were either contained or had fled. After all the carnage, I really had no power or authority over them. Only friendship remained. No one was more aware of that either than Tiffany and I. If they rebuffed our efforts and headed for the Bitter Roots to plan or prepare for additional setbacks to their pursuers, our hands were tied. I had no options left if they did.
“I have to call Mom and Dad,” Tiffany said, looking at her watch. “It's late, buy I just can't relax until I do.”
“Why? We're not overdue. They knew we'd be at least a week, maybe two, at Robert and Becky's.”
“Think about it, Eric. As soon as Rhonda Davis in Las Vegas learns of the colossal failure of their coordinated assaults today, they're going to be grasping for leads. They've lost the the trail for Robert, Christof, and no doubt will realize that they had Kicks Iron in the palm of their hand and lost him along with Christof. They really have nowhere to go from here.”
“What does that have to do with your parents?”
“They might in desperation approach them, asking where we are. If they aren't prepped, they might unwittingly reveal that we went to your brothers. That puts us there when all of this went down. That can't be allowed to happen.” She opened her phone.
I hadn't thought about that, but now had extreme interest as she spoke with her father, gave him an update which probably both pleased, yet scared the hell out of him, and told him to casually reveal that we had gone to Tucson, and had just called yesterday to say that in a few more days, we'd be coming by to see them on our way back to Calgary.
“Thank goodness, no one has been by yet. They know what to say. Now I can relax on that point.”
You did two highly intuitive things there, Hon.” I said, putting my right hand between her thighs. She pulled it snuggly against her warm vagina with both hands, surprising me. We both had a great deal of stress to release. Fortunately, there were some very private rooms with comfortable beds at the headquarters.
“What were they, Love?”
“First, you put in Tucson, a logical destination and very far removed from the action. Secondly, day before yesterday was before the assaults, which no knew were coming.”
“So, you'll keep me?” she said, that coy look on her face; God I could hardly wait to have my mouth where my hand was!
“Until the day I die.”
It suddenly struck me, and I related it to Tiffany; if Robert was at the Headquarters, he would know intuitively that's where we were headed, so it wasn't necessary to reduce security by answering the phone, and he knew I wouldn't leave any messages. That was just common sense.
“I think you have it, Love. Let's just hope he is.”
When we pulled into the Headquarters a half hour later, there was Robert's car.
“Thank god,” I said.
There were no other vehicles. I was relieved. I wanted to have a serious discussion with Robert before Kicks Iron and Christof arrived.
When we entered by the side door, customary, we found Robert on the satellite phone, speaking with Becky. He waved, a broad smile on his face. The Robert I knew was back; confident, assertive, and in control. I was so thankful. I glanced at Tiffany, whose smile was even bigger and expressed more relief than my own.
We opened the front door, raised the awning, and began unloading the car and taking everything to my quarters. The Headquarters were laid out much like a resort motel, with some very significant differences. On the outside, it looked innocuous, more like a rundown business abandoned to the elements. Not so on the inside. The back half was cut into the hill, a deliberate part of my design. There are certain advantages to being a building contractor. It had also been the most costly, because the excavation, steel shoring, and sheer size of the construction had been daunting. But we had pulled it off. Carl's original anonymous contribution had enabled us to complete it. Progress had been slow up to that time. It was essentially impregnable, as if anyone would ever attempt to breach it. My quarters, as a status symbol, were the largest. Essentially, they mimicked a resort hotel without windows. Tiffany immediately loved it. She had never been there before. Only I, Carl, Christof, and Kicks Iron knew of its existence. Christof had brought Robert into the loop later, but not Margarella. This was her first exposure.
“You designed and built this?” Tiffany asked.
“Well, I am a contractor.”
She gave me a bear hug, except I never heard of anyone grabbing a bear between the thighs and stroking it. Bears are heavy, smelly, and you wouldn't want one up your rear.
