JIHAD PART I

JIHAD

by Michael M. Hobby

Chapter One

Milk Truck

“It's intellectually corrupt to condone mass murder for a political goal . . . to me.
That’s just my opinion. Other people don’t agree, at all, and that’s fine.
Perhaps they should read more–and not newspapers!”
–John Malkovitch

“You’d better do something about that gut, Potts,” Supervisor Smith admonished as Potts pulled away from the dock, wiping sweat from his forehead, “I’d hate like hell to have to give someone else our best route. You’re gonna collapse dead one of these mornings, I swear!”
“Mae’s puttin’ me on a diet, she say.” Potts replied.
“Yeah? Well, you have a good run, Potts!”
Smith knew it was a put off. Potts had carried an inner-tube around his waist as long as Smith had known him, bigger every year. Smith couldn’t understand why he didn’t fall forward when he stood up. He knew what Mae really did was shovel her husband enough southern Black cooking to fatten a pot-bellied hog. His shirt pocket was already wet from a sweat-soaked handkerchief.
“S’pose I will, Boss,” Potts answered, “S’pose I will.”
Maneuvering his Milk truck past the others, he was first out the gate. The other route drivers were still stuffing the day’s load into the back of their trucks. Overweight as he was, loading crates of dairy products plus the ever-growing list of non-dairy items didn’t just get him going; It worked up a dripping sweat.
“I wish Smith’d shut up,” he said aloud, talking to himself as he usually did driving along alone during the morning. “He think he’s a Big Shot cause o’ Junior college and cause he’s a supervisor. ‘Drop dead,’ my butt! My momma’s still kickin at ninety-one and my Grandma Washin’ton lived to ninety-eight, dippin’ snuff and eatin’ lard!”
He smiled, thinking about the men still loading their trucks.
“Yup! I’m still the fastest, sweatin’ or not, fat or not!”
Farmer’s Dairy was one of the few places already humming with activity at 4:30 a.m.
“Reg’lar folk don’t get up at 3:00 and be loadin’ at 4:00,” he often bragged to Mae.
There was something special about engaging the day accompanied by the stars, when the moon is still the brightest light on. The lights of the city shown with a special radiance at this hour, conferring the sensation that he owned the road. In the pre-dawn traffic, the Georgia air was sweet with the scent of Magnolias, Honeysuckle, and Muscadine. Within three hours, the number of vehicles would triple and the sweet odors would fade.
“It’s a brotherhood . . . ,” he would say as Mae fried his eggs, grits, and sausage, “. . . men that starts out early. We are the real men, workin’ while the rest of em is snorin’!”
An unspoken awareness of their special, collective status suffused his mind as he jockeyed for position among the cars, vans, and trucks that characterized the hour. Together, they provided the resources and victuals the waking world would need two to three hours hence.
Slowing for his first stop, he met Clyde Hawkins tossing the morning paper on Lady Martin’s porch.
“Morning, Potts!” Clyde hollered out, lingering alongside the Milk truck, “‘sup, Dawg?”
“Just heard on the radio the heat index’ll be toppin’ a hunerd today, prob’ly one-ten. I know’d it’d be hot. I wuz sweatin’ heavy when I finished loadin’.”
“It’s that belly o’ yourn!” Clyde cajoled; he loved to mimmick Potts’ broken grammar. “I know all you do’s drink beer when yur off.”
“Yup, but yo Momma’s so fun to drink with!”
“Funny,” Clyde laughed, “See ya round.”
Potts stood and they nodded before Clyde carried on with his paper route.
“Clyde’s a member o’ the brotherhood, too; Out ‘fore dawn, workin’ hard, always smilin’,” he thought, grabbing Lady Martin’s plastic crate, already made up: two half gallons two-percent, one pound butter, one quart buttermilk. She’d call the office if he forgot the buttermilk. It had happened before.
“She’s a nice woman,” he told Mae, after hearing about the phoned-in complaint, “but she’s honery cuz a raisin’ six kids with no man.”
Occasionally, she’d be sitting on the porch swing, smoking a little cigar when he came, saying she couldn’t sleep. She liked sitting outside in the Spring just before sunrise so she could smell the pungent Magnolia blossoms from the two trees that shaded her front yard. Once, she’d even invited Potts to sit on the swing with her, but when he saw how small the hooks were that suspended it from the floor of the upstairs garret, he thought better of it.
“No thanks, Ma’am, but you’re nice t’ offer.”
He gave her a free promo package of the “real good” coffee cakes as he left, but the next day she told him they were too sweet and made her teeth hurt.
“I only got halfn my teeth left, you know.”
“My bad,” he said in apology.
Leaving the Martin place, the truck was sluggish as always at the beginning of the route, fully loaded, sometimes even rocking perilously if he turned a curve too quickly. But as the morning progressed and the load lightened, it became much more responsive. He passed Clifford’s Auto, with its huge sign, WORK CARS! CHEAP, waving at the men loitering about. That was Clifford’s business: selling cars for a few hundred dollars that ran, but were old, rusted, dented up, or just generally looked awful, good only to get to work and back. They appealed to guys light in the wallet or just trying to get a stake together and such men constantly hung about the place, congregating just about the time Potts reached that point.
Having completed the neighborhood portion of the route, he turned toward Ft. Benning. He’d drop a good chunk of his load at the Base Commissary. Supervisor Smith had attached a new route slip to his clip board. The address was between here and the base. A new call-in was the only way his route ever added business. He could increase his commission if he’d knock on a few new doors every morning after finishing at eleven or so. Smith constantly nagged the drivers to make the effort. But Potts tired easily, especially in the heat, so he never did.
In a sparsely populated area he drove through toward the base, he espied the mailbox of the new drop. He turned into the drive, a long one, and was more than a hundred yards back into the trees before he could even see a house. No dogs came running out to trouble him as he stopped a few yards from the porch. He was relieved; He hated dogs. Once, a lady’s Spitz ran out when she opened the door to get her order, grabbed his pant’s leg, and tore it.
“Mae said if she know’d her number, she’d o’ called that lady!” He thought.
After filling the order for milk, cheese, and cottage cheese, he walked to the front door, positioning the plastic crate so when the door was opened, it wouldn’t bump it, but the crate would be in full view. Folks didn’t like it if you blocked their screen door with the crate. As he turned around to leave, the first dark blue haze of the approaching dawn broke in the east in stark contrast to a bright halogen flashlight beam that struck his eyes with such dissonance, it stunned him. He couldn’t see who held it.
“Hold it right there, or I’ll blow your Black ass away!”
Potts froze, terrified. A Red Neck! Did he actually have a gun on him, thinking he was a thief?
“I’m just deliverin’ yur dairy order, Sir.”
“Shut your country-ass trap and move over to that tree,” the man shouted, throwing the light on an enormous nearby Hickory with a three-foot-wide trunk.
As he motioned Potts toward the tree with the flashlight, the man became partially visible. He was White and muscled and looked like Rambo from the movie with his head shaved. Potts was mortified he hadn’t backed off when he said he was from the dairy. Confused, angry at the man’s attitude, he acquiesced when he saw the 12-gauge shotgun.
A large chain had been wrapped tightly around the trunk and secured with a padlock. The Rambo man gave him a hard shove as he neared, painfully bouncing his left knee off the bark as he fell against it.
“Listen, Mister, I just brung yur milk and cheese . . . ”
“I said, shut up!” The man yelled, smashing Potts in the stomach full-force with the butt of the shotgun. The blow was unanticipated, excruciating, doubling him over. Nauseated and momentarily unable to breathe, he offered no further resistance to a second man who appeared with handcuffs, slapping one side on his right wrist and the other through one of the links in the big iron chain. Then, the pair walked off in the direction of a freestanding garage on the opposite side of the house. One of them backed up Potts’ Milk truck, left running while he carried the order to the porch, and parked it in front of the rising garage door.
“Who are you?” A voice from the other side of the tree asked. The trunk of the Hickory was so wide, Potts hadn’t noticed him at first.
“Jus’ a second . . . ” he uttered, still trying to draw a full breath. After filling his lungs again, he leaned as far around the left side of the trunk as the cuffs sanctioned. A White man who looked to be in his fifties was likewise chained to the tree. Tall, spare, greying around the ears, and wearing an Army officer’s uniform, he looked to Potts like the “prominent citizen” type, an educated fellow who could go after anything he wanted in life. The kind of man who’s always confident and self-assured.
“I drives a Milk Truck,” he said to the well-dressed man. “Charlie Washin’ton’s my name, but folks just calls me Potts.” He extended his left hand and shook the right hand of the successful-looking officer. Awkward, but it sufficed.
“Who are you? Why are we chained to this here Hick’ry?”
“Colonel Horace Simmons, U.S. Army Intelligence, Ft. Benning. They grabbed me a block from my home as I left for the base this morning. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I’m wondering if they intend to kill me.”
“Y’ mean y’ think they be gonna kill us? They say that?”
“No, they’ve treated me with indifference since forcing me to drive here and chaining me to this damned tree.”
From his position, Potts could observe a flurry of activity. One of the men had opened the back of the Milk truck as another raised the garage door. His breath caught in his throat when he saw two blindfolded men sitting side-by-side on two chairs inside. Were they Black brothers? He couldn’t tell for sure at this distance; They were dark, but not that dark.
“They could be High-yelluhs,” he thought.
The two were handcuffed together, one’s right wrist cuffed to the other’s left. The Rambo man with the shaved head held a gun on them. As his eyes adjusted to the pre-dawn light, Potts decided they weren’t black. They looked more like Arabs or some other dark nationality.
“They gots ‘em two Arab-lookin’ guys blindfolded in the garage and they’re pointin’ a gun at ‘em,” he told the colonel. With slightly more light, his face looked drawn and deeply creased.
“I can’t move far enough to observe from my position,” Simmons said, “Tell me everything you see. How many of them are there?”
“Looks like two White felluhs, and one of em dud’n have no hair. They’re unloadin’ my truck to the garage and the two Arabs . . . wait! There’s another big, big, White guy sittin’ on a fork lift b’hin’ ever’one.”
“A fork lift?”
“Yeah, got it under a big wood’n crate, jus’ sittin’ there, with it off. Now he’s startin’ it. Y’ hear? I know you can’t see nuthin b’hin’ there.”
“Yes, I hear it.” Simmons was quiet for a moment.
“They’re switching the load, Mr. Washington,” he said, “How big is the crate?”
“Purty big. You can call me, Potts. Don’t think they can get that in my truck. It’s ‘bout two or three feet wide, real tall. Don’t know if it’ll clear the door, but I doubt it. It’s too far to see good.”
“You say the two Arabic men are blindfolded and cuffed together?”
“Yeah.”
“Which one is holding the gun on them?”
“Nobody, now. They’re both unloadin’ product. That big, big man on the fork lift; he’s watchin’ em.”
Simmons mulled over the crew’s actions, groping for a scenario: Three white men, one a Skinhead, one huge, were holding two Arabs hostage in addition to himself and a Milk truck driver. They were standing by with some type of load, ready to substitute it as soon as the truck was unloaded. They were in a hurry. What in hell could be their plan? Even more intriguing, why?
The combined din of an electric drill and a chipping hammer reverberated from inside Potts’ truck, once unloaded. The men were doing something inside. Presently, one of them emerged, carrying a rack detached from the interior wall.
“Colonel, Sir . . . they’re strippin’ my truck, takin’ the racks off’n the inside!”
“That’s how they intend to get that crate to fit.” Simmons said.
Once the racks were stripped, the huge fork lift operator raised the crate into the air. Inching forward very slowly, guided by the other two, he inserted the forward end through the rear door. Potts was amazed that it actually cleared the sides and top, though barely.
“The crate’s goin’ in now, Sir. Looks ‘bout six or eight feet long. They’re being real careful too and movin’ slow.”
“That’s bad, very bad, Potts.”
“Why?”
“I suspect that crate is a bomb. Given their actions, they must plan to have you drive it onto the base using me to get past the Guards. Tell me, do they wave you through in the mornings as they do me, or do they stop and inspect you, look over your load as they’re supposed to?”
“Corporal Jones? He know me like I’m his neighbor. He’ll us’ly wave me on, most days; real nice man, drunk beer with me one afternoon when we run into one nuther at Jud’s. He says ‘Good mornin’ when I go in and he’ll be wavin’ when I leave. Sometimes, I give him a quart o’ buttermilk. He loves cold buttermilk much as my Momma. She says she’ll be drinkin’ it till she drops dead.”
“That’s it. They need me for my vehicle.”
“It’ll be ‘ficial, you bein’ a Colonel and all.”
Simmons had acute instincts, but the two Arabs cuffed together didn’t seem to belong in the same scenario as the Black driver in a familiar Milk truck who knows the black corporal at the gate, a corporal who’s seen the truck come and go hundreds of times, often gets complimentary buttermilk, and wouldn’t smell a rat if it was suspended in front of his nose! They should never have cut back from three guards during the night watch at the gate. But why two Arabs? What was he missing?
“They got the crate in,” Potts announced. “They’re puttin’ my product in front and b’hin’ it, so’s you can’t see no crate.”
“How old are our assailants?”
“Our whats?”
“The White men?”
“The one with no hair’s ‘bout twenty-somethin’, maybe thirty-somethin.’ The other two are ‘bout like him, I ‘spect. One’s comin’ towards us and the big man from the fork lift is with ‘im. Maybe he be a wres’ler.”
“He’s the one who grabbed me. Don’t say anything to them, Potts. Just play ignorant . . . and keep quiet.”
“You da man. One’s bringin’ that gun. You thinkin’ he’s gonna shoot us? My Mae’d be real unhappy if’n I don’t come home and I’m real scared ‘bout now.”
“They won’t kill you now, but they may kill me. Don’t say anything else.”
The two walked up, the one with no hair holding the key to the handcuffs. He unlocked Simmons from the tree and walked him to the garage while the huge man Simmons recognized as an American Indian pressed a gun against the back of his head with one hand, holding the other tightly against his forehead. It was quite painful.
“Potts was correct to call him huge. This guy’s a goddamn behemoth.” He thought.
They directed him to a third chair beside the other two hostages and cuffed him to the arm.
“They’re Middle Eastern,” he thought, seeing them closely. The men were docile. Neither attempted to glance in his direction or speak to him. Their facial expressions reflected dread. Somehow, they didn’t seem to go with the house. Had they also been kidnaped elsewhere and brought here? Did the crew own the place? The crew said nothing while proximal to him, so Simmons remained silent, remembering what happened to Potts when he spoke without being asked.
One of the crew who had gone into the house reemerged toting a suitcase. He was the one Potts had identified as a Skinhead, though Potts hadn’t used that pejorative. Simmons recoiled when he saw Skinhead was tracking blood with his shoes! The ghoulish footprints on the concrete made him reel with apprehension. Who’s blood had Skinhead walked through? Was the house an abattoir, with him about to be next? Skinhead was tall and wiry, obviously lifted weights, and had an ex-military aspect about him. Except for his shaved head, he could pass for Rambo, down to the red kerchief tied around his forehead. Placing the suitcase on the ground, he opened it. Simmons saw three identical items, consisting of a packed tube not unlike a severed bicycle inner tube with one end plugged, the other connected to a small electronic device. The tubes appeared to be about three feet long as Skinhead unwound them.
“This is a professional operation.” he thought. “No doubt.” So who were these assailants and what organization, if any, did they represent?
“Stand up, Assholes!” Skinhead half-shouted to the two Arab hostages, jerking on the cuffs binding them together.
They arose quickly, one of them shaking involuntarily from fear, the other almost falling back over his chair as Skinhead jerked the cuffs repeatedly, a stalwart ruffian. Simmons noticed swelling on their wrists, but in spite of the tightness of the cuffs, there was no bruising.
“They haven’t had them on that long,” he thought. “This crew is well organized, every detail planned in advance, no wasted time, and their plan seems to be progressing without a hitch so far.”
Skinhead jerked the men’s shirttails out. The more frightened of the two whimpered audibly. Did he fear he was about to be gutted, Simmons wondered? The blindfolds had the effect of intensifying their alarm.
“Hold up your shirts. I’m wrapping something around your waist. Do it!”
Each grabbed his shirt with his free hand, holding it high. The features he could discern from the exposed portion of their faces and the pallor of their skin were definitely Middle Eastern.
Skinhead wrapped one of the tubes around each of their waists, affixing a clamp at the proper position to hold each snugly. The small three-inch-square switch looked more like a belt buckle than anything else once it was on. Then his heart skipped a beat.
“Those are explosive belts!” he realized. The switch was a detonation switch. “Shit! If they blow, they’ll cleave these men in two!”
The dark-haired crew member intimidating them by alternately pressing the gun against the back of one’s head, then the other, had a tattoo on his gun arm, his left. “A Lefty,” Simmons noted. The tatoo combined a gothic head with a pair of jeweled, crossed swords, the word Death tattooed vertically to the right of the head. The whole was three inches square and positioned two inches or so below the elbow.
Skinhead nodded to Lefty, backing away and pulling a Luger from the small of his back. He appeared to be the crew’s leader. Lefty removed the blindfolds. Seeing one gun in front and another behind, the Arabs stood motionless, waiting for a command before daring to move.
“Raise your shirts and look at your waists,” Skinhead told them. They complied, turning almost as white as Simmons when they saw their situation.
“Relax! If you do as you’re told, you’ll be fucking your wives tonight. Get clever and they’ll be trying to stick the two halves of your bodies back together. Tuck your shirts in and comb your hair.”
He stuck a comb between the teeth of one of the men to hold. It took the two a moment to work out effective maneuvers with one hand cuffed. Then one relaxed his wrist, letting it follow the other’s hand movements until his partner’s shirt was neatly in and his hair combed, then tucked in his own, while the other relaxed his hand. It might have been comical to watch under different circumstances, but not now. Hell, Simmons was thinking, he could have a bullet in the back of his head at any moment. The fact they held him in reserve at the Hickory instead of taking him inside to suffer the fate of whoever’s blood Skinhead was tracking around the garage suggested they had a role for him. Precisely what, he wasn’t certain, but it would in some way facilitate their entry onto Ft. Benning.
The crew left Potts chained to the tree as the giant Indian pulled Simmons’s car alongside the Milk Truck. He shut off the engine and removed the key. His black hair pulled into a pony tail at the back made him look like a drug dealer, though he surmised this man was something else. Huge, his hard face pitted from wanton pimple-popping during adolescence, he reminded Simmons of a painting he’d seen of a fierce Indian Chief. He looked like Geronimo, or one of the other hostiles that gave the U.S. Army fits during the westward expansion. This “Chief” probably held a grudge as big as Geronimo’s toward the U.S. Army. What must he think of a colonel, a figurehead that symbolized Wounded Knee, an embodiment of all he most hated about the White man? His spine tingled as he considered the possibility of a one-on-one encounter with Custer’s fate, especially when he saw the knife in the Chief’s belt sheath. The handle was a section of polished deer antler six or seven inches in length, with a blade half again as long, and probably sharp enough to cut his throat like butter if that mighty arm took a swipe. Was that what happened to whoever was inside the house, whose blood Skinhead traipsed through before tracking up the garage? He cringed at the thought.
The Chief opened the rear doors of the car, walked to the Arabs, grabbed the cuffs with his big hand, and half-walked, half-dragged them. They followed like frightened sheep.
“Inside,” the Chief grunted, his voice as deep and harsh as the lines on his face. Simmons suspected the men would have run into the seat if they could. The Chief–-the terror he inspired–had them totally under control.
“Stand up!” Skinhead said to Simmons, removing the cuff from the chair. He rose, knowing the routine and pulled his own shirt out, holding it high. Skinhead seemed pleased by the gesture.
“You’ll be cut loose this afternoon if you keep your nose clean, Colonel. We’re not after you. You’re just a cog in a big wheel. Sorry for the belt, but we know we can trust you with it on.”
Simmons became stoic as the explosive belt was affixed around his waist, but as soon as he heard the buckle trigger snap shut, an irresistible sick feeling welled up in the bottom of his stomach, growing stronger as he pondered what the plan must be. Every man has something he most fears having to confront, something that induces mortal terror in his soul. It could fear of drowning, the thought of having a tube shoved up his nose and down into his stomach. For another, the prospect of burning to death. For him, an explosive collar definitely headed the list of horrors. When Skinhead flipped the switch on the device and a tiny, green LED began to flash, Simmons’ courageous stoicism vanished and a preoccupying terror set in. He tucked in his shirt.
After closing the free cuff over his other wrist, the Chief took him by the arm. Simmons walked briskly to the car of his own accord. Still, the Chief pushed him roughly into the driver’s side and closed the door. Lefty appeared with Potts, leading him back to the Milk Truck. He shouted at Potts to sit in the driver’s seat before he walked around to the passenger side still waving his Luger. A brief glimpse of Potts’ face revealed relief that he hadn’t been taken behind the garage and shot. It was also devoid of any plans for heroism. He was along for the ride, whatever it was.
Skinhead sat beside Simmons and inserted the key into the ignition. He held a switch in one hand and his Luger in the other. After pouring gasoline along the walls, the Chief flipped off the garage light, pulled down the door, and unwound a coil of fuse. After lighting it, he climbed into an innocuous Caprice, starting it. He left the passenger door open.
From the time they first pulled the gun on Potts until the three vehicles were ready to leave was less than thirty minutes.
“Damn, they’re good!” Simmons thought. The cognition left him even more nauseated.
“Here’s the plan, Boys,” Skinhead explained to the Arabs, “The colonel here will drive ahead of the Milk truck with you in the back seat. He’ll drive very slowly with the dome light on as you pass the Gate, so the guard can see you clearly. When you stop, Colonel, you’ll tell the guard these fellows are on official business from Afghanistan.”
“So that’s what they are, Afghans.” Simmons knew he would need to remember accurately every detail if he managed to survive.
“Okay,” he said to Skinhead, “Then what?”
“You’ll drive to the Officer’s Residential area and park next to the playground. I’ll be inside the Milk truck behind the Driver. If you fail to follow my instructions, they’ll be stuffing the upper and lower halves of your bodies into plastic bags, because I’ll push this DETONATE button. That’s all it takes. You two face the guard and smile as he waves at the Colonel. I’d better see your heads turned, looking at him too, or I push. Got it?”
Three nods indicated they all did. Skinhead removed the cuffs from the Afghans and from Simmons.
“When the truck starts, lead the way to the base, Colonel. Turn off anywhere along the way and they’ll find six body halves in a burned-out military vehicle. It won’t be pleasant.”
Simmons knew he wasn’t kidding. If the operation wasn’t a success, there would be no one left alive to report its failure. His mind raced as he tried to suppress the overwhelming nausea. He felt about to throw up. Throughout his career, he’d been in dangerous situations, but always in command, in control. From the moment of his kidnapping this morning, he’d witnessed tactics he taught others how to respond to. Now, all of his experience seemed like just so much bullshit. When you found yourself in a situation where your dignity, your control, and your self-will have been taken from you, all the pretentious theories and training go out the window. Your body and emotions refuse to cooperate. You feel weak, helpless, not like the powerful man you believed you were. The instant the green LED on his explosive collar began to flash, a sense of doom grew exponentially. It was difficult to be circumspect. Not knowing his captors made it more maddening.
Potts had cranked up his Milk truck, so Simmons turned the ignition and the caravan moved slowly onto the street, Simmons leading, Potts following, with the Chief and Lefty hanging half a block back in the Chevy.
“I’ll be back here with the load.” Skinhead advised Potts. “You do anything weird or let on anything’s unusual and I’ll splatter your brains all over the guard’s face. You got that?”
“Yes, Sir, no probl’m, Sir. I’ll be actin like nothin’s wrong at all.”
“Basturds,” he thought. “I’d be pushin’ his ‘lectric drill into his forehead if’n I could, for sure.”
Corporal Jones saw the Colonel approaching, with Potts right behind. He saluted Simmons as he stopped, lowering the window.
“I’ve got a couple of officials from Afghanistan with me and I’m in a hurry, Corporal,” he said, with an authoritative smile.
“Go right ahead, Sir!” Jones said. He’d waved him on hundreds of times, with and without guests. He peered into the back as the colonel passed and saw two smiling faces.
“Gee, those guys are really friendly,” he muttered . . . “must be an Afghan thing.”
He had little time to reflect upon their nationality as Potts came rolling up. Potts had a big smile too, even bigger than most mornings.
“Everyone’s so happy this morning. It’ll be light soon. Got anything cold for me, Potts?”
Potts nodded, still grinning, stopped the truck and stepped into the back.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Skinhead demanded in a whispered voice, very upset.
Potts raised a quart of buttermilk from one of the cases left in the front of the truck to hide the big crate, holding it up for him to see.
“An ever’day thing,” he whispered, stepping back out.
Skinhead held his Luger at the ready as Corporal Jones stepped up to the door of the truck to take the carton from Potts.
“This is well-chilled. Thanks, Potts.”
“Anythin’ for a Brother,” he answered, letting the clutch out slowly. As the truck began moving forward, the corporal stepped back and took a heavy draw on the carton.
“This is good, Potts!” He called out, failing to notice the Chief and Lefty in a car that had quietly advanced and now stood only a few hundred yards away, headlights off. They had eased up while he was preoccupied with the Colonel and Potts, weapons in their laps in the event anything went wrong.
Simmons parked next to the playground as instructed, hoping someone would see the vehicles and take note of their movements, but there wasn’t a single light on that he could see. The truck parked, Skinhead directed Potts into the back. Watching, Simmons wondered what he intended to do to him. As soon as Skinhead was out of sight, he jerked the left tail of his shirt out of his belt and examined the detonator. He turned it in his hand repeatedly flipping the switch off, but the LED remained lit!
“It’s a one-way trip switch and can’t be turned off. So much for being set free later if I ‘keep my nose clean!’”
Trying desperately to disconnect it so he could strangle that zealot with his own explosive collar, he was unable to dislodge it after several desperate, fruitless jerks. He saw Skinhead approaching and quickly stuffed the tail back in, trying not to move his torso. The Milk Truck’s engine and lights were off. Potts wasn’t with him.
“Get this thing moving! Drive back out the gate without slowing or stopping!”
Skinhead now held two trigger switches. The new one looked much more sophisticated. He entered a five-digit code and pressed a small, red button, holding it down for a few seconds. After a yellow LED began flashing intermittently, he put it into his shirt pocket.
“Move it!”
Alarmed at the concern on Skinhead’s face and sensing imminent danger, Simmons drove faster than normal, slowing only when he noticed an MP Jeep turning from the side street ahead. They saluted as he passed, but this time, he didn’t smile or return the salute. Looking nervously in the rear-view mirror, Skinhead hadn’t noticed. The MP’s slowed and came to a halt, then turned around.
“Damn,” Simmons thought, “Can’t we get a single break? Now they won’t notice Potts’ truck. This operation is going down, whatever it is.”
After driving back out the gate, returning the salute of a puzzled Corporal Jones who only moments before had waved him on, Skinhead directed him to continue straight ahead.
“Why didn’t they leave the Afghans? I don’t get it. What’s their purpose?”
They passed Lefty and the Chief around a curve. Skinhead ordered him to stop and Simmons pulled to the side of the road. The sky was beginning to brighten. Skinhead lowered the window, then stepped out of the car and closed the door.
“Keep your headlights on and drive straight ahead. We’ll follow and blink our lights when we want you to pull over so I can remove the belts.”
“Why not remove them now?” Simmons pressed.
“Come on, Colonel, you know better than that. After we’ve reached a safe distance and you don’t have time to return to the base, then I take my belts back.”
Walking away, he rejoined his confederates as the Chief stepped out, opening the door for him. Skinhead was the boss all right. Simmons sped away, driving the speed limit. But his mind now turned exclusively to understanding the plot and how to disengage the explosive devices.
“Who are you fellows?” He asked, glancing back at the two Afghans and for the first time free to speak to them.
“Ahmed Abdelal,” the older one answered, reaching forward to shake his hand, “this is my brother-in-law, Caliph.” Simmons discerned Caliph as the fearful, effeminate one that seemed most afraid of the crew.
“You’re from Afghanistan?”
“No. We’re both Iranians.”
“Interesting; why did the crew want the Sentry to think you were Afghans.”
“We don’t know. My wife Dinah and I live at the Skyline Motel. We operate it. Caliph and her younger sister were married recently. They moved in with us after their honeymoon until they could find a place of their own.”
“How did you become involved in this thing?”
“Those three somehow got into the motel office about four this morning and burst into our apartment. Two of them had guns and the really enormous Indian man had that big knife. They gagged us. We couldn’t yell out. Then he tied us to chairs in the bedroom and made us watch while the other two raped our wives. Then, they made our poor wives suck them till they were hard again and switched, each raping the other one. It was horrible.”
“After the big Indian tied my hands behind the chair back,” Caliph said, looking down as though ashamed, “he pulled out his thing and told me to suck it. I just couldn’t, so he started slapping me each time I refused. Finally, he got really mad, untied me and threw me down on the floor, pulled my pants down and raped me from behind, while the other two were raping our wives the second time.” Simmons’ heart went out to him.
“He said, I reminded him of the ‘wife’ he ‘had in the joint’.” Caliph looked pitiful.
“They kept saying they would slit our throats if anyone resisted.” Ahmed said. “After they finished with our wives, they took off all of our gags and told them Caliph and I had to go with them for a few hours, that if they called anyone or did anything foolish, they would kill us, then kill them. We all believed they would, so we agreed to cooperate.”
“I’m sorry about the rapes, fellows. I can’t imagine anything more degrading or humiliating, especially to newlyweds. These men are deviants. So . . . they kidnapped you. Had you ever seen them before?”
“Yes, they checked into the motel late last evening and rented two rooms.”
“After the rapes, they drove you to that house?”
“Yes, to that house. It isn’t their house. They just kept us inside until you showed up and the Milk Truck came for delivery.”
“How do you know it’s not their house?”
“Because when we first arrived, they took us inside. There’s a dead man about seventy or eighty years old on the kitchen floor. His head was lying a foot from his body. They said if we failed to cooperate, that’s what would happen to us. We assume that big Indian did it. He’s completely mad. We’re terrified of him.”
“Yet he seems to venerate the Skinhead.” Simmons observed.
“Do you think they intend to let us go?” Caliph asked.
“Not a chance, guys! Sorry. They just don’t want our bodies found close to the base. They probably don’t want them found at all. I’m certain the Milk truck is set to blow. I don’t know what they put in there, but it’s very large. I just hope to God it’s not a nuclear device. It’s large enough.”
“What about the Black man?”
“They either killed him, or bound and gagged him and left him there. Either way, I doubt he’ll be in one piece much longer.”
“If you don’t think they’ll free us, what should we do?” Ahmed asked after they had driven a while. “We can’t get these things off of our waists. Are we just going to die. Is there nothing we can do?”
“I have a plan. These detonators probably won’t respond to a signal if they’re underwater. There’s a pond on the right about a mile from here. When we reach that point, I’m running this car off the road and into the water. Be ready to jump out as soon as the car reaches the edge and get those belts under the water fast! It’s our only chance. If they set off the plastic, we’re history and so is my vehicle. The authorities might even think we set the bomb on the base and were killed by some carelessness of our own while trying to escape. I don’t want anyone thinking I blew up my own base and then myself. The planning for their mission is so precise, if we die, there won’t be a single clue about what happened here, no corpus delicti”
“I can’t swim.” Caliph confessed.
“Then jump just as we reach the water’s edge. The sides slope toward the middle, so it won’t be deep enough to drown. Just get that belt detonator underwater quickly!”
Skinhead and his confederates were now gaining on Simmons, suggesting that they were about to pull them over and re-cuff them. Simmons could see the plan: They would drive them to a remote location. Once there, the Chief would cut their throats just as he had cut off the head of the old man lying in his own blood on the kitchen floor of the farm house. He had no regard for life, only for their cause, whatever that was. He sped up, his hands trembling as they began blinking their lights and drawing near, signaling for him to stop. The pond was still a quarter-mile ahead. In desperation, he floored the accelerator. Ahmed and Caliph began muttering in their native language. He knew it was no paean they were chanting; they were praying for their lives! He wished he had someone to pray to. He hadn’t darkened a church door in twenty-five years. He wasn’t even certain being underwater would short out the devices or that if the electronic trigger became wet, it wouldn’t short the other way and detonate. He did know Skinhead might push the button any second, though, and he knew that if he were someone else, he wouldn’t bet a wood nickel on their lives. He saw the pond coming up and tried to assess the degree of force required to break through the chain-link fence and still reach the edge, so nauseated from facing virtually certain death, he couldn’t perform the necessary mental calculations. A bazodee fog eclipsed his thoughts. He was losing it. Deciding nothing really mattered but getting under that water, he stomped the pedal to the floor and veered hard to the right, lurching off the asphalt and careening down the slope. He hoped the element of surprise would cause Skinhead to delay pressing the button. If he thought it was an accident and happening so quickly, he might not realize the connection between the water and the devices. There was too much traffic now for the crew to hang around.
“Whoa, what’s happening with their car?” Lefty shouted, as Simmons’s vehicle lurched off the road bank, down slope through the fence, and skidded sideways.
“Damn, they’ve had a blowout; They’re going to roll!” The Chief exclaimed.
Skinhead hesitated, momentarily distracted. If he detonated now, it might draw unnecessary attention. They could end up drowning anyway.
“Yep, they’re rolling!” Lefty shouted.
Simmons’ bumper snagged one of the fence poles and combined with the muddy ground in the depression, caused the car to flip onto its side. It slid into the water at high speed, coming to an abrupt halt about twenty feet or so in, where the resistance of the displaced water overcame the momentum. It fell over onto its top upside down and disappeared from sight . . .
“Shit, they’re drowning! Let’s just get the hell out of here!” Lefty shouted again. Bypassing cars were pulling off the road from both directions to render assistance.
“Wait!” Skinhead said, “The belts! We have to blow them. If one of them were to survive, they’d give up our cover. We can’t allow the belts to be found intact.”
He pressed the “DETONATE” button.
The explosion threw glass, metal, mud, and water in all directions, including body fragments. The trio rushed away without looking back to increase their distance.
“That explosion wasn’t as powerful as it should have been.” Skinhead said. “One or two of the collars didn’t blow. They must have gotten wet.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just one was more than sufficient to tear them up,” the Chief exclaimed.“Keep moving. We have two minutes, thirteen seconds.”
A couple of miles farther, they heard the Milk Truck detonate in a horrific blast, throwing an enormous cloud of smoke, dust, and debris high into the sky.
“Damn, what a spectacle!” Lefty shouted.
They pulled to the side of the road, jumped from the car and watched as the cloud began to spread downwind, carrying death with it.
“That Milk Truck driver’s blown to bits!” Lefty laughed aloud.
“You’re a racist son-of-a-bitch, you know that?” The Chief scorned.“This wasn’t about him.”
“No, but it was still a helluva ride to the other side!”