After we finished unloading and Tiffany had done her woman's thing with our belongings in the suite, we went back out to the common area, a huge, comfortable lobby with the kitchen off to one side and waited for Robert to get off the phone. When he finally hung up and closed the lid, he moved away from the open window and closed the shutter. He had turned on the air conditioning when he arrived, so the place was very comfortable.
“I supposed you'd realize why I wouldn't answer the phone.”
“It took awhile, but it was a good stroke.” I said. It's good to see you're yourself again.”
“I snapped out it seconds after you and Tiffany took the jeep. I feel so sorry for Carl. The last thing I heard him shout before that chopper took him out was, Die Simmons! I had fled at that point, because he almost got me until he noticed Carl and veered his spotlight to him for some reason. The dogs and I escaped after eliminating six agents who were still alive. I had changed the command from Hunt to Kill when I heard the chopper approaching, and eliminated all except one Simmons took out before two other dogs got him. I feel so horrible about Carl, because I know he's been your best friend since childhood. You have to be hurting.”
“That was Simmons?”
“Yes. I didn't know the man, but Carl certainly did as part of the Milk Truck crew.”
“Robert, “ I said, “Kicks Iron and Christof are on their way to join us.” Before they get here, I want to talk to you.”
“I already know what you're going to say, Eric. They're the last two I would be around, because they're going to draw all the heat, now.”
“Margarella's dead.”
“I assumed as much. They weren't there for Carl.”
“I wasn't as sure of that, so Tiffany and I swung by, saw the ambulances and police vehicles and boogied here.”
“Confirmation's are always good. He was a good man. I hate to see him go down.”
“They'll be after you for blood, losing Simmons and sixteen agents with him.”
“I know that, Eric.”
“You can't stay. You have to get out of the country, and fast.”
“That's what Becky and I were talking about all this time. Her dad has already gotten the dogs and moved them to his place. Becky has familiarized him and family to them, so it's their new home.”
“What are yours and Becky's plans, then?”
“We bought nice piece of property with a home right on the beach while we were vacationing in the Baja last year.”
“I didn't know you had been to the Baja.”
“You would if you came around more often, Eric.”
“Sorry.”
“Becky wouldn't let me pay for it. She paid in cash so her family wouldn't know about it. They like having her and their grandchildren close. They'll understand she can't stay now though, because she won't give me up, and they wouldn't ask her to.”
“Robert,” Tiffany said, “We need you to help persuade Kicks Iron and Christof to get out of the country, too, the farther away, the better, or they're they're going to mess up and take Eric down with them. I won't let that happen.”
“I don't know how I can help. I feel like a junior Musket, compared to them. They loom large.”
“Yes, and they're the two most wanted men in America now.” She emphasized. “I won't let them take Eric from me. I couldn't live without him.” She squeezed even more tightly against me.
“Is there something specific you want me to say?”
“Point out in no uncertain terms that the reason you're leaving is you don't want to draw heat down on Eric. Don't mention what you've told us about Becky and don't let them know you've even contacted her. Play it as though you're afraid to call, because they'll have a trace on her parent's phone. Tell them you're leaving the country, going to Mexico, but don't mention the Baja. Tell them Guadalajara.”
“You're a real schemer, Tiffany.”
“I'd go to far greater lengths than that to protect my husband, the only man I've ever loved and I don't intend to lose him.”
“Okay, that won't be hard to play. I'll do it. I guess you two will be returning to Calgary?”
“Not until this situation is resolved.” She said. I couldn't get a word in edgewise and Robert's expression acknowledged as much.
“We're going to turn in, Robert. Are you planning to wait up?” I asked.
“If anything, I'll doze on the sofa here until they arrive. Right now, my mind is churning about Becky and the kids.”
“I'll bet.”
After we had locked the door to my suite, we lost no time getting to bed. The sex was different than before. It was angry sex, desperate sex; driven by a need to purge our stress. We fell asleep in each others arms soon after.
The next morning, we were awake before Robert. To my astonishment, Kicks Iron and Christof had not arrived. Tiffany set about preparing a good breakfast. I considered waking Robert, but thought better of it. I also notice the window was open with his satellite phone on the table next to it. Obviously, had called Becky again after we retired. I hung with Tiffany and helped her get breakfast on the table. We were both at a loss why we and Robert were the only ones there.
When I went to wake him to eat, he wasn't there, but I heard him in the bathroom off the side hall. We went ahead because neither of us can stand cold eggs. We both like them over easy or sunny side up. A few minutes later, Robert came in, having showered and cleaned up, but wearing the same clothes. I hadn't really thought about the fact he hadn't taken the time to pack any before rocketing away from their home.
“Boy, that smells good.”
“There's plenty to go around,” Tiffany said. “Your place is ready.”
We had agreed to let him speak first and determine what he knew, but Tiffany couldn't help herself.
“Where's Kicks Iron and Christof? Did they call to explain why they weren't here?”
“A lot happened after you went to bed last night.”
“Fill us in,” I said, as casually as I could.
“I had told Becky I'd check back with her later, because Alfred had taken several of the Mexican men that work him to our place and hadn't returned when I called her the first time. They had just loaded all the horses in trailers and headed back except for her dad and two of the men, who cut the fence and herded all of the Reds to his property, refastening it afterward. He owns an entire section and it borders the 20 acres he deeded to Becky with a nice home and road access. While they were driving the staples, two military choppers, apparently spotting the bodies from the air, landed nearby. Alfred and his men secluded themselves in the trees where they could observe what ensued. When they landed, soldiers poured out of one and formed a perimeter around the bodies, while those from the other began loading them into the choppers. It took quite a while, even though he said they were clearly in a hurry. As soon as they had them all in, everyone re-boarded and the choppers took off. It was an in and out operation.”
“Boy, if that isn't something.” I said. They have have Carl, too, and don't even know it.”
Tiffany's patience was wearing thin.
“What about Kicks Iron and Christof?”
“Robert saw from her expression that it was the most important issue to her.”
“I'm afraid that news isn't good.”
“How so?” She pressed.
“Christof is the one who called. I could hear Kicks Iron in the background, though. He joined the conversation only when I told him you two had gone to bed”
“That figures,” Tiffany said. “And?”
“They had called Dorothy; that's Margarella's wife. She was distraught, obviously, and getting ready for a closed casket funeral today. Apparently, Tibbits and his men hadn't noticed the motion detectors, but he was alerted to their attack a few moments before they kicked the doors in. Dorothy and the kids hid in the corner of the walk-in closet in the bedroom, and he had gotten on top of the China cabinet. When they entered, Dorothy heard vicious gunfire being exchanged. He killed three of them and seriously wounded a fourth before they fixed upon his location and concentrated their fire. They hit him hard, several directly to the face. I think Tibbits had planned to kill him and take off, but he couldn't with three dead agents and a fourth who couldn't even get up. They had found her and the kids and brought them out front. Ambulances arrived, apparently because Tibbits had called 911, and half a dozen police cars arrived also.”
“We saw that as well, like we said.”
“She said they told the police he had resisted arrest for first-degree murder, but Dorothy says they weren't there to arrest him. They were there to kill him. Shortly after the ambulance with the wounded agent left for the hospital, Tibbits and his men followed. The other ambulance also, with three dead agents in it. Dorothy said the officers returned a few hours later and said that two army helicopters had landed in the parking lot of the hospital, loaded the wounded agent, Tibbits, all of his men, and a young woman with short hair, and airlifted them out. In other words, it was an extraction. The officers thought Tibbits was afraid he and the remaining men would be killed, but Christof and Kicks Iron both think he realized there was no reason to stay. They have no leads, lost their prime targets, and we now have the total, at least 28 men, 29 if the wounded agent doesn't make it. 28 to 2 isn't a very good score. He was in bad shape. With respect to what you really want to know, Tiffany, they think the Feds have been completely defeated. They felt bad about Carl, but when I told them Carl had pumped a few rounds into Simmons chest while the dogs had him pinned, shouting, Die, Simmons, before the Black Hawk took him out, they were as giddy as two school girls.”