CHAPTER TWO

Laser Net

“May your generation see wonders undreamed”
-Carl Sagan

Bacteria and viruses used to be undetectable by airport security equipment. The realization that the country was so vulnerable to bio terrorism fostered a frenzy to develop scanning technology capable of detecting viruses. Eventually, research led to the development of a device with disarming capability. The military ordered two-hundred test units which could, purportedly at least, scan for viruses and bacteria effectively. Initially “hit and miss,” it was rapidly perfected to the point of macabre power.
In case you don’t know, viruses are bits of genetic material with an encapsulating veneer. I still remember the day CNN reported that the technology had been further developed and could now read DNA (which is composed of intertwining strands of genetic material). The reason I say “macabre” power is that detecting viruses is one thing. Scanning the DNA of people is quite another and introduces a sheaf of legal and ethics issues. Scan me for viruses if you wish, but scanning my DNA is no different than peering inside my shorts!
Of course, officials in Homeland Security were ecstatic. They announced the intention to use the scanners in the War on Terrorism. Within months, working with a Washington think-tank, they developed the concept of Laser Net.
Laser Net was proposed as a multi billion-dollar network in which thousands of scanners would be strung together in a single system. Just where all of these computer-linked, DNA-scanning units would be installed was left vague. Later, it came out that they could be innocuously installed in traffic lights, behind highway signage, in subways, airports, bus and train stations. As if this wasn’t alarming enough, they could also be hidden inside ATM machines and supermarket checkout scanners, among other highly personal locations.
The DNA of an individual standing in front of a hidden scanner, walking or riding — even driving–past could be read instantly.
This didn’t all happen in a vacuum. From the beginning, the concept of Laser Net divided the nation, fomenting vicious debates about freedom and the right to privacy versus the power and efficiency it would deliver to law-enforcement.
“Laser Net will be the hidden sleuth in the War on Drugs and the War on Terrorism.” So the line went.
Some people still don’t understand how Laser Net works. You’re scanned when you pass an array. The array’s computer continuously up-links information to special Laser Net satellites. The information includes the GPS coordinates of the particular scanner and your DNA signature. The satellite then checks your DNA signature against the Laser Net Database, and if you’re listed as “wanted” in the system, it beams the GPS coordinates back down to the nearest law enforcement vehicle, which now have special Laser Net dishes embedded in the roof. Without warning, the “target” (you) is stopped and arrested, often within minutes. Look at my diagram and you can see why. This was the intended use of the system all along, but before Congress authorized the funds to build Laser Net and place the supporting satellites in orbit, what we heard were carefully staged reports emphasizing “benevolent” capabilities. How crimes could be prevented, criminals foiled, school children and persons with medical conditions monitored or located when they passed the nearest scanner. As I recall, new propaganda spouting humanitarian uses of Laser Net appeared almost weekly for months.

INSERT FIGURE OF LASER NET SYSTEM HERE

Once built, a huge obstacle still remained: For the system to function, its data banks required the DNA signature of a criminal or suspect to be on file. They’d already been force-sampling the DNA of criminals for years, solving dozens of high-visibility crimes, some decades old. How can anyone fail to be inspired when a condemned man goes free because of DNA technology? But that doesn’t imply that we’re ready for a universal system that requires everyone to submit a DNA sample. Hence, the vicious debates.
Knowing that a majority of citizens would give Washington the finger if asked to register their DNA, Homeland Security initially established a voluntary registration program. It fell flat on its face. The public didn’t register. It was no different than asking young men to register for the Draft if failure to register wasn’t a crime. That’s when legislation was introduced to make universal registration compulsory: The National DNA Registration Act (NADNARA). The Libertarian and Independent parties fought against it tooth and nail.
NADNARA passed after intense congressional debate. The Founding Fathers would have turned over in their graves if they knew where America was heading. In 1776, they would have censored any statesman who dared propose Police-state monitoring of citizens. They’d have ridden him out of the Continental Congress on a rail! When Congress passed NADNARA, it remained to be seen whether the public would comply with the law.
“Only criminals and anarchists have reason to oppose this legislation,” advocates of NADNARA argued.
Many among the sixty million adults who voluntarily or by schemes provided DNA samples for NADNARA came to regret it. Scanner density crossed the pivotal threshold and the cities had a bonanza. They uploaded millions of infractions, from unpaid parking tickets to bad checks to the data banks. To be fair, they did so only after offering a brief amnesty during which citizens could pay up. I doubt most people took NADNARA seriously in the beginning, but they were unnerved when tens of thousands of roadside arrests ensued. Many city politicians had reversed themselves after the Photo Cop craze in the nineties. They faced certain defeat at the polls because citizens viewed Photo Cop as predatory, but the political economy was still recovering from the Great Deflation that began long ago under George W. Bush. When NADNARA arrived, state and City budgets desperately needed revenue. They argued correctly that money collected from unpaid tickets and the associated fines, “Which after all is owed,” could make up much of the deficits, improve funding of education, you name it. And it worked, generating millions in every state before the end of the first year. That was with less than half of the adult population registered.
Like all systems implemented with insufficient (or sinister) forethought, NADNARA had quirks. As the number of scanners multiplied, the freeways and streets took on a littered aspect due to vehicles standing on the roadside when their owners were arrested. Their weren't enough Tow trucks, not at first, which meant they sat on the side of the road or on the curb of the street until they could be pulled to the storage lot. If you were lucky enough to satisfy the pecuniary obligation before it was hauled in, you could prevent a gouging haul and lot fee. But the Tow Truck business skyrocketed and that lag time shrank. While the politicians were justifying the abuse by pointing out that the money was “owed,” they avoided the fact that those arrested on the simplest of infractions also had to pay the predatory Tow Truck for hauling their vehicle to a storage lot, then pay the lot an exorbitant storage fee after they were bailed out or paid their fines. I once counted twenty-three tow trucks parked along a one hundred mile stretch of freeway! If that’s not proof of a Gestapo or KGB-infested society, I don’t know what is! You pay for your groceries and then get arrested in front of the supermarket? Almost every mall and shopping center of any size had sheriff or patrol cars waiting on the lot there were so many arrests made. The poor, those on welfare, unemployed, or limited to Social Security often couldn’t afford the “enhanced” fines or high bail. They just sat in jail until their hearing or trial. Ambulance-chasing lawyers multiplied like mosquitoes. As the backlog exploded, habeas corpus went out the window. There were hundreds of alarming stories, such as a single mother arrested by the side of the road for not reporting the $25 in cash she earned cleaning a woman’s home one day each week, or the elderly lady who was stopped, arrested, and fined for failure to pay a parking ticket she claimed she never knew she got. That wasn’t the worst part. She didn’t have the money to get her car out of hock and an investigative reporter learned that it was subsequently auctioned off–to the brother of the lot owner–for a third of its wholesale value! These aren't isolated examples by any stretch. Those who had the least were preyed upon the most. It began to seem as though everyone in America could be found guilty of something if you looked hard enough and NADNARA became a symbol of government’s seeming determination to arrest them all. America was becoming another NAZI Germany, less the ovens and gas chambers.
Public ire spiraled. They had no power to do anything except refuse to summit to DNA sampling, but a watershed of resistance was rising in the form of retribution at the voting booth. Homeland Security was the motive force for institutionalizing NADNARA, using 9/11 much as the glass slipper in Cinderella. One breach of the Bill of Rights after another was justified with that Patsy phrase, “The Post-9/11 World.” They didn’t fool me for a second!
I was as outraged as everyone else when the compulsory NADNARA legislation passed with bipartisan support. From that point, Republicans and Democrats were referred to collectively as Bipartisans.
Less than half of the adult public registered. It was analogous to public refusal to cooperate with the Census, but more general. You can’t arrest everyone in the country! I sure as hell didn’t show up to register my DNA! They got most of the kids through compulsory school programs.
“You won’t let us sample Johnny or Suzie’s blood? Then Johnny and Suzie can’t attend school! DNA sampling is on the list of required ‘immunizations.’”
Many of the poor had no choice but to succumb to registration of their children, because they couldn't afford a private school, and the Third Millennium Institute was centered in the poorest countries and had its free, high-quality schools established in only a few of the poorest areas of the U.S. as the exodus to private schools increased. The aristocrats in Washington failed to grasp that NADNARA adumbrated national rebellion. They thought the resentment would pass.
“It doesn’t surprise me. Anyone who protests oppressive regulations is given a defamatory label. It’s no different than NADNARA protesters being called pro-crime. How many have been arrested now nationwide?”
“Thousands. It’s a fight for survival of our freedoms on all fronts, but much of the public is so apathetic, the press can lead them around by the nose.” This was a familiar exchange between human rights advocates.

It teaches the strong to know when they are weak and the brave to face
themselves when they are afraid. - General Douglas MacArthur

That’s why I formed the Muskets. Amid the outrage over these accumulating affronts to the constitution, founding the Muskets seemed the patriotic thing to do, so I did.
Originally, just myself, Carl, Christof, Kicks Iron, and Tiffany were members. The objective was covert: to smash NADNARA arrays at night. Without the arrays, the system couldn’t function.
Within a month our numbers grew to twelve other friends, but we kept the leadership limited to four. In a country where the FBI goes to great lengths to infiltrate “militias,” we could rely upon each other to watch the other’s backs. Any group that threatens to defend the Bill of Rights with violence is a militia as far as the Feds are concerned. Militias threaten government’s “Power of the Gun” to keep the citizen sheep within the fold where they can be easily sheared. Smashing NADNARA arrays was definitely violent, but we believed in what we were doing. That made the Muskets a Militia by definition. There are no awards handed out to such Americans. Instead, they’re likely to become the subject of corrupt publicity and black ops. I remembered Waco all too well.
NADNARA finally goaded the public into a collective rage: Demonstrations, sit-ins, flag burnings. The most portentous result was burgeoning Libertarian and Independent Party candidates who conducted old-fashioned, Town Hall political rallies in almost every city and town in America. These gave the public a means of venting their anger and vividly proved by the sheer numbers of those in attendance the enormity of the movement. The media actually seemed to be on the public’s side for once, switching from their initial spoon-feeding of NADNARA and Laser Net propaganda. I suspect many of them had experienced the consequences themselves. They began glorifying the Town Hall “Movement.” Before NADNARA, politicians had difficulty gathering enough interested people to make a Town Hall meeting seem authentic. There was a huge upset of the Republican and Democratic politicians at the local level, the one closest to the people. These vicissitudes caught City, County, and State governments by surprise. Libertarian and Independent candidates found themselves in the majority. At the national level, more than half the Republican and Democratic seats in the House of Representatives were lost, mostly to Independent candidates and for the first time in history, the House Majority Leader wasn’t a Bipartisan. Dr. McKay was an Independent, an engineer by profession. Not given to the supercilious air of so many politicians, he seems, to me at least, a man who had long sought–perhaps from his first cognition–to expunge from his soul any pretense or suspicion that he might in some scant or even capacious way, as Tiffany put it, be greatly superior to those about him. His oratory during the campaign rarely bordered on condescension and he employed regional or social colloquialisms as he moved energetically from one location and group to another during his campaign. Not exceptionally tall and notwithstanding a receding hairline of thinning brown hair and a noticeable bald spot, he was invariably well groomed, well dressed, and well versed in his subject. He thus struck an excellent figure as a successful Engineer. Nevertheless, I maintain that, though keenly aware of every pretentious ritual of etiquette to which the petty of the earth are slavishly devoted, he himself harbors no such tendencies. Whatever diminutions might have been attached to him early on, his actions since have silenced all but the most bitter. If not for the sweeping programs he advocated which made him appear too iconoclastic to wield any real power, he never would have been made Majority Leader. His position was a compromise, because both Republicans and Democrats knew his outlandish visions of the future could never attract any significant support.