“Watch it.” Tiffany said.
“Sorry, that was chauvinistic. To the point, they said they had changed their minds and weren't coming here after all. They plan to go to the Bitter Roots and plan the next assault on any new feds that show up, if they ever do.”
“I knew it, Eric. Fine. They just made their choice. Now, I'm going to make mine.”
Neither Robert nor I had a clue what she meant by that. Only I had the coordinates to the Bitter Roots cave, and Tiffany had never been in mountains like those.
“I'll be leaving in a few minutes, Guys” Robert said. “Becky had a heart-to-heart with her Mom & Dad. She told them about the property and home we had in the Baja. I was alarmed to hear that, until she said that they agreed she couldn't stay locally. Alfred helped put the County judge in office, so he owns him, and the DA is his best friend from childhood, kind of like you and Carl. But he doesn't trust the feds and knows she's the only link to me. He's afraid she might be kidnapped and held until she reveals my location. He's flying her and the kids there day after tomorrow. Rather than sell our spread, he's going to purchase it back and reincorporate it into his own. Then, he'll get the money to her in a way that avoids taxes. There are no feds in Kalispell now. That's a certainty, so I'm taking a flight to San Francisco using my alias ID, then to LA. He has a friend there who will meet me at the airport and take me across into Tiajuana, then all the way to our place. It's all already arranged.”
As neither Tiffany and I said anything else, he rose and went to the bathroom, I guessed, preparing to leave. We sat speechless until he emerged and picked up his keys. We both embraced him and walked him out to his car.
“I'll contact you with our address when we're set up.” He said.
He waved as he drove away. Tiffany and I stood looking at each other.
“Just like that,” She said.
“Just like that.” I replied.
We sat for a long while in each other's arms. We already had all we needed in each other. Tiffany was very deeply into her thoughts. I don't think I've ever seen her moreso. After a while, I went to the bar and made us drinks, bringing them back.
“Thanks, Eric. I could use this, probably several.”
“I'll make us a couple more when these get low.”
To my surprise, she tipped the glass and drank it down in one, continuous draw.
“I'm ready now.”
“Okay,” I said, doing likewise. It almost burned my throat. Then I rose and made two more, this time doubles.
“These are doubles.”
“Thanks, Love.”
Those, we sipped. She seemed to be wrestling with something in her mind, though I had no idea what, except I knew it related to Kicks Iron and Christof. When she was ready for me to know, she'd tell me. After what seemed an eternity, she suddenly came alive, jumped up, and said,
“I'm going to call my parents and tell them we'll be there day after tomorrow. I don't want us to have to rush. We can leave within the hour, can't we?”
“That's sounds fine, Hon. While you're on the phone, I'll start shutting things down, then when you finish, we can pack and go.”
“Great. I'm going out front to call. I need some fresh air.”
“Okay.”
“Although she had seemed anxious to leave, it was almost forty-five minutes before she returned. By then, I completed the packing except for her bathroom things. I felt she would want to do that. The woman that came back in was not the woman who had gone out. She was as different as a snake that had just shed its skin. Bubbly, happy, and had relief written all over her countenance. Within fifteen minutes, we had loaded and were on our way.
“That was a long phone call, Hon.”
“Oh, you how women are on the phone, Love.”
I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that.

ULTIMATUM

“Between two things of value or importance to you, you must sometimes choose either the one, or the other, for you cannot obtain-or retain-both.” – Anonymous

During the trip to Oregon, I never knew a happier or more carefree Tiffany. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Instead of dwelling upon Kicks Iron and Christof, she never once mentioned their names. It was as though she had determined to entirely forget the matter and move forward with our lives. Instead of eschewing or postponing a discussion of the home I wanted to build on Aruba, she talked of little else and the wholesale Tropical Fish business we were going to set up. It was like paradise during the entire trip. When we stopped at a motel the first night, I remembered decided to show her the plans for the home I wanted to build, or remodel another to closely resemble. I had brought them when we left Calgary for Kalispell, just in case things worked out. Of course, they had turned out very differently, but it didn't seem to matter any more. It was an intensely close, passionate three days.
When we arrived at her parents home, she was overjoyed. Her parents sat up late listening to us recount the saga, reacting as though they were watching it on screen. We slept together in her old room, a unique experience for me. The next three days were busy and exciting. I never felt more comfortable.
She also spent a lot of time talking to “old friends,” usually alone outside. I knew how private and chummy women were sometimes, so I thought little of it.
About the third day, Tiffany and her mother announced they were going to the Mall, then to dinner together, and wouldn't be home until late. They left in her mother's car, so her father and I sat watching football and drinking beer, having some guy time. It was great.
During the game, the phone rang, and her father rose.
“I'll be back in a minute, Eric.” he said.
“Sure,” I said, rising. “I'm going out front for a smoke.” No one in her family smoked.
As I sat on the porch, enjoying my beer and cigarette, he came out,
“It's for you, Eric.” he said, handing me the portable phone.
“Tiffany?”
“No, some other woman,” he replied, as he went back in.
“Hello,” I said, curious.
“Eric! I'm do glad to be speaking to you.”
“Who is this?” I asked, though the voice sounded familiar.
“Rhonda Davis. Don't you remember me? We spoke in Las Vegas.”
She sounded genuinely happy to be talking to me.
“Oh, of course. Rhonda who makes promises she doesn't keep.”
I wasn't trying to sound mean or intimidating, but I wanted to make the point.
“I felt terrible I had let you down. We got our wires crossed. I'm sorry you had to wait around for someone and they never showed up.”
That was a conciliatory response.
“I want to make it right, Eric.”
“Make it right?”
“I promised to tell you the name of the friend who had made a special appeal for you, but never got to. I understand you had business to attend to and couldn't wait around for dinner, but I still felt bad.”
“Well, tell me then. Who was it?”
I had been wondering about that ever since.
“I'd rather tell you in person.”
“Tiffany and I are enjoying our visit with her parents. Flying to Las Vegas is out of the question.”
“That's not what I had in mind. I have your friend with me, and I'd like to meet with you in person.”
“If I'll come to Las Vegas.” I was tempted to agree, I was so desperate to find out.
Just about that time, Tiffanys mother pulled into the driveway, but Tiffany wasn't with her.
“Hold on just a minute, Rhonda; you said I could call you that.”
“Of course. I'll hold.”
“Where's Tiffany?” I asked her mother as she was getting out of her car and grabbing several bags containing her purchases.
“She said she wanted to do more shopping and she'd call you to pick her up when she's finished.”
I was a little non-plussed by that, but there really wasn't anything strange about it.”
“Okay, I'm back.” I said. “Now where were we?”
“I have your friend with me, and we'd like to meet with you. Before you say anything, let me ask if you have two hours free right now.”
“Two hours? What? A conference call?”
“No, just a casual meeting. How about over a late lunch?”
I hadn't eaten, so it would have sounded great if she hadn't been in Vegas.
“You're not making any sense.”
“I'm sorry; of course I'm not. How about meeting us in the lobby of the Holiday Inn. It's only about ten minutes from you?”
I was stunned.
“You're telling me that you and my mysterious friend are in the lobby of the Holiday Inn here in town, right now, ten minutes away?”
“That's correct. Can you come, or are you tied up?”
“No, I'm very much free. It just sounds fishy, that's all. Is this some kind of a joke or some kind of a trap?”
“No. I promise. And it's a promise I'll keep at the same time I'm keeping the other one, although belatedly.”
“Okay, I'll play along. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, great. I'm really looking forward to this.”
I went back inside and told her parents that if Tiffany called, tell her to call my cellular, that I was going into town for a couple of hours.