The Senate remained largely Bipartisan, but I’ve no doubt seeing their colleagues in the House fall like Humpty Dumpty scared the hell out of them.
Caring about other people is dangerous. They can manipulate you into bedeviling situations you’d never get into left to your own devices. There’s a group mentality that develops, what some call the Mob mentality, that seizes you as if oozing in from the Outer Limits. Appearing benign, it can change its attributes within an instant. Perhaps you’ve had some experience with this yourself.
I’ve been systematically demeaned in the press for not being listed as the Founder on the Musket Brigade's website ans discussing my personal beliefs or motivations. I had a good reason: I wanted the movement to be national, not identified with a figurehead. It would carry more political weight. Well, in this account I’m revealing both. The event in my life that awoke me and generated my hostility toward the Federal government was when they burned one of my cousins and her two children to death during the assault by the ATF and the FBI on the Branch-Davidian Church in Waco. I didn’t share their ideology or their theology. If it matters to you, I told her more than once that I considered both her religion and that kook, David Koresh, nuts. But to kill them, even the women and children, because they were weird, paranoid, and stock-piled weapons? It is a right and they never broke any laws by amassing an arsenal. The ATF never had a legitimate excuse to be there. Government liberals still make political hay recounting a few isolated church bombings in the south during the ‘60’s. But to the same people, murdering innocent church members, even women and little kids, in a Fed-ignited inferno doesn’t matter. You’d think they thought it was a good thing and in a nation espousing freedom of religion? Afterward, it was as if someone had pulled down a shade. No one seemed to give a damn! I guess it was just too horrible, too unthinkable that the government was capable of an atrocity so evil for most Americans to deal with. Try yourself to engage someone in a conversation about it. Waco opened my eyes and proved Herbert Spencer’s assertion: “In proportion as men delight in battles, bull-fights, and combats of gladiators, will they punish by hanging, burning, and the rack.”
My ire prior to NADNARA was public disinterest in the true nature of national and international issues and events. Rushing for the next DVD or Harry Potter book, unmotivated even to learn to read well, most are too apathetic even to vote—until NADNARA peeked under their sheets. The average Joe has only parochial political savvy. The government can menace sovereign nations like a bully or intimidate, even exterminate, selected groups of its own citizens at home, and Joe acts as the Germans did while the Third Reich slowly tightened the noose around the necks of the Jews. Joe simply pretends nothing’s happening and ignores the most blatant evidence that it is! If he doesn’t see it on the Evening News, Joe pays no attention. If it is on the Evening News, Joe buys into whatever line the anchor has been instructed to spout. Joe would dispute that networks are censored by the PACs who own them. Yeah, right, Joe! Like NBC was going to report the truth during the Gulf War when it’s owned by Westinghouse, the giant defense contractor? C’mon Joe! Duh! In the days prior to 7/29, the press was just another ne’er-do-well Washington agency. But Joe didn’t even fly anymore, preferring the open road to the intimidation, suspicion, and humiliation of air travel. Oh well, just one more major industry down the toilet. Joe rarely has such thoughts. “Political stuff” turns Joe off unless it impinges on his own prejudices.
Joe cheered though when George W. instructed the U.S. Solicitor General to inform the Supreme Court that the position of the government was that the Second Amendment guaranteed the right of citizens to own and carry guns whether or not they were members of a militia or in the armed forces, and I was with him. Joe believes Gun-haters are pathetic and naive.
“Do they really think men as intelligent as the Founding Fathers thought an amendment to the Constitution was necessary for the armed forces to have weapons?” He asks the Do-Gooders. “They argue this nonsense with a straight face . . . as though American troops would otherwise be limited to spitting at the enemy! The Second Amendment ensured citizens at large would never be deprived of weapons, but this terrifies the power elites in Washington who fear armed citizens, especially after the passage of NADNARA. They remember the French Revolution.”
And Joe is absolutely correct that politicians fear disgruntled citizens, but not in the way Joe thinks. They don’t fear Joe’s bullets, not unless they’re the President, because they know Joe lacks the depth to entertain such violence. What they do fear is Joe’s vote! They fear the loss of power and their guaranteed income if too many Joes become convinced what they’re doing to “We, the people . . . “ is wrong. That’s what happened when NADNARA passed.
But not everyone is a Joe. Christof shaved his head, I decided to form the Muskets, and Kicks Iron wanted to kill someone. We weren’t alone. People nationwide were fuming, making hostile statements. From the country Barber Shop that still retains nuances of a Norman Rockwell painting to the marbled halls and glassed horizons of corporate centers of avarice, the repudiations varied but little. Americans across the board were fed up. NADNARA was considered the “Last Straw.”
I regained my respect for the public’s commitment to the constitution. I had a busy life too, and you can believe I had days when I felt tired, overwhelmed, when I just wanted to forget it all and try to survive and live my life without the hassle of patriotism. On those days, I took a photograph from my wallet and viewed the faces of my cousin with her kids.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls,” those innocent faces, forever silenced, always seem to say, “It tolls for thee!”
Those haunting words kept me going, helped me not to forget that if seventeen American children can be burned alive by Federal agents at Waco, or several thousand Iraqi children can be burned alive following the celebrated, televised drop of an Air Force laser-guided bomb in Baghdad, or millions of children could be burned during the Holocaust, only a fool would trust any all-powerful government!
No! The Muskets weren’t a hair-brained collection of misfits. All Government equivocation and social naivete aside, we were patriots such as Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and General George Washington; the only form of patriot willing to meet government usurpation with armed hostility. Small wonder the FBI and ATF busy themselves with militias, people willing to actually do something. Bo Jangles was right after all.
As I said, when the Muskets began, it was just me and fourteen others, including Carl, Tiffany, Christof and Kicks Iron at the helm. We were the high-echelon founders. The others started local Musket organizations in their own areas and few regular members ever met us, the Founders. They knew their own “Commander,” and they could look up the names and stare at the faces of the others. All they had to do was go to the Musket website. They could also obtain the names of every member nationwide and rummage through official Musket opinions on various political, economic, and social issues on our many blogs and forums. So could anyone else. What they wouldn’t find was the names or faces of we four national leaders. That was a musket policy thought necessary for many reasons, particularly survival after we and our also unlisted covert members started smashing Laser Net Arrays where we could find them.
Musket brigades, terminology we chose to sound deliberately threatening to politicians, were referred to by the state in which each was located; Hence, M-Arizona meant the Arizona musket, M-Texas meant the Texas Musket, and M-California the California Musket . . . there were actually two in California, one in the Bay area and one in the L.A. Basin. Together the original ten Muskets constituted what we termed, the Musket Brigade. As I said, the choice of words, “Brigade,” “Commander,” and “Musket” was deliberate. They grate upon, fly in the face of, political docility.
I, Carl, Tiffany, Christof Fawcett, and “Kicks Iron” White were “ghosted,” known only to the ten commanders and a few ardent covert patriots. The public side of the Muskets had grown to more than 13,000 nationwide. This popular side organized letter-writing campaigns, spoke to civic and religious groups, demonstrated, and so forth. Sooner or later, an informant would attempt to penetrate the shield separating it from the covert side. When one did, it had to be impossible to identify either the national leadership, or some forty local Muskets involved in smashing NADNARA sensor arrays along the highways, in traffic lights, or anywhere else we found them . . . at night when no one was around.
Sure enough, a year later, the policy saved our group. A Musket who was a retired cop turned private investigator by profession handled security matters for the Musket Resistance, an achronym which had since developed. His Montana PI firm wasn’t far from the National Field Operations Center we had established west of Kalispell. He conducted routine surveillance of any member being considered for inclusion in a covert NADNARA group. One of the five covert members attached to the Bay area Musket office turned informant. He was detected by the M-California North Musket after our PI conducted surveillance of a member he was attempting to work into the covert group. Our PI discovered the man was an FBI agent . . . an infiltrator. The agent had been introduced to Blevins, our Bay area Commander, as “a concerned citizen, a single man,” but PI surveillance personnel reported that they had followed him and photographed him with his family. It had been difficult. The agent worked in the Bay area, but actually lived in southern California. They lost him on three separate occasions at the airport before he was (finally) spotted boarding a flight to San Diego. The next time he disappeared, two of our people were waiting in San Diego and followed him after his arrival. That required two additional weeks, because he took a roundabout route to his home. Before the month was out, we had his address and photographs of him with his wife and teenage daughter taken at the San Diego Zoo.
Once I was advised that a member under surveillance had been identified as a Federal agent, I attempted to reach Blevins to alert him one of his coverts was an FBI informant, but I was one day too late. Blevins was arrested that very evening while destroying sensor arrays. The informant tipped off the agent that the two would be active that evening and gave him the highway and route they were planning to work. Two different agents were hidden at a predetermined location near one of the arrays when Blevins and the informant drove up. While they broke open the cabinet and began cutting wires and smashing laser probes, the informant kept his back to the agents as he had at the first two locations that night, knowing the FBI would be capturing digital video with a night lens. Within a few moments, they appeared out of nowhere, guns drawn.
“Get down! On your face, hands behind your head! Down, down, down!” They bellowed.
As soon as Blevins dropped to his knees, terrified, hands held high, the informant spun around and fled between two buildings according to plan. One of the agents pursued him. Blevins heard several shots fired. He was certain his companion had been injured or killed until the agent returned, having fired aimlessly into the air.
“The guy got away!” he yelled.
“Did you wing him?” The other agent asked.
“I don’t know. I thought I got him in the leg, but he kept going.”
So, although I decided that the only way to successfully oppose NADNARA’s Laser Net was to covertly smash the arrays where they could be found and involved a few of my closest like-minded friends, I failed the prescience test, and I was about to develop my initial reaction to this event that founding the Muskets was the biggest mistake I ever made, and it is for that reason that I decided to tell the story exactly as it occurred according to my memory. For the sake of brevity, I am limiting the story to the most relevant episodes, but without understanding the mentality of my friends and I would make it pointless, so I will first tell how I knew them and how they affected my own thinking and led me into a trap, not that I’m gullible; I’m not. But by degrees I was led to approving actions I would never have considered on my own. They would been entirely beyond me.

Chapter Three

Quodlibets

“He tells the truth well . . . ultimately the only criterion of greatness.”
– Gene Wolf [commenting on Enders Game]

You can’t understand this story if you know nothing about the other players. The muscular man akin to “Rambo” whom Simmons called Skinhead was Christof Fawcett. The six-foot, eight Indian Goliath he called The “Chief”was Kicks Iron White, a Cherokee Indian by birth. The man he called Lefty was Carl. You may think you know them from what you’ve read in the press, where they’ve painted as misanthropes, but I knew each of them as a real person. My Grandmother used to say, “The best people have some evil in them and even the worst people have some good in them, except the Devil himself!”
They all had good in them. Each had credible motivations for his beliefs. Each could justify his actions, at least to himself. It would be as inequitable to justify the images created by the press carte blanc as to extol them as true patriots carte blanc. You might have a higher opinion of me if I did, if I distanced myself, but someone must tell it as it was. I’m the only one who was close enough to all three to achieve a balance of perspective. So. if you’ll bear with me, your understanding of the entire saga will benefit.
Christof and I became friends by sheer coincidence. A few years after my father was transferred to Montana, I happened to be in El Paso. It was late fall, cold, and I was down on my luck. I was in my early twenties. To save money, I stayed at a mission one night, the kind the churches maintain. They give you a hot meal and a clean cot for the night free. There’s a catch: Since most of the men that stay at missions are winos and riff-raff, you have to listen to a pulpit-pounding preacher tell you how “lost” you are and how Jesus will make everything all better. During the sermon, the guy eating beside me leaned my way.
“Do you think a real god would commit genocide?”
I turned to face him but kept working on the Turkey leg.
“I’m referring to the Bible story of God sending the Israelites into Canaan to slaughter the people; even kids, even the cattle? Could you worship a being capable of that?” he added.
“I’m not interested in religion. I’m just here for the free bed and meal.” I said.
“Where are you from?”
“Montana.”
“Montana? That’s where I grew up!”
“You’re kidding. I’ve spent the last five years in Kalispell.”
“I’m from Kalispell! It’s a small world, as they say. What are you doing down here in Texas?”
“I spent the summer traveling around the country on Greyhound. You pay one price, and go anywhere you want. This is where I was when the time expired.”
“I heard about that deal. I’ve never met anyone who actually did it.”
“I enjoyed it. I saw a lot. I thought from here, I’d work my way out to Tucson and look up some old friends. Tucson was my home until my Senior year, when my father was transferred to Montana.”
“What are you doing staying at a mission?”
“I’ve gone through a lot more money than I planned, so I’m stretching it. How about you?”
“I helped my sister and her husband move to Atlanta. Then I left for California. A friend of mine lives in Long Beach. He and his wife are both teachers. I work on boats: outboards, inboards, anything to do with boats, but I’m not certified. He got me in a marine certification program. It starts in about a week. Anyway, this side of Odessa, my ‘57 Chevy started running hot.”
“You’ve got a ‘57 Chevy? That’s a classic!”
“I did have. It was running hot, so I checked the coolant and the oil in Pecos, but couldn’t find anything wrong. Later, the engine started rattling and making strange noises, and I was less than a mile outside Sierra Blanca about 80 miles east of here when it blew. If I spent the two weeks they told me it would take to rebuild it, I’d miss this semester. One of the locals made me a pretty good offer, so I just sold it, hitched on into El Paso, and like you, thought I’d save my cash.”
We talked late into the evening about cars, politics, how the country was going; I liked him. Christof felt deeply. He cared about things. I don’t often encounter people with real depth. He was into Native American religious superstitions. Interesting, but not my bailiwick.
“I don’t like churches. Too many different ones. Too many arbitrary rules for me.” I said. “Too many phony morals and hypocrites. But I have ethics.”
“Ethics are better,” he said. “Morals are imposed from the outside, some group’s codified opinions of right and wrong, like the laws of a society. You may accept them, you may memorize them, you may obey them. Whatever. But ethics come from the inside, from you. They’re what you really are.”
He told me he was hopping a freight to Yuma the next day, and from there, planned to thumb a ride into Long Beach. He invited me along.
“I’ve never ‘hopped a freight.’ Isn’t that against the law?”
His laughter disarmed me.
“Yeah, but it’s not unethical. It doesn’t hurt anyone. The railroad bulls will tell you which train to take to where! There’s an entire subculture that travels on freight trains.”
The idea of a free ride to Yuma on a freight train intrigued me, and I’d have company, so I agreed. We spent most of the day in Juarez and each bought a fifth of Tequila before crossing back over. Then we stocked up on good Texas Jerky before leaving. Sure enough, back at the rail terminal, as we looked for an empty box car to stow away in, a man in uniform walked up. A Railroad Bull! I was nervous, but Christof seemed relieved. It was close to sundown and already cold.
“It’s gonna be much, much colder going through the mountains,” the Bull emphasized. “Those coats won’t be enough.” Their conversation centered around selecting a car with cardboard or paper we could surround ourselves with so we wouldn’t freeze going through the windy passes!
At length, the Bull directed us to a boxcar that seemed to fit the bill. One end had an enormous quantity of loose, heavy brown paper piled high. It looked like it was six-foot roll stock, the same stuff they make grocery sacks of.
“If you pile enough of that paper around you and cover up with it, you’ll be all right.”
The amiable Bull drove a wooden stake into the door guide to keep it from slamming shut and trapping us inside if the train lurched or stopped abruptly. After we thanked him, he just walked away. To say I was amazed by all this would be an understatement. Christof climbed in lithely, and walked toward the pile of paper. I followed. Soon, the train started moving. There was already a lot of wadded up sheets of the paper piled high in one corner, so we decided to add to it before dark.
“If we work into the pile and sit close together in the corner, I think this will be pretty comfortable.” he said.
“The Tequila will help. It’ll numb us enough to feel warm. You’re not Gay are you?” I cajoled.
“No, but you’ll be thankful to have another body next to you when the temperature really drops.”
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“Not down here. Up north, and I can tell you it’s much worse. If you can imagine sitting in a freezer all night, you’ll have an idea!”
Just as we had moved enough paper to about reach the corner, something moved. In the twilight, I thought it might be a wild animal that had gotten in the car. I almost jumped out of my skin. An old man grunted as he awoke and stood, paper falling to his sides as he rose. Behind him in the corner was an old trunk suitcase and a guitar.
“You heading west, fellows?” He asked, looking us over with a small penlight.
“That’s right, Old Timer,” Christof said, “Mind if we share your corner and the paper?”
“What you got in them bags?”
“Tequila and Jerky.”
“I’ll share if you will, uh huh!” he said.
I opened a bottle of Tequila and handed him a chunk of Jerky.
“I just suck on that until it falls apart, uh huh.”
Christof and I laughed and the old hobo joined in. He had no teeth and looked as if he’d escaped alive from a Mark Twain narrative. He was a true Hobo, complete with hat and a long overcoat and a trunk suitcase I swear must have been twenty years old. You had to laugh at the idea of him.
I’ve had some fun times in my life, but I can’t recall anything more memorable than that freight-train-ride to Yuma. Three human sardines sipping Mexican Tequila, eating Texas Jerky, and squeezing closer and closer together as the night pressed on and the biting cold pressed in. The conversation, the precarious rocking of the cars around curves in the track. Everything about it was intoxicating, not just the Tequila. I don’t ever want to forget it. I asked the old Hobo how he lived, how he got money, what kind of work he did to survive.
“Work? I hate work, uh huh. I ain’t worked in twenty-five years!”
“How do you eat?”
“I put the ding on folks.”
“The ding? What’s that?”
“You know, ‘Hey Buddy, have you got a dime?’”
“That’s what you call it? Putting the ding on them?”
“That’s right.”
“And you get enough to live on that way.”
“You’d be surprised how fast change adds up, uh huh.” he said. Lots of folks give a dollar, sometimes five dollars. One kind lady, God bless her soul, gave me a hundred-dollar bill one time, uh huh.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to live off other people your whole life?” Christof asked.
“Son, ‘fore the New Deal, I thought about that. Then, I lost everything, ‘bout starved, uh huh. I saw like a crystal ball, I did. The only thing matters is stay alive, cause if you care about anything, it just gets you into trouble, uh huh.”
“Sounds bizarre, pretty hopeless,” Christof said, “You have to have something to live for, to justify your existence, your life.”
“I’m stuck with life, Son, cause I ain’t dead yet! Everything else is someone wanting power over you, uh huh. You boys are young, idealistic, but you’ll learn we’re all just pawns. It’s a game. Rich folks, they know it’s a game, uh huh, they do. I decided not to play twenty-five years ago. I’ve seen a lot come and go since, and it’s all like I knew it’d turn out, uh huh!”
The train gave a lurch and we began a long, slow climb.
“Now it’s gonna get real, real cold, uh huh! Sure is.”
I’d almost considered Hobos a figment of the writer’s imagination, but here was one in real life with nothing to his name but an old suitcase and an old guitar.
“Do you play that thing?” Christof asked.
“When my fingers is warm,” he replied, and squinting as if about to reveal a great, hidden mystery, he asked, “You boys ain’t figuring to take it?”
We laughed.
“As if!” Christof shouted above the howling wind. “Don’t worry about us Old Timer. Hell, we’re just trying to get to California without freezing, like you.”
Christof was right. By three in the morning, Tequila or no Tequila, we were squeezed as close together as we could get. I told the Hobo Christof had assured me I’d be glad there was another body to huddle with.
“I’d hug a sow to keep warm, uh huh, sure would!” he said.
We roared. He cracked us up.
“I remember walking in the rail yard along a train ‘bout to head west from Des Moines once. There was these two Mexicans sitting on a flat car, they was. I told them they better join me in a box car, cause the trip to Denver was mighty cold and they’d surely freeze, uh huh. They didn’t say nothing, just smiled like I was an old fool. I like to froze to death myself that time, uh huh, damn near. I ain’t never been so cold! After the train got there, the Bull told me them Fire Rescue people was trying to get them Mexicans unstuck from that flatcar. They was frozen solid to it with their arms around each other, uh huh, just like I said. They looked like one of them fancy statues.“
It was another world that night. The clicking of the wheels on the track, the three of us buried under paper in the dark, surrounded by interminable wind. To this day, every time I hear Bo Jangles on an Oldies station, I think of him.
When we dropped down from the mountains and arrived in Yuma, it had gone from very cold to rather hot. I was amazed how many other stowaways poured from various boxcars.
“It truly is a subculture, Christof. You were right about that.”
A local farmer was waiting as we all poured out of the rail yard. He was offering a day’s pay for a day’s work. Christof and I were pleased. We could pick up more cash before hitching to Long Beach. But the old Hobo refused.
“You two go on. I’m going to go put the ding on somebody, uh huh!”
“It’s just for the day,” Christof urged, “You’ll have thirty dollars in cash!”
We’d grown attached to the old man and really didn’t want to split up, but he walked out of our lives, toting that old suitcase, the dusty guitar slung over his shoulder. I don’t know why I never asked his name. Bo Jangles will have to do.
When people experience certain things together, they become friends ever after. Christof and I remained as close as my older brother, Robert and I.
Three years later, after NADNARA passed, the night I invited Christof, Kicks Iron, and Carl over to discuss my intention to form the Muskets, Christof showed up with a new girlfriend, or so I thought; a real beauty. Tiffany Cronin. He assured me she wasn’t his girlfriend.
“She’s high class and cultured. She isn’t interested in me personally, but she shares our contempt for LASER NET and NADNARA. She likes your idea of a resistance movement.”
“Why did you bring her tonight, though? We’re discussing actions we don’t want circulated. I don’t know her from Eve.”
“Relax, Eric. She has issues of her own, things the government did to her family in Oregon. She hates environmentalists.”
“She won’t like me then,” I said, “because I believe in protecting the environment.”
“Not that kind. The extremists. They hurt her family, her community. It goes deep. Just let her tell it. She’s very passionate, even told me she plans on killing some people over it.”
“Kill over environmental beefs?”
“You’ll see. Feel her out. Decide for yourself if you want her involved.”
Without further discussion, he waved her over and introduced us. I was uncomfortable having a stranger around, and the bit about her planning to kill someone made her sound looney. But as the evening progressed, she didn’t seem like a looney or speak like one. She spoke more like a teacher. It was intimidating. Her vocabulary is about twice the size of mine. I’m just an average Joe when it comes to grammar and vocabulary, so her sense of style was bewildering, especially when I learned she was a teacher. It turned out she’s the daughter of a farm family in the Klamath River Basin on the California-Oregon border. Environmentalists sued to protect two sucker fish in Klamath Lake and river, resulting in a government cutoff of irrigation water to 200,000 acres of the community’s farmland, including her family’s. Massive demonstrations and the public outcry led to the biggest agriculture protests in more than 50 years. It culminated in a clash of 1400 farmers, including members of Tiffany’s family, with federal agents in a showdown that almost ended in bloodshed. It seared her sense of justice, especially when the press referred to the desperate farmers as “anti-government demonstrators.”
“We were only demanding that our lives count more than some species of trash fish and that water be released for our dying crops. It was late July before the government finally released some water, but the crops got only 20% of the normal annual irrigation.”
I think because of what happened to her, something deep inside Tiffany snapped. Her sense of reality collapsed. She said her belief in the United States as a free country disintegrated when she saw the contempt federal agents had for the people of her valley.
“I became preoccupied with what had happened to America. Where was the country I believed in as a child? How had it fallen so far?”
She had obsessed for understanding.
“At length, I realized a deliberate combination of evil. Environmental law spawned a method by which the few could oppress the many. The instrument they use is lawsuits . . . lawsuits that last till the end of time. They use the Endangered Species Act as a weapon. Not as a reasonable person would, not in the spirit of the Act, but to halt or prevent all progress. I resolved to do something about it. When Christof told me about you and your plans, I decided to accompany him and discover what you’re about.”
Raised in Tucson, Arizona until late in high school, I came from a background where being masculine and tough was demanded. Walking the walk, not just talking the talk, was important. Women respected you for it. Conversely, Tiffany was from a once-wealthy family. She was widely traveled, well read, and culturally aware; tokens of good breeding. Her deportment signified refinement. Beginning the first night, there were moments I felt ill at ease in her company. At the same time, I was attracted to her. I enjoyed looking at her long, slender, perfectly tanned legs. I loved the way her blonde hair swayed from side to side when she tossed her head, how the corners of her mouth moved when she spoke.
An afternoon spent Snorkeling at San Clemente Island sixty-five miles off the California coast two weeks later brought us in close intellectual and emotional proximity. I half-expected her to decline when I told her I was taking my boat out there and invited her along. She was great company. A pleasing personality, passionate about life, always something stimulating to say. We filled the overnight ride to the island discussing our individual backgrounds. She knew I was Founder of the Muskets and her admiration was stirring.
“My father was a contractor on the side. He didn’t build entire subdivisions as you’re doing,” she said, “but when the crops were in, he and two neighbors routinely built a house or a couple of barns before the rains. Precipitation has been light the last few years and the drought worse. There are few homes to build, so my family is struggling to survive, doing without the nice things.”
“I wouldn’t say I build entire subdivisions. My investor and I build small clusters, neighborhoods with fewer than ten homes. I’ve only been doing it a couple of years. Why can’t your father build? There must still be some demand for housing.”
“There’s a glut of rural property ‘on the cheap,’ to coin a phrase. The government and environmentalists put together a plan of attack to accumulate the farmer’s water rights for $2,500 an acre, but let the owners keep their land. My father knew it was blackmail and extortion, but after losing most of his crop two years in a row when the water was hijacked, he felt he had no choice but to agree. He paid off the mortgage, but later regretted it, because without water, the land isn’t worth even $200 an acre. He can’t sell it for enough to start over, because so many other farms are on the block. For this reason, there is no construction demand, certainly not for barns. I love fish. I’m an avid aquarist. But it’s criminal to displace or invalidate the lifestyle of the population within an entire watershed and turn over the geography to a couple of useless sucker-fish. The drought will worsen. Father told me precipitation seems to oscillate in twenty-year cycles of wet and dry years. He said some of the dry creek beds on our property used to overflow every year, rendering the low areas too swampy to plant until late spring or early summer. That seems difficult to believe, because there’s rarely any water in the creeks now, only following heavy, Spring rains. He believes we’re headed for another dust bowl similar to the 1930's and that it could persist for a decade. Archaeological evidence and tree ring analyses prove that every few centuries, there’s a mega-drought--the kind that drove the cliff-dwellers from the American southwest, and we’re overdue for another one.”
“I read something about that.” Confronted with her knowledge of the archaeology of my native region when she was raised elsewhere, I felt embarrassed.
“That means there’s a deadly water war coming between the people and the government,” she said. They either make the Endangered Species list reasonable, or there’ll be blood flowing in this country. They called us ‘anti-government demonstrators.’ Can you believe the nerve? They applied that pejorative to the god-fearing people in our county!”
“It doesn’t surprise me. Anyone who protests oppressive regulations is given a defamatory label. It’s no different than NADNARA protesters being called pro-crime. How many have been arrested now nationwide? Tens of thousands. It’s a fight for survival of our freedoms on all fronts, but the public is so apathetic, the press can lead them around by the nose.” I had plenty more I could have said.
“I’m for preserving the environment,” she said, “but not starving the people. Acts of God eliminate many more species than any acts of man. Any time there’s a sacrifice to be made, they always want the farmers to make it. It’s not the government’s water to give. Those forests at the top of the Klamath watershed are the Klamath Tribe’s former reservation land. The government took 700,000 acres from them without paying a dime, just declared it a National Forest. Tribal leaders are still in negotiations trying to get control of their land back, but the Bureau of Indian Affairs is stalling, trying to blackmail them on how they can use it, so they won’t be able to benefit from it. It’s not based upon reason, but ideology, using environmental law to steal without compensating those you steal from. I’m up to here with those busybodies! Someone’s got to strike back outside the courts. It’s not ethical to expect someone else to stand up for you when your own family is a casualty. It’s up to you.”
“I have a hard time seeing you as a violent person, Tiffany. You’re so feminine.”
“You haven’t seen me take out a NADNARA array. I’m as fast as the men and I can outrun them. That night the police tried to catch Christof and me, I was in the lead as we fled.”
“I don’t have any qualms about smashing arrays either. That’s why I founded the Muskets-the covert group-but I’ve never killed anyone, never even harmed anyone. I’ve had fights, usually after half a dozen beers or so, or when some jerk-off made a move on my girl. I had a fistfight after Senior Prom. But that’s different.”
“How so?”