“Sure, Eric.” Her mother said. “She'll probably be about that long herself!”
I freshened up, put on a fresh pull-over with a collar, grabbed my cigarettes and another cold beer and left.
I wasn't uncomfortable. I had already been in Rhondas grasp once and walked away. They knew where I lived in Calgary, and Tiffany and I both knew they were keeping a watch on our activities, maybe even had our phone tapped, but we lived a normal life. As long as they didn't have a secret camera in our bedroom, I really didn't care very much. When we went any distance, no one was following. On this trip, we had traveled long distances with nary a single hint that anyone was following us. By the time I pulled into the Holiday Inn, I had grown anxious to see who my “friend” was.
As soon as I entered the lobby, I saw her sitting there on one of the sofas, as polished as she had been in Las Vegas. She smiled as she jumped up, extending her hand.
“At last, we meet again! Come with me.” She said, picking up the briefcase that had been lying next to her. I felt like she was about to grab my hand and lead me like Tiffany might. Still, I followed.
I had been there before, and we weren't walking toward the restaurant.
“I thought we were having lunch together with my friend?”
“We are. I just want to ask you a couple of quick questions first, if that's okay?”
“I suppose.”
She had stopped at the door of adjoining conference rooms.
“We held a local Musket meeting not far down this hall a couple of years ago.” I said. It was a larger room, of course.”
When we entered, a waiter from the restaurant had just placed a cup of coffee on one side and a wooden tub of ice with three bottles of Coors on the other. Further, it wasn't a conference table, just a small, round table no more than three feet in diameter. We sat in chairs on either side, like me and a friend in my living room might. Very strange, really.
“I know you like Coors.” she said, as I twisted the cap off of one and took a long pull.
The last time she had asked me questions, she had rummaged through an entire stack of files scattered in front of her. I remembered it well. This time, she pulled out a folder, opened it, and I noticed there was only a single sheet with two or three three or four-line text blocks. Under each was a blank line or lines. At the bottom, I could see two signature lines. She held it as if reading it, but I had the distinct feeling she wanted me to see it, although I couldn't read what was on it upside down. Then she closed the folder, laid it on the table in front of her and set her briefcase on the floor, saying nothing. That was fine with me, because, having sensed what might be on that single page, I was already drinking the second beer.
“You needn't feel stressed, Eric.” She said, as she sipped her coffee. “I'm as good and sincere a friend as you'll ever find, and I hope you will consider me that. I'm serious.”
“I'll take you at your word. Are those the couple of questions you wanted to ask me before lunch?”
“You're far too intelligent for me to pretend otherwise.”
“And where, exactly, is my friend?”
“On the other side of the door behind me. In fact two people very dear to you are on the other side of that door. You can open it now, or accept my friendship.”
“Which is no doubt contingent upon what's on that single sheet.”
“My friendship isn't, but I can guarantee that if you do answer them, the life you lead beginning the minute you leave this hotel will the happiest any man could live.”
“Are you're questions as loaded as that statement?”
“No, but the implications of the answers are. Do you want me to ask them, or should I just hand you the folder?”
“Give me a minute, Rhonda. You're very good at what you do.”
“I'm not a pedant, Eric.”
“I didn't say you were. I just want to sit here, drink that last cold Coors and think . . . without interruption.”
“As you wish. I'm here for you.”
What did Rhonda want? She wanted what her superiors wanted.
What did her superiors want? Kicks Iron and Christof, and Robert, my own flesh and blood; that was one. The other was Carl's name, a no-brainer. He was already dead. Why did they want his name? They wanted the connection that provided the isotopes and materials for 4/23, also responsible for 7/29. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together and make a spark knew they were one and the same.
What was on the table in exchange? Her reference to the happiest life a man could live was obvious on its face. Tiffany. They had watched us long enough to know how deeply in love and devoted to each other we were.
“Eric, do you mind if I play some music while you're in thought?”
“Not at all.”