“I read the Sagans' book, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors. The section that discusses the role of testosterone in violence in men made me really sit back and think. There’s a difference in the social violence I’ve experienced and ideological violence. At least I believe there is. I’ve never been to war and I never had to seriously consider if I should squeeze a trigger. Not as you’d have to if you were facing another human being with a gun in your hand and it was pointed right at their face. I think it’s an even larger question if it’s pointed at them over an ideological issue.”
“Wars usually are ideological issues, Eric, don’t you think?”
“They say killing someone affects you in unanticipated ways. What I’m saying . . . asking . . . is: If you kill some hateful environmentalist, are you sure you can live with it over the long term? It’s something to consider.”
Tiffany studied me as we sat at anchor, drinking Piña Coladas on deck to attenuate the heat of the sun after swimming and snorkeling for hours. I think she wondered if it was self-doubt on my part, or maybe she suspected it was more than self-doubt. Since we met, I’d promoted smashing NADNARA arrays, but I hadn’t espoused anything beyond that. My fiery diatribe that night about government infringement on personal liberty was fresh in her mind, yet I was abjuring violence against other people. As the leader, she must have supposed I had exceptional resolve and that passion would lead me to do whatever was necessary to preserve the Bill of Rights. Now, maybe she wondered if I lacked the nerve or certainty of purpose. I hadn’t just gone with the flow when she espoused killing extremists as some people do who are kind of dumb or very shallow. I’m not dumb, nor shallow, and she knew it. So she had to be asking herself what limited me.
“That’s a good question,” she replied, taking me at face value to see where it led, “and I guess the best way to answer it is to ask you one.”
“Ask me what?”
“You mentioned the Waco Massacre and your outrage at the ATF, at FBI agents gunning down women and children who attempted to escape after government tanks set the place afire.”
“I’ll never get over it . . . “
” . . . because your cousin and her children were among those they burned to death.”
“Because FBI agents shot women and children to death as they attempted to escape the flames. The fact my cousins were among them just makes it more egregious, but I’d feel the same if the government wiped out the Baptists or the Mormons, or any other religious group. Whether they participate in gun shows or high-powered weapons isn’t un-American, nor did it violate any laws. I'm a great hunter, and no one is getting my rifles or shotguns or my pistol collection. Pistols are great for rattlesnakes.”
“You know that the public doesn’t care. They swallowed the propaganda aired before the massacre and the cover up after it.”
“Americans didn’t care what happened to the people in your valley either.”
“So the Feds got away with it in Waco and they got away with it in the Klamath River Valley. The people swallow whatever the Feds dish out.”
“So it seems. I hate it, but that's the way it is.”
“Okay, but what if you knew the names of the FBI shooters who set up the crossfire that slaughtered your cousins? Say one of them lived a couple of blocks from you. You’re reading the paper one day and happen across the Obituary section. There in front of you is his picture and you discover that he died of a heart attack the previous night. How would you feel? Be totally honest.”
“That’s easy. I’d rejoice that the floor-flushing, son-of-a-bitch was dead! Pardon my French.”
“Probably wish it had happened sooner, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s the answer to your question about how I’d feel about killing an environmental crony or the attorney at the law firm handling their meddling lawsuit, and I know who they are by name. If you’ll permit me to ask the question a little differently, change the point-of-view slightly.”
“Go ahead.” I wondered where she was leading.
“What if, knowing absolutely as you did that he was one of those shooters, you ground some poison mushrooms, mixed them in the batter, and baked some Brownies. After striking up a conversation as he passes on his morning jog, you offer him one. He thanks you and eats it as he jogs on down the street. The next day, you see the same obituary. Now how do you feel?”
“The same: Glad he’s dead, that the world is rid of him.”
“But you’d rather someone else bake those Brownies, right? You wouldn’t bake them yourself, yet you’d appreciate that someone else did.”
“That’s the question I was asking you, Tiffany,” a slight grin forming as she twisted the question. She laughed.
“I know, but I’m asking you to go first.”
“You’re trying to make murder a personal responsibility.”
“Not murder . . . killing. And isn’t it? Environmentalists use stealth. They get a big-name law firm to sue, knowing the farmers don’t have that kind of money. So why not use stealth against them? It took me a long time to think of a way. I studied poisons and learned that poisonous mushrooms are plentiful if you know where to look. You can raise them yourself. Some are so toxic, there’s no antidote. Aren’t the Brownies deserved? You said you’d be honest . . .”
“Oh, I get the question: Am I willing to do my own dirty work, or would I prefer that someone else did it for me?”
“Why do call it dirty work if you truly believe the world would be better off without him, Eric, and that he deserved to die because he did murder? He’s nothing but a murderer with a government paycheck! Have you by chance read Thomas Jefferson’s Decalogue of Canons?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of it.”
“Canon Three says, Never trouble another to do what you can do yourself.”
“I was just using a figure of speech, Tiffany. Your question was, am I, Eric Stroder, willing to kill someone who deserves to die? Am I willing to take that responsibility upon myself, or will I just smile and breathe a sigh of relief upon learning someone else has?”
“Wasn’t that at the heart of your rationale for forming the Muskets? I answered that question long before I began research into a method of doing it. There are many ways to poison extremists. It wouldn’t be difficult to spike the coffee pot at a law firm, or mix ground mushrooms with foods in their homes, or simply entice them to eat poison brownies on some pretext. It just requires stealth! And when I see their obituary in the paper, I shall clap, cheer, and celebrate their death! It isn’t just that they’re dead, but whether your countrymen will cry or cheer when they hear of it. Who will cry? Others as corrupt as they. Who’ll cheer? Others like us! If there’s a simple answer, for me that’s it.”
“Okay Tiffany. In the case of the FBI shooter, he was guilty of murder and to me, that makes him worthy of death. In the case of environmental issues, it’s usually an adverse economic impact upon an area or industry, profession, a wetlands area, or in the case of your family, your beef over water rights.”
“What about seizing 700,000 acres of Indian land?”
“You’re giving an example of an unusually large order of magnitude. I can see how the Indians might want to kill those responsible for stealing their land; it's like taking their country, and they've had it up to the gills with that history. I know Kicks Iron would certainly have given president Jackson fits for disenfranchising his forefathers, the Cherokee Nation. He’s the namesake of a Dakota Sioux chieftain who did.”
“How about my family’s land? If they connive to destroy its value by preventing its beneficial use, is that any different from taking it at the point of a gun?”
“See, that leap is where it gets sticky, isn’t it?”
“For you apparently. Not for me. You wouldn’t call Kicks Iron twisted because he wants vengeance on behalf of the Cherokee. People kill their own kids, their spouse, their neighbors, you name it, for wrong reasons. How can it be revolting to kill for the right ones? Isn’t that what a soldier thinks he’s doing when the government puts a gun in his hand, drops him in a foreign country and says, ‘Go kill?’ What makes it all right for him to kill? He comes home and thinks he’s a hero. Collateral damage means murdering innocent women and children. They don’t say ‘murdering innocent women and children,’ because the public might feel outrage instead of waving the flag and hanging it from everything but the end of their nose. Like Viet Nam. The family welcomed home their ‘hero’ when he was actually a war criminal! Who says only he government gets to decide what issues justify killing for? They’ve proven the least competent. It ought to be a deeply personal decision, but people recoil at the prospect of doing their own killing for just causes. Hello . . . oh!”
“You make it sound simple, Tiffany, even logical, but few people would agree with you.”
“That’s because Americans have grown weak. They’re not the real men and women who stared death in the face on the frontier to build this nation. They’re cowardly, unthinking ostriches, so stuck in corporeality, they don’t see the walls of Principle disintegrating until they collapse on top of them. They talk about security. That’s all they really want. The word, freedom is becoming meaningless to them. We’re losing it by degrees and they’re so materialistic, you can’t even strike up a conversation about it. Most can’t stand to talk or think substantively about it like I've lured you into doing. I can tell you, it becomes very clear if it’s your land. The entire country’s paying the price for these arrogant enemies, because that's all they really are. They call themselves ‘environmentalists.’ They’re not true environmentalists. They’re people opposed to all progress, people who care more about a trash fish than a starving child. They’re trying to redefine life as we know it on the planet. We have almost no wheat for export because of the drought. Water rights are only going to become more critical as pressures on the food supply increase. Spending a third of every paycheck for food is ridiculous! California used to produce half the nation’s fruit and vegetables. Now most of our vegetables and much of our fruit either come down from Japanese farmers in British Columbia or up from Mexico. It’s like, ‘What happened? What’s going on here?’ By the time a mother is opening a vein at the checkout line, there’s no one she can blame. But if you’re farther back in the process, upstream of the checkout counter or the supermarket and you can see who’s to blame . . . the very law firm, the actual smug protagonist who created the issue by retaining them. That’s when there is someone to blame. It’s right then, right there that you can do something. The checkout counter line is too late . . . that’s where the entire nation bleeds.”
I leaned over, dipping my hands in the water beside hers. “Does this help to clear your mind?” I asked, letting the water gambol off my hands.
“It does if you’re a Scorpio.” She said. “What your sign, by the way?”
“Libra.”
“That explains a few things. You want justice, but at the same time, harmony. You’re in a tough spot, aren’t you?”
“Oh, come on!” I replied, piqued by the remark.
She just laughed. Intelligent, passionate, committed, beautiful beyond words. She was all those things. But did she have to be a Scorpio on top of it all?
My friendship with Kicks Iron seems a sacrilege. Many have asked, and sincerely, how I could have ever become associated with him. Most feel society would have been blessed if at his ill-omened birth, his mother had hung a killick around his neck and tossed him into the sea. Hence the adjectives applied to him by various commentators: Chthonic monster, bane of civilized man, impious rapist, cold-blooded murderer, and off the record: twisted fuck. None of these is more auspicious than his name itself: Kicks Iron. He was intimidating, a towering hulk of a man who feared no other. It’s true. Yet if you met him under normal circumstances, you’d never know. He was disinclined to reveal the dark core of his abysmal psyche. That part, he reserved for those he felt deserved to encounter it, and god help you if you were one of them! He was ruthless, certainly remorseless, at times vile as an infernal ogre. I don't where inside him those things were kept hidden from view, but it would be disingenuous to imply ad hominem that these attributes were the sum of the man. There was much more.
None of the two-dimensional media pipers have referred to Kicks Iron as a professor of American History or Native American Studies, yet he could have taught either with such force and candor, the enthralled students would have taken to the streets in public demonstration, incensed they were never told our history with all the demagoguery stripped away. He’s never been termed a Sword of Justice, but Kicks Iron was a creature of implacable intent, destined to fall upon the unwary with the fated surety of the Sword of Damocles. If, as Tiffany says, the government had mulct you as it did his forebears, I think you might find at least a shard of sanction for the man.
After Christof and I arrived in Long Beach, we settled down. He entered the Marine Certification program, we both got jobs, and for a while, shared an apartment. I began night school working toward my Residential Contractor’s license. The course wasn’t that demanding, so I was free to enjoy weekends. It was difficult to be around Christof and not become infatuated with boats. I did; old, wooden-hulled, fishing boats appealed to me. I perused the boat yards in Huntington Beach, moving from one to the other, imagining what it must have been to be at the helm of each on heavy seas, racing for safe-harbor at twelve knots, green seas coming over the transom. No one in his right mind would want to be in that situation, but the danger had a certain magnetism that provoked my imagination. One day, I came upon a 27-foot, 1947 Richardson sitting up on beams. The owner of the yard assured me that the engine was in fair condition and everything could be restored, “even in the galley,” but a great deal of work separated her from a return to the sea she had once known. The transom was rotten and the barnacle-encrusted wooden planks had shrunken, with the roping hanging out or missing. Inside the hull, light shown between most of them. Left unattended for years in the weather, the paint had dried and curled. Still, she had potential. No structural damage beyond the transom. I always wanted to buy an antique car and restore it. I never got around to that, but as I stood on the bow gazing at the sea across the highway, I think I felt something very like that. I wanted to see the Richardson restored. I wanted to see her high in the water, her bow slicing proudly through the waves once again. The price had been marked down heavily. Rather than offer less still, I instead bought her with the stipulation she could remain on the lot while I built a new transom and reworked the hull. I’m a good finish carpenter. I priced the Philippine mahogany I needed for the new transom and the other materials to bring her back up. Labor is what kills you in marine work, and I could do that myself. Christof promised to help me rebuild the inboard engine.
I arrived with a cooler of cold beer every Saturday morning and went to work. The same on Sunday, enjoying every minute of it. The Pacific was just across the highway from the boat yard and the sound of crashing waves and the warmth of the southern California sun embellished my love affair with the Richardson. Others looking for boats or just daydreaming as I had begun strolled by in a constant procession, especially during the afternoons. They often paused to observe my work, commenting on this or that, asking questions.
One Sunday afternoon, two guys were half-looking, half-loitering about the place. I’d rebuilt the transom, pulled out the old roping, and was busy sanding the wooden hull when they walked up, saying they’d been by several weeks before, that they were impressed with my progress in so short a time. They had a cooler of their own and offered me a cold Coors. I’ve yet to turn down a Coors and mostly to extend the conversation, I accepted, though I had plenty in my own cooler stashed in the shade of the hull. They were an interesting pair. The rather short, lithe fellow did most of the talking at first, introducing his nearly seven-foot-tall Indian friend as “Kicks Iron,” a Cherokee. The name fascinated me.
“Where did that name originate?” I asked. “What’s the significance?”
I assumed he wouldn’t be offended. Practically everyone he’d ever met must have asked the same question. He was formidable. He reminded me of a Swede sailor I once saw in a waterfront bar in Charleston. He had muscles on his body I’d only read about and could probably have turned the Richardson on its side if he had the notion.
Smiling, he said, “My name was a gift.”
“A gift?” His deep, Barry White voice astonished me. I loved just listening to him speak.
“Kicks Iron isn’t a Cherokee name, nor a cognomen. It’s the name of a Warrior of the Sioux nation. The Sioux were a tribe that once lived in the Dakotas. They were dispossessed by the White man’s endless war to steal the land of all Indian nations. I am his namesake.”
Notwithstanding his intimidating size and the deep vibrato of his voice, Kicks Iron spoke with the adroitness of a college professor. I would learn he was a specialist in Nineteenth Century American History. I made the effort to relate to his remarks to keep the discussion going, so I could listen to him talk. Have you ever admired the sound of a voice and just wanted to hear it, regardless of what was being said? That’s what I mean, but I really did relate.
“I watched a video series. I don’t remember the name, but I was beset how the government made treaties with the Indians, then later deceived them, systematically violating every treaty they made. I didn’t understand before that series the full extent of the deception. It offended me. It made me ashamed. When I studied American history in school, the texts made the conquest of the West seem heroic. I grew up on Cowboys and Indians. Learning the truth ruined a lot of it for me, made me feel like a sap. But students don’t know any different. They’ll believe whatever they’re told. I had a ring in my nose along with everyone else until I saw that video series.”
I wasn’t condescending. I meant it. Kicks Iron seemed to be studying me. His stare had a strange quality: Not just penetrating or intuitive; something else, as if more than one being was looking out from behind those dark, deep-set eyes, deciding whether or not to invest the emotion or expend the energy to tell a story he had no doubt told many times before. At length, he-or they-must have spotted something in my soul, something I had yet to see myself, something that compelled Kicks Iron to reach out when he might otherwise have said little.
“My father and mother were full-blooded Cherokee. He’d talk for hours, speaking of the White man’s betrayal of the Indian Nations, of the plunder of the Cherokee. His stories were the words of his Grandfather, my Great Grandfather, Talking Horse; words of the tribal elders. He spoke of the time when the Cherokee merged peacefully with the Whites, even wore White man’s clothing. Americans today don’t know. They think the Cherokee were like Apaches, living in tents and scalping innocent Whites. That wasn’t the case. If you saw the homes of the Cherokee, especially the more wealthy among them, you’d be astonished. Many look like Plantation homes typical of southern plantersof the time. My father said that the Great Spirit must have been offended by a Cherokee in a Top Hat. How foolish that is to me. But President Andrew Jackson conspired with other Whites to steal the rich lands of the Cherokee nation. At the time, we inhabited much of Georgia, and parts of Tennessee and the Carolinas.”
“I remember from the videos.” I said. “How Jackson hated Indians. He and guys like General “Mad” Anthony Wayne who drove the Indians from the Ohio River basin.”
“Prejudiced, implacable men who lacked humanity, conquerors one and all. My Father knew this. Jackson even defied the decision of the Supreme Court when they ruled the government could not dispossess the Cherokee. He was incensed. He became so arrogant that he impugned their decision, and said, “let [Justice Marshall] enforce it. Like Roosevelt later, who called the Supreme Court Nine old men, he held contempt for them. Which means he held the restraints of the Constitution in contempt. My father often asked why the White man elevates the worst of his species to their “White” House? As Commander-in-Chief, Jackson directed the Army to force my people from their homes and lands in the south, principally in Georgia, and to drive them as a herd of cattle to Oklahoma on foot.”
“It was one of the blackest chapters of the nineteenth century.” I admitted. What else could I say? It was true.
“The White men took our streams, our forests, our game, our homes, and the possessions my people could not carry, all we left behind. In return, they gave us nothing but wilderness. The graves of the weak, the elderly, the sick, and many little ones lined the trail as the people died. Fully one-fourth of the Cherokee nation never reached Oklahoma. Their bodies rotted in shallow graves along the way.”
“That was a long time ago,” I said. “The passage of time is how I deal with those things. It’s how I deal with slavery. I try to believe it couldn’t happen today, that we’re more humane as a people, more tolerant, less vicious.”
“Your words are sincere, but they deceive you.” Kicks Iron said.
That disarming stare again. Who were those others behind his eyes?
“You speak of the passage of time. My father spoke as if it was yesterday. Our people called the forced march the Trail of Tears. His Grandfather told him the Indian must never trust the White man, especially his president. He became angry as he related these stories. His heart was heavy and he would often fall silent. Much time would pass before he continued; he was unable to go on. He bore a pain of remembrance that I learned as his son; a pain I took into my heart; a pain I would not forget. He told me as a boy that he had given me a proud name, a name that would keep me in remembrance. It has time and time again faithfully reminded me of the counsels of my fathers. He believed and spoke of a distant day in which the Indian would reap vengeance against the White man, a day when the Indian will regain his inheritance. He made me the harbinger of that vengeance when he emphasized to others that I, his son Kicks Iron, was a sign, that my large stature was an omen, that I had a special purpose. To you, Andrew Jackson lived long ago, because you do not dwell upon your history. But the memory of what this country did to our people before and after him-what they did to all Indian nations-lives on in our hearts. The passage of time changes nothing. Time is the refuge of the guilty. As my body has grown large, so has my understanding of that truth.”
Kicks Iron the “professor!” Hell, just listening to him was like a shot of Jax hitting a sore throat. What he said was as much philosophy as history when I thought about it. There are some spellbinding men you can’t ignore in close proximity, and he was one of them. You couldn’t listen to Kicks Iron and remain emotionless, nor escape intimidation.
“I can understand how you must feel as you reflect upon your history. There’s nothing that can be done about it now, though.”
“The Trail of Tears was not lost in the past! It is a tradition, one which continues today between the lines and behind the scenes of you and your countrymen. They spread across this continent, using a lie, Manifest Destiny, to pillage our people, hoping the Indians would all die or go away. All the great chiefs eventually succumbed. Do you know why?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“They considered the White man unconquerable. They realized that the power they had permitted by trusting them when their numbers were few to be amassed on the shores of this continent was irreversible. So they gave up. What else could they do? They were outnumbered twenty to one by the time they realized what the game was. My Grandfather warned:‘The Chiefs of the White man 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. Though he often speaks with gravity and sincerity, he will move the line between you when your attention is fixed elsewhere. He will bribe your spokesmen or make them drunken, until he has taken all that he covets of that which you possess.’ It is no different today. The failed ‘New American Century’ exemplified his belief that his power was now sufficient to rule over all the world.”
Over time, Kicks Iron’s theatrical oratory deflowered my sense of innocence. The longer I knew him, the more uncomfortable I became with the Glorious view of history spoon-fed American kids from Elementary school up. He was tormented by a terrible truth and intended to dwell upon it, lest it escape into the past. Some think that the past belongs where it is, and “Let it stay there!” They don’t want to look at it. They say Kicks Iron is demented, irrational, that his mind doesn’t work properly. They say it’s stuck in past time and that constitutes mental illness. When I seemed to agree with them, Kick’s Iron flew into a rage, but after calming, explained why he believed the assumption not only wrong, but outrageous.
“Eric, you think too simply. Time is not a safe harbor for the guilty. Einstein’s general theory of relativity-which has since been proven correct in particle accelerators–argues that either of two things moving in relation to one another is entitled to think that the other is the thing moving and he is the one at rest.”
“But isn’t that only true as you approach the speed of light?” I asked. “Isn’t that what relativity is mainly about, the speed of light?”
“Relativity is much more complex in its implications. No one knows the speed of thought, or how the human mind interacts with time, far less across time. So just because America has accelerated into the future doesn’t somehow magically absolve it from culpability for what it did to the indigenous people during its past, which is still my present. If they really believed that, Christian concepts such as Judgement day, and the Karma of other faiths would not exist. They span far larger lengths of time. They are selective hypocrits who use time for their own safe harbor.”
I grew to admire the part of Kicks Iron he allowed me to know. When I formed the Muskets, it was a matter of course to invite this enigmatic man who had become a close friend to join. That he looked as terrifying as a WWW wrestler was incidental. Like Christof, Carl, and Tiffany, he had his own reasons beyond assenting to my concerns. I realized too late that in recruiting their support for my cause, I became obligated to adopt and support their causes. Over time, I’ve had ample opportunity to ruminate. Whether it was their intention or not, Kicks Iron’s ancestors, particularly his father, filled his mind and inspired his soul with so much malignant information about the White man that the “prophecy” materialized. He became the reincarnated embodiment of them all, combined with an atavistic personality harking from the primordial mind. By a sheer and haunting coincidence of birth, this atavism inherited a body analogous to Big Foot and equally capable of mindless, immutable violence. They took his mind as a child, turning it within their hands like clay until they had molded a creature beyond the limits of comprehension or societal controls.
I’ve tried to be honest, while deliberately minimizing the anti-social traits of my friends in this account, with the exception of Carl, who second to Tiffany for other reasons, is and was by far the important to this story. Those have been emphasized quite enough in the press. To the extent possible, I shall show the other side. If I succeed, you’ll understand, even if only at a glimpse: They were human beings with valid issues, not monsters who, having barely escaped some event horizon, arrived horizontally from some awful elsewhere, elsewhen universe. Now I continue with my story:
Kicks Iron, Christof, and I debated a policy for dealing with traitors. We hadn’t previously confronted the prospect of violence against a member. There were soul-searching questions. What were the issues? The intent of the agent was obviously to sabotage the Brigade and bushwhack individual Musket members. That was one set of facts. The next was: What action would be appropriate against a member taking cash to betray his fellows? If it was an official organization member, we could simply revoke their membership. This informant wasn’t just an official member though; He was a covert active in the plot to destroy NADNARA arrays and had participated in three or four previous runs with Blevins. Blevins was one of the original non-covert founders, so we couldn’t just let it go. Fortunately, the informant didn’t know Blevins had other coverts such as himself or we might have lost them all.
In spite of this, I opposed having violence on our list of options, but the list was soon shortened. Although local and state law enforcement were involved in and assisted by NADNARA, it was a Federal system, a component of a Homeland Security appropriation. Musket Blevins wasn’t booked on misdemeanor charges of vandalism. He was charged with three felony counts of destroying U.S. government property. The government intended to make an example of him. During a rushed trial, the jury was shown video of him and an unidentified man (of course, his back was always to the camera) destroying three arrays in a single evening. The defense was weak, even hopeless. They had him cold. He got the maximum . . . 20 years!
Blevins had taught economics at a local university. He was a genius. I can’t understand most economic theory, but he adhered to something called Austrian”” economics and extolled the actions of New Zealand in bringing their government under control. He was incensed that the “expansion of credit by the Federal Reserve” (printing paper money with nothing to back it) could be considered detached from increases in M1, the quantity of paper money in circulation. He was active in state politics. Inflamed the Fed was inflating the currency at an annualized rate of 2 trillion dollars, often much more, he stressed the danger an enormous, growing national debt posed for the country’s economy and for future generations of Americans. His passion had generated student activism. His type goaded certain Washington power circles, and they had circled their wagons against him.
The press, provided with pre-articulated verbiage, crucified him as an “anti-government radical.” This was another application of the same pejorative used against the farmers in Tiffany's homeland. A bite from an interview during which a hawk professor said “I always thought he was deranged,” was played hundreds of times in the media during the trial and the judge did nothing. He and his wife lived in an affluent suburb and have three school-aged children. His career was destroyed, his family financially devastated and socially isolated by the arrest and conviction. Though his Musket membership was mentioned as just one among a list of negative statements made about him, Blevins was never asked a single question about the Muskets. The FBI knew nothing about the Brigade’s national leadership. Through it all, Federal prosecutors offered no deals in exchange for the name of the man he was with that night. Why would they? He was their man, and he never offered it to them in exchange for leniency. He had integrity. Nor did he offer up the national leadership. The FBI portrayed it as “two criminals caught destroying NADNARA Laser Net arrays.” They could hardly wait for the next plot with their informant.
The horror of what happened to Blevins, betrayal by a man considered a friend, the nature of the government sting, vicious manipulation of the press and the judiciary, could have two possible effects. The one intended by the government was of course dismay of the membership, dispiriting of the leadership, and the ignominious discredit of the organization as a whole. The other was a change of strategy and increased resolve.
The result was not what the government anticipated. My opposition to violence melted away and I had no choice but to go along, unless I wanted to be displaced as the leader. I didn’t try to dominate the Muskets. I guess we were essentially an adhocracy, because I felt it was better to make decisions as a committee and then form task forces to carry them out. We unanimously adopted the policy that attempts by Federal agents or paid informants to destroy the lives of good, patriotic Americans such as the Blevins, especially those with families, should be treated no differently than attacks by a foreign power. I was uncomfortable with this, but given the circumstances, I couldn’t raise a credible argument against it.
One thing always leads to another and once adopted, the policy compelled a reprisal. The reprisal would be against the informant and the agent and would include a counterattack against the government for having engineered the Blevins family catastrophe.
“What kind of counterattack is appropriate for 20 years of a man’s life?” Christof voiced the question.
“Very big.” Kicks Iron argued. “There’s a lot more to redress than that. How about his wife’s life? How about his children’s lives? How about changing the world by changing the futures for so many and everyone they know, and every life they would have touched? What would the world be like if the Cherokee had been left alone?”
How big the counterattack should be and the nature of it was a question dominating our discussions and my thoughts.
“Nothing we can do will be noticed.” I said. “We’re insignificant, hardly more than a public relations firm.”
Kicks Iron and Christof were right about one thing: Fighting NADNARA destroyed sensors, but it didn’t destroy NADNARA. The Muskets were just piddling around in that sense. I can’t say I didn’t know as much, but I still hoped. Why? Because, my upbringing was much like any other American kid’s. My world view was too timid to conceive strategic moves capable of generating genuine setbacks for the intimidating Federal dominion. Considering such operations made me feel isolated from my own heritage, vulnerable to self-condemnation. Americans are builders by nature, we’re not destroyers. Such big league intrigues seemed beyond comprehension. Surely you had to be a politician corrupted by exposure to the federal mentality to contemplate such things, things such as Waco and Wounded Knee.
Troubled by my thoughts, I decided to visit Blevins, express my . . . our . . . sorrow at his predicament, and also explore his feelings about what Kicks Iron and Christof were proposing. Although he taught economics, Blevins was a thoughtful man whose ideas and ideology ran deep and wide across many areas. His insights had tempered my anger and softened my anti-government sentiments in the past.
It was raining when I arrived at the penitentiary, cats and dogs as they say. By the time I was received, I was dripping wet and happy just to be out of the weather. I was surprised when he was escorted into the reception area wearing leg irons. I felt partly responsible for his humiliation. After all, had I not formed the Muskets, he’d still be a free man living with his family and fighting his political battles for fiscal responsibility in government. I put on my best engaging smile and tried to hide my outrage at the intimidation of his leg irons.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d enter these walls on your own!”
He seemed too relaxed to be genuine, but I took him at face value.
“I felt I owed you a visit just to make certain you still existed.” He laughed.
“Did you think they might drop me into a hole somewhere?”
“Maybe not that, but I thought you could use some contact with friendlies.”
“I’m surrounded by Friendlies in here, Eric. These guys are rather ‘hip’ about NADNARA.”
“You don’t say.”
“They’re not fooled. In fact, I’m teaching a course of sorts on the subject. Every night, a group gathers around me and I give a mini-lecture followed by a question and answer session.”
“I guess I assumed they’d have you stowed away in a private cell somewhere like McVeigh or the Unibomber to keep you on ice.”
“Oh, no. Once you’ve been processed through the system, they lose interest in you. Behind bars, I am on ice, because I'm discredited and out of circulation.”
“Then why the irons?” I asked.
“They’re just a reminder to visitors like you. A subtle message that you could be next.”
“Huh!”
“I’ve had many visitors, you know.”
“I wondered if you’d had any other than your family.”
“More than you’d imagine. At least a dozen of my former students have been by, some several times. Outraged, of course, and the Mises Institute sent a reporter here for an interview. Said they were doing a series of articles on NADNARA as a major symptom of the breakdown of freedom and democracy. Also, several reps from the Independent party. It’s been quite busy the last few months. I’ve just changed my office location.”
He laughed again. What a guy! Even imprisoned, he seemed undaunted.
“How’s your family taking it?”
“About as you’d probably imagine. My wife is devastated both from what’s happened and from the constant humiliation of the family. Not everyone gets it yet. There are still many, many duped patriots out there.”
“I know your sons are mad as hell.”
“Yes and I’m a little worried about them. I told them to be careful, not do anything foolish. One Blevins is enough; don't go starting a family tradition. I got a Good Citizen’s Award from the Rotary Club too, if you can believe it!”
“Wow! I guess you’ve made an impact.”
“I have. It’s made a lot of people think about where the country’s heading and brought many ostrich heads out of the sand, people who’d like not to deal with it mentally or ethically, but now are forced to confront the issues squarely.”
“I suppose that gives you a measure of relief.”
“It does. It shows at least that my sacrifice is worth something. The country will benefit, even if I’ve paid a price for it.”
“Are they monitoring what we say in here? I think I expected to be looking at you through a wire-impregnated, glass window and speaking through a phone routed through a monitor.”
“No,” he chuckled, amused at my paranoia, “As I said, I don’t pose a problem any more. They think they’ve discredited me and anything I might say. They haven’t, but they think so.”
“Are we free to say anything we want?”
“Is there something you wanted to say but were afraid to address?”
“A lot, but not if there’s a chance of anyone else hearing.”
“Go ahead. The guard in the far corner is a buddy, against NADNARA too! You can change the subject if anyone gets too close for comfort, but I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m telling you, the country’s on our side!”
I told him how angry we were that he was betrayed by an informant, that it was a sting operation, that we were debating a response, Kick’s Iron’s attitude, Christof’s headlong push for a terrorist-level strike against the government.
“Stop there for a moment,” he said. “Tell me how you feel about those ideas.”
“I think they’ve advanced far beyond our anti-NADNARA activities. That’s why I formed the Muskets. On the other hand, I understand their motivations. They may be greater patriots than I. Or maybe I’m just not as brave. That’s what they think.”
“They’re talking the same shit as my boys. It’s not patriotic, It’s foolish, reckless, and very dangerous. You have to resist crossing that line, Eric, because once you do, you’re not a patriot any longer. You’re an Anarchist. The public will no longer be with you. You’re on your own. Currently, Musket ideals enjoy popular support. NADNARA is an unreasonable imposition and everyone knows it. They know down deep in a part of their soul they may ignore, but they know. They hate it–they hate their cowardice–but they know. They treasure our institutions. It’s the men in power who are misusing and subverting those institutions, and they’re the ones who will eventually be discredited, not the institutions themselves. That’s what you have to remember! You’ll be doing your friends a favor.”
“God, Blevins! You sound as if you think we should just sit back and take it, no matter what they dish out.” I was confused by his attitude.
“Eric, If I thought that way, I wouldn’t be in here, now would I?”
“Of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. I honor you. I really do. You’re a Nathan Hale patriot, compared to me.”
“It’s studied patriotism, Eric. At times, I get the feelings you’re attributing to them, but I push them away, because they aren’t the answer. They lead in a direction away from where America needs to go.”
“To listen to Kicks Iron, you’d think . . . “
”Eric, Kicks Iron can’t address such thoughts rationally. They’re beyond him because of his heritage. He has a picture in his mind of how America arose out of conquest.”
“He’s pretty convincing!”
“And he’s right. This prison is sitting in former Mexican territory, territory we took on a trumped up premise that the Spanish weren’t using it anyway. We dreamed up a reason and just took it, essentially stole it just as we stole Texas and everything between. We lost our way after we began displacing the Indian nations. If we wanted this territoty, we should have purchased it, like the Louisana Purchase and Seward's Folly. It wasn't folly; Seward was a visionary. He’s right about all of it. But there’s more than one way to view history.”
“Only if you bury the facts under slogans such as, ‘Remember the Alamo!”
“I understand where you’re coming from. It’s a travesty what we did to the Indian nations. It was a clash of cultures. We craved land, and it appeared they weren’t using it. Today, that logic wouldn’t fly, but then, it was different. Bush Jr. Tried to revive it, but he failed miserably.”
“You made a point of California and the southwest, Blevins, so let’s consider that. It was Mexican territory, but they weren’t using it. All they had was a dozen missions or so scattered along the coast.”
“ . . . A dozen missions, or so? Eric, they had a cattle empire! Didn’t you read Richard Henry Dana’s book, Two Years Before the Mast in your teens?”
“I was aware of it, but I never read it. I was too caught up in On Safari and Trek Across the Veldt and Jack London's other stories.“
“Great reading also, but you should. It gives a good snapshot of what California was like, written by an educated, but bored man who became a sailor and kept a journal of what transpired from the time he signed on in Boston. He spent a couple of years at sea and on the California coast before returning to New England. He published it in 1840. It’s a true outsider view–an American view–of what California was like in those times. It’s a view quite different than you’d expect. There was a lot of silver available in California, but the ships traded goods brought from Boston round Cape Horn and up to the west coast of California for hides. That was the real currency of Spanish California in the mid-1800’s. Some of the ships could carry as many as forty thousand hides on the return trip home.”
“Forty Thousand!”
“In the 1840’s! How much commerce were we doing in 1840? And there were many ships, Eric. Who can say, ‘They weren’t using the land?’”
“As an Economics professor, it must intrigue the hell out of you.”
“It did, no more than the peppercorns used as currency by the ancient Sumerians. But there was much more to be learned than the hard life of sailors earning twelve dollars per month in the Merchant Marine in the early 1800’s or the details of the hide trade. Dana spent months at a time on the coast, working in the curing houses. He had access to the towns that grew up around the missions. He described the lifestyles, the people, invaluable historic detail not encountered elsewhere. He made general and detailed observations of immense importance to our understanding of what several parts of this continent and the commerce they undertook was like then.”
“You make me want to run out and buy it as soon as I leave.” I said.
“A bookstore is a good place to get in from the rain. And after you finish it, send it to me. I’d enjoy reading it again myself. It’s a way of getting out of here for a while, even if only in my mind.”