She stood and opened the door behind her, but I couldn't see who was inside. She came back with one the really nice players on the market with Bose speakers and all. Closing the door behind her, she sat it on the floor in the corner of the room, pulled a CD out of her purse, inserted it and pressed, play. It was a kindness, but it wasn't going to rush me. I was analyzing what they might have on me. Then the music started.
My heart stopped. It was Westlife singing, Hard for me to say I'm sorry.
As I listened, I couldn't help it. The tears began to flow. She was so moved, she came around the table and held me as a sister might, weeping herself. I knew now, understood now . . . everything. I knew what Tiffany meant when she said, “Fine. They've made their decision, now I'll make mine.”
You're gonna be the Lucky One . . . I promise to.
“Let me see the folder,” I said.
She handed it to me.
I opened it and began reading, Rhonda eyes intent on my every expression as the song continued playing.
The first thing I noticed was the notarized signature at the bottom of the page. President Wilson McKay. Above it was a signature line with my name typed underneath.

Question No. 1 – What are the GPS coordinates of the Bitter Roots arsenal?
Question No. 2 – What is the name or names of the individuals who supplied materials for 4/23 and are responsible for 7/29?
In Return for the above:
Full, summary pardon for: Eric S. Stroder, Robert L. Stroder, Tiffany K. Cronin, and Charles Preston Blevins, plus pecuniary consideration.

I closed the folder, laid it on the table, and sat back, listening to the song, which was playing in a loop. Rhonda eyes were pleading with me as though for her own life, but she didn't say a word.
“Blevins”
“What, Eric?”
“Blevins for Kicks Iron and Christof. Robert and my life with Tiffany for the benefactors.”
“ . . . just for the day, from your body . . . far away from the one I love . . . hold me now . . .”
“That's about it.”
“ . . . after all that's been said and done, you're just the part of me I can't let go . .”
The music was ripping my heart out.
“Why isn't that door open?”
“Because it has to be your decision, Eric. Yours, and yours alone. Everyone concerned felt that was the only way.”
She seemed to be holding her breath.
'You realize that once I sign this, Tiffany and I are dead anyway. They'll kill us both.”
“It will never be known. You will be completely out of the loop. You will also be consulted about any action envisioned by General Brody except the arsenal, as your input will be wanted as to the plausibility of any action. In short, you will be a clandestine advisor to the president, but there will be no interference with your life or routine activities.”
I picked up the folder.
“Wouldn't wanna be swept away . . . far away from the one I love . . .”
Taking out the sheet, I wrote the GPS coordinates for the cave. I had committed them to memory years before.
”You're gonna be the Lucky one . . . “
Beneath the second question, I wrote: Fahad Shiraz, cleric, from Iran, master of misdirection. General Ivan Beyrouti of Russia, petroleum engineer of Caspian Sea reserves fame. Money provided by non-al Qaeda sources in Saudi Arabia. Training: Amran Hills in northern Yemen. Purpose of 4/23: retribution for FBI Blevins sting and displacement of the Cherokee from Georgia, the Trail of Tears. Purposes of 7/29: decapitation of corrupt government and restoration of constitutional government to the United States; persuasion of U.S. to cease attempts at foreign hegemony and resource control.
I had to print really small on the second, but I got it all in there. Then, I signed my name. I handed it back to Rhonda. She pulled a notary public seal from her purse and pressed it into the paper over my name. In tears, she rose and entered the next room. When the door opened again, Blevins followed her in. I couldn't believe my eyes. We didn't shake hands, but rather fell into each others arms. He was already in tears when he entered. I realized he had heard every word.
Before I had even released him, Tiffany entered. Blevins held me when he felt my knees buckle. She ran and held me, all of us in tears. Rhonda was beside herself with empathy.
“Shall we all go to lunch. Everything on the menu is your favorites.”
Somehow, we all found it within ourselves to break into laughter.

The End

Copyright 2009, Michael M. Hobby; all rights reserved