“You’re making certain I purchase it, aren’t you?”
“Why not? It can be my good turn for the day.”
“What’s the book got to do with your argument about patriotism, though? It sounds like an adventure story.”
“It is, to be sure, a great one. But the vastness and resources of California were too much for cattle alone. Dana mused about what an “industrious, enterprising” people–that would us, right?–might accomplish in such a land. There’s no mistaking his conclusion that the locals were indolent, the Missions neglected and run down, and he felt the lifestyle reflected a long term absence of productivity, notwithstanding the enormity of the cattle industry. You see, that’s what a clash of cultures is all about: value judgments. Value judgments are just justifications, equivocations. Dana was from Boston, the heartbeat of the American economy in the first decades of the nineteenth century and he could only envisage what Bostonian culture could accomplish in California, with its fertile valleys and wealth of natural resources. His intuitive conclusions were certainly verified. Today, the one state of California is often the fifth most powerful economy on earth by itself. But in those days, California was like Alaska is to the continental U.S. today. Far away, almost mythical, seen by few, too vast to imagine populating. And where’s our Bostonian attitude today? Oops! Today, there are people attempting to make the whole of it–including its vast resources–like Dana saw in California one big park! No drilling for oil, no mining, hell, no people! Don’t you see the hypocrisy, Eric?”
“You’re saying that our attitude is that the end justifies the means. If someone can take another’s land or country and make it more productive, its seizure is justified.”
“By that analogy, we deserve to lose Alaska. After all, what did we do to California? Smog so thick it overflows the L.A. Basin and spoils the high desert! Saline soils from over-irrigation! We’re doing a great job as productive Bostonians!”
“I guess we have to judge the dominion of governments based upon different criteria.”
“America was large enough to tolerate the rapine of the Europeans who occupied it for a time. It took a while to turn the beautiful lands stolen from the Indians into dark, dingy cities. Oh, we were an industrious, enterprising people, indeed. But we were also children of a millennium of war and conflict throughout Europe. We overflowed this continent with it, killing and stealing our way. Eventually, we set our sights on doing the same to the world. Like Rome, we rationalize our hegemony by harking back to “just” men, the founders, and the institutions they imparted to us. If the institutions are just, they are worthy of existence. Our actions were not consistent with the ethical basis of our institutions. Thus, “all men” excluded Indians and slaves. Ah, the bliss of being the Christians! The noble descendants of land poachers, robber barons, and slave traffickers!”
“That’s a dangerous proposition.”
“Perhaps, but it lies at the core of the Declaration of Independence. That’s why no American Indian or Black citizen should have to pay a dime for a world-class education, Eric. The Founding Fathers basically said that man has the right to judge a government on the basis of its institutions. They said that the King of England had violated the inalienable rights of man and because of that, they had the right to throw off British government. But we failed miserably to follow through on that assertion. We let it waste away.”
“It sounds as though you’re making Kicks Iron and Christof’s argument for them.”
“Only in the most basic sense. We can’t all leave and go back to Europe. The fact is, NADNARA notwithstanding, Waco notwithstanding, our institutions still survive. When they cease to survive, America’s right to exist ends. We will have defaulted. That's why I joined the Muskets. You won't find many men of my statute willing to destroy Laser Net arrays.”
“You see your imprisonment as a sacrifice on behalf of our institutions, then, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“Until today, I thought of it more as a thorn-in-the-flesh of those who are undermining them.”
“My incarceration has focused a great deal of thought upon the entire subject.”
“Yet, you don’t agree with Kicks Iron and Christof.”
“I think it’s still too soon to throw in the towel. That’s what I mean by studied patriotism. A militant strike against them will divide the country, because it leaves us with no place to go.”
“Why?”
“Because it drives people into extreme opinions, extreme points of view. Extreme points of view are irrational points of view. Irrational logic separates us, rather than drawing us closer together. Does that make sense?”
‘I think I understand your sense of history. But I think Kicks Iron would say what it yields in the end is just an eloquent apology.”
“An apologist justifies the abominations I admit.”
“I predict he’ll declare it just a more pedantic rationalization. I don’t think I can sell it.“
”If you can use it to moderate their propensity for an extreme response, I think the day will come that you’ll be glad you did.”
We talked a while longer, discussing other topics and parted after I promised to buy and read Two Years Before the Mast. Why not, I thought? Maybe I’d see Blevins’ point-of-view more clearly. The guy is a fucking genius compared to me.
My partners rejected Blevins’ arguments outright, just as I knew they would.
“What do you expect him to say, Eric?” Kicks Iron hissed. “The guy has to believe he’s given up his family and his freedom for a good cause.”
“You can’t take the logic of someone looking out through bars at face value.” Christof added. “For one thing, his bull leads nowhere, accomplishes zero, and as you intimated, it’s basically apologetic. The libraries are full of apologies of everything from the Catholic Inquisition to southern slavery. This isn’t a time for apologies. It’s a time for action. History will condemn us if we do nothing.”
They were two and I was one. Further, I lacked their zeal and passion, so I suspected it was probable that they were the more correct. At length, Blevins’ counsel paled and I gave in. To wrap a ribbon around the matter, it developed into this: The assistance certain foreigners were offering through Carl would empower us to stun Washington. It might enable us to become a significant deterrent to Federal encroachment against the constitution. The capital could be made untraceable, they argued. We were taking in around $25,000 every month in membership and newsletter fees, but the operation envisioned by Christof, Kicks Iron, and Carl following the Blevins affair, which they had code-named Milk Truck, was prohibitive in cost by comparison. They had gotten together in Kslispell over the summer when I was up to my ass in alligators building a subdivision in Southern California and envisaged building a Dirty Bomb (!) and detonating it on a military base. I considered the idea anathema. It exacerbated Blevins’ warnings. Even if I had agreed, it would require daunting technology to pull off, technology we lacked. For you to understand what happened next in context, I need to give you background on Carl. You'll notice I never mention his last name.
My friend, Carl and I had grown up together in Tucson. We played together as kids because his family lived next door. We did everything together except for six months after I broke his collar bone while we were playing wrestler and his Mom had it in for me. She eventually realized it was just boys will be boys and stopped considering me a ruffian. Carl's were very wealthy, but equally conservative in their lifestyle. His dad was some kind of consultant, but I never really understood what he actually did or who he worked for. They took frequent trips abroad, almost the whole of some summers. I hated those summers, because Carl and I didn't see each other for three months and he was my best friend. Robert was older than me, so even though we were brothers, other than fishing and hunting, and the occasional boating trip, we didn't spend every minute of every day together like Carl and I did when he wasn't off somewhere on the other side of the world. They were Muslims, though his mom only wore her chador around her home and friends. When they went it out, she dressed pretty much like any other woman, but never in short skirts, high life French bras, or anything she considered immodest. I never even saw in a swim normal swim suit. Every fall, when they returned so Carl wouldn't miss any school. Carl didn't seem quite the same person and it took awhile him to get back into the swing of things. I supposed I seemed a little different too, because increasingly, I was ranging far and wide, more every year, and usually alone on horseback, and bumming around Mexico as we approached puberty.
The real difference was Carls superior intellect and devotion to education. It shames me to reveal that, but I was a more typical kind of Tucsonian. There was still plenty of wild country all around in every direction, and I came to know all of it like the back of my hand. My school days were usually spent doing as little as I could get away with, thinking about girls and daydreaming about the next weekend, but Carl's were spent in intense study. He always had the highest score in every class on every test in every subject. When too people are that different, even if their best friends, a part of each is growing in opposite directions. The most hurtful thing he said to me once when I wasn't participating as much in one of his deep discussions following a class in Civics and Government was, “Eric, you're the shallowest person I ever met!”
We always considered each other to be best friends, but Carl was clearly out of my intellectual league. Later, in High School, I got serious, but he was so far out there ahead of me, I knew parity would never be possible. He was fond of saying he intended to make a difference in the world. Well, we all say that, don't we?
I was always an avid reader, but he outread me too. While I was reading adventure, suspense, and mystery, and struggling through the required reading of War and Peace, he was reading Nietzsche, Hobbes, Machiavelli, Locke, and Kant. Not just reading, but cross-referencing them in his own self-generated research project that grew to book-sized proportions. And who ever tossed around William of Ockham, Malebranch or Frege like they were his cousins? I'm telling you, this just isn't normal for a tenth grader. I don't know where you grew up, but you're not going to find many tenth graders like Carl within a state in any direction from where I was raised. Especially irritating was that my parents treated him like he their son. If he actually had been, I would have been reduced to dunce status. There was nothing wrong with me. I was a product of my time and where I was raised. It's just that Carl was extraorinarily rare and extraorinarily special. There's no other way to put it. I hope that doesn't make you think less of me to admit it.
Something really terrible happened during the summer following our sophomore year. While on a trip to someplace in California, a woman driving in the opposite direction lost control of her car during a heavy rain and it crossed the highway and hit their car almost head on. Miraculously, Carl had only slight injuries. His mother was killed instantly, and his father fought desperately to live, but died six weeks later, leaving Carl as the sole survivor having just turned seventeen. The entire community it seemed was there when his Uncle Wady, who had flown from overseas to California shorly after the accident, arrived with Carl in Tucson almost two months later. Carl was surrounded by everyone, offering comfort, bringing meals to their house, anxious to help in any way they could. His uncle was openly humbled by such an outpouring of love. He was an unpretentious man, dressed like an Arab shiek, robe and all, and my exposure to him gave me a good idea where Carl's towering intellect had come from. Crushed and dismayed by his brother's death, Mr. Wady-I didn't know what else to call him-put the house on the market, settled his brother and sister-in-law's affairs, and in by the end of August, left with Carl for Washington, D.C., where others of his mother's family lived. Carl told me his Uncle felt remorse that he had opposed his father's marriage to his mother, who was half European. He stayed with her sister for over a month after Carl had begun his senior year in High School before returning to the Middle East.
The period between their arrival in Tucson and their departure for D.C., when Carl and I were together again, was not a happy time. Carl was suffering. The reality of it weighed heavily upon him. It was the only period of his life during which I ever saw him shed so many tears. I'm a weeper. I cry in sad movies, during certain songs, watching certain programs, and watching anything of excellence and beauty combined, particularly ballet and ice-skating. Things that extend human capability almost beyond believable limits. Carl wasn't like that. He retreated into deep thought and reflection when things upset him. I was an obverser, but he was a player.
Our family's move to Kalispell, Montana almost exactly coincided with Carl's departure for D.C. We had both been ripped out of the life we had known together at the same time.
During my Senior year, I did my best to mimic Carl. My grades were excellent, even though it was a new school and I knew no one upon arrival. Carl called almost every week. He had given me his aunt's phone number before they left, and as soon as our phone was in, I had called him and given him our number. We chatted almost nightly on the Internet.
It's hard to maintain a relationship across distance, even if you talk every week and chat daily. I was missing Carl. Robert and I were closest during that year because he knew how alone I felt and tried to fill in for Carl as much as he could. I love him dearly. He's my only sibling. But he's no Carl. He just wanted to find a good woman in Kalispell, a good job, get married, and have a family. Since we were only two, he wanted a bigger family. He met Becky that year, a divorced school teacher with a daughter, Cynthia. She lived just east of Kalispell on a small 20-acre ranchette her father had deeded to her. Robert had gotten a job as a police officer not long after our arrival. He could have stayed in Tucson, but he wanted our family to be close together, so he had left his job there and moved with us. It's kinda funny how he and Becky met. He stopped her for speeding. I laugh every time I think about it. He related, and she blushingly admits, that she really turned on her feminine charm to talk him out of that ticket, and he agreed on condition that she share a movie and dinner with him the following weekend. She did. She didn't get a ticket; she got a new husband instead. The rest is history.
Things didn't go so storybook with me. I graduated in the top ten percent of my class, but didn't have any close male friends yet. And the one girl I thought I could get serious about liked another guy as well. He may a move on her on the parking lot right after the Prom while I was getting my car. I was so angry to find him trying to hit on her when I returned that I jumped out of the car and a fistfight ensued. We were both well drunk by then, so it was pretty vigorous. Some of his friends and a couple of the chaperons pulled us apart, but the girl was so upset that she refused to have anything to do with either of us after that. Carl and I had communicated less and less as graduation approached, because the second half of Senior year is a big deal at that age. It's a false universe, but your in it. Carl was accepted at a Georgtown's prestigious law school. He could have gone anywhere he wanted and they would have been honored to have him. He was also Valdictorian of his class. No surprise there.
I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life at that point. The loss of my girlfriend just made me more depressed. I happened to see a Greyhound ad advertising a summer pass you could purchase that would allow you to take any bus anywhere all summer. That sounded like a good idea to me. I went west to D.C. First and spent two weeks with Carl, helping him move from his aunt's home to a really nice and very upscale townhouse near Georgetown Law Center. I could see he really had it all together. We hit as many great restaurants as follows and took a virtual tour of D.C., which he had come to know well. Most of these involved numerous of his friends, including women. Carl was always a polished dresser, familiar with protocol, and his women friends looked like finishing school graduates, flawless in every respect and detail. His father's estate had been placed in a trust fund by his uncle Wady, and upon graduation, it was his. He had become a very wealthy man. He knew what was coming as soon as I arrived, and insisted on talking me to several Men's stores and outfitting me properly. Still, I was uncomfortable and felt out of place around everyone but him. The Smithsonian was the most unforgettable experience. I was overwhelmed by it's size, and the enormity and diversity of its collections. We hit all the national momuments. We moved through a packed schedule at a dizzying pace.
One night, when we were having a deep conversation, standard with Carl, I asked him,
“Carl, I hope you don't become corrupted by the D.C. life and culture. You seem to be perfectly set up for just that.” I was genuinely concerned.
“Not a chance, Eric. My mission is just the opposite. It's imposing, yes, but I'm different in some very special ways. I won't fall victim to it. I intend to work to change it. Our institutions are too valuable to let them disintegrate as a consequence of the very thing you're referring to. I'm not alone. There are many here who have the same purpose. But you can't succeed at anything by nibbling at the edges. I'm preparing myself so I can work from a position of strength. It's the only way to change this country.”
He tried to pursuade me to move in with him, but I told him D.C. Wasn't my kind of town. A few days later, I took the bus south to Key West, Florida after shipping most of what I had accumulated at his insistence and expense to Kalispell. It took days to get there, but it was worth it. He had put a roll in my hand during our parting handshake and embrace, one of the few times I've seen tears in Carl's eyes, refusing to take it back.
I spent the next ten days snorkeling and scuba diving, hitting the quaint bars, shops, and seafood restaurants in the keys. When I was on the reefs there, it was the most peaceful, therapeutic part of my summer excursion. Before leaving to begin working my way to Tucson across the south, I sent Robert and Becky a batch of picture postcards, and a similar batch to my parents.
I've already told you about meeting Christof when I arrived in El Paso.
This brings me forward to the day Kick's Iron and Christoff confronted me with their Milk Truck project. Carl had visited them that summer while I was gone, and the three of them had worked it out together. I knew it had Carl's stamp on it.
Carl was a ghost member unattached to any office. He had joined the Muskets within days of the night we formed it, and made an anonymous contribution online that I knew came from him that got us off to a really good start.
Personally, I preferred not to allow him near them, nor in the vicinity of the Montana headquarters. Not because he was a Muslim. I’m not prejudiced. He just posed too big a risk. I told him,
“You know far better than I, Carl, that government snooping under Homeland Security targets any Arab-American. Being seen with you could focus attention on the Muskets. It could bring all hell down on us.”
“I hate to say it, old friend, but you’re such a coward when it comes to real commitment. Do you have any idea who I've become and the position of strength I'm in now? No, you don't,” he retorted, but I've taken it farther. I have connections, lots of them, and these are powerful connections. You remember when you were here in D.C. All the things we discussed? Look at the crap that's happened during the ensuing years.”
“Look, Carl, I’m not in the mood to listen to you enumerate all of the horrible things the U.S. has done in the Middle East. Hussein was an animal and regardless of the pretext we used for taking him out, the world is a better place for it. I know it was about oil, but oil aside, the Iraqi people are still better off, at least they will be in the long run. Saddam murdered a quarter of a million Shiites after the Gulf War for their uprising against him.”
“Yeah, and Bush promised to support them in return, but did he? No, he let Hussein butcher them. Then U.S. sanctions following the Gulf war killed well over a hundred thousand children, Eric. They even banned a dehydration pill that cost a penny and could have saved tens of thousands of children!”
“I don’t defend that. I’ll give you the point. It was unforgivable, but at least Iraq is free of a madman now.”
“Right, and while Israel has more than a hundred nuclear weapons, and the U.S. stood by while they bombed Iraq’s nuclear facilities, an act of outright aggression. Don’t talk to me about liberation for Iraqis. America has killed more Iraqis than Saddam ever did. And did George W. Follow through? Hell no, and he never intended to. The American people wouldn't stand for it. He left in a depression on his way out. But that's all beside the point. NADNARA is the last straw. It has to stop, Eric. It has to stop now. The time for equivocation is passed. You have to adjust your thinking. You can't represent Joe Sixpack as you like to refer to him any longer. You have to represent our institutions and you have to become aware of what's actually happening before our eyes.”
I could never compete intellectually with Carl. He was too far above, looked down from too high a mountain. As a constitution law specialist, he saw things in a light I couldn't. It was like I was looking at a body with my eyes, and he was looking at an x-ray.

Chapter Four

Turning Point


What energized my concession to consider the help offered by Carl’s family was the prospect of a complete split with Christof and Kicks Iron if they became convinced that my tendency to cavil was the stalling of a coward. Carl had already had stated it outright to me. I don’t know why that mattered so much to me. Ego, I guess. We each live in our own universe. In mine, on the one hand, they wanted to undertake an operation that filled me with apprehension. Radioactive isotopes! Can you imagine my anxiety when they said this with a straight face? This was way out there beyond smashing Laser Net arrays. On the other hand, if they began to suspect I was merely an erstwhile leader gutless to proceed to the next logical step of a true patriot committed to saving our institutions after the Blevins sting, what would happen to my position as leader?
“Who gives a shit?” you ask.
If only it had appeared so vacuous to me then!
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Christof responded when I pointed out the limited resistance the Muskets espoused: destroying Laser Net arrays.
“We could plan an attack that would deliver to the government the same relative damage they did to Blevins’ legacy and to all of us.”
“Christof, we have neither the resources nor the power for anything so dramatic.” I was glad we didn’t. “We’re like a mosquito on an elephant’s ass. If he farts, he’ll blow the hell out of the mosquito!”
“You’re talking out both sides of your mouth, Eric. If a Tyrannosaurus rex chomps a 100-pound chunk out his hind quarters, farting won’t help, will it?”
“Crude, Kicks Iron. That analogy isn’t even applicable. There is no Tyrannosaurus rex.”
“You could stop snubbing Carl.” Kicks Iron said. “You could get serious about what we’re doing.”
“Kicks Iron, I started this outfit. I’m damned serious.”
“Yeah, you did,” Christof said, “which puts the onus on you to exert the leadership necessary to direct an appropriate response. We could use Carl’s connections.”
“Do you realize the temerity of what you’re saying? His ‘connections’ are international terrorists.”
“They’re not terrorists. That’s just a bull shit excuse you use to obscure your phobia. They’re Muslims. Being a Muslim doesn’t make one a terrorist any more than being a Cherokee makes you a steer to be driven halfway across the country at the point of a gun.”
“They’d destroy this country if they could. They hate Christians.”
“I’m not a Christian. I’m an American.” Christof replied.
“If we got involved with people such as that, we’d be traitors. They don’t want to change the country, they want to destroy it. Democracy’s an alien concept to them. So is a true Republic. What in hell could we possibly have in common with the likes of them?”
“Excluding religion, just about everything at the moment,” he said. “Don’t worry, Eric . . . We won’t let them run the show. We’ll just use them for our own purposes. If you want a counterattack for Blevins that’s relative, relevant in a proportional sense, an honest sense, it means explosives. It means bombs, a Dirty bomb that can despoil a military base for a generation. That’s a prospect that troubles even the U.S. government. An appropriate response has to be more than just smashing a few more arrays.”
“Dirty bombs contain radioactive agents like plutonium. The chances of us getting our hands on plutonium are zero. It takes more than plutonium. It takes technology.”
“Carl can get whatever’s necessary. I’d be willing to bet on it.” Kicks Iron said. “I don’t think technology is a big deal either if we commit to action of that scope. I’m for it. Blevins has a wife. He could fuck her whenever he wanted. He had a life and a reputation. Now he’s counted a criminal. I say we get Carl involved, stop keeping him on the outer edge. I say we build a Dirty Bomb and kick the government in the teeth. That’s a ‘relative’ counterattack in my opinion.”
“We’re with you, Eric,” Christof added, “but consider this: With Carl, we have a chance to alter the history of this nation. We have people devoted to Musket ideology who believe in constitutional government, people willing to risk everything, just as Blevins did. They all know they’re one unlucky break away from joining him. He believed in us, in you; they’ll be watching to see how far you’re willing to go to back them up. It’s all in how you’re willing to think, how important you’re willing to be. Few would make our argument, but the few have always been the ones to alter the course of history, so why not us?”
“You’re really for building a Dirty Bomb?”
“Yes, since you make it such a rueful point, I am.”
“A lot of people would die, innocent people.”
“So?” Kicks Iron argued. “So what? That’s the point this country was founded upon. Innocent people died during the Revolutionary War. Ever since this country has been systematically mimicking the English Crown. How many innocent Cherokees do you think died? How many innocent women and children from a hundred Indian nations? Are the citizens descended from the perpetrators of those atrocities better than our Indian forebears? Pardon you, but I don’t think so!”
“You’re resolving everything to a single issue. This isn’t a game.”
“It is a game, Eric. Life is a game! We need to seize a single issue and fix upon a course of action,” Christof stressed. “You can’t ruminate forever and accomplish anything.”
“How … about … a … good … game … of … Chess?” Kicks Iron mocked.”
“War Games was just a movie. This game is for keeps.”
“You know you want to play.”
Unless I wanted them in charge, I realized I would have to play. But how powerful were Carl’s connections, really? Carl wasn’t a boaster. He was an Iraqi attorney who did charitable and voluntary work for Amnesty International. He gave lectures at the U.N., exposing how the U.S. used sanctions to kill hundreds of thousands of Iraqi children following the Gulf War. He had integrity, but he was on the wrong side of the political street after 9/11, and his arguments sounded hollow after the fall of Hussein’s regime, at least in American ears. I believed his assertion that those with a ‘long memory’ would strike again, that 9/ll was just a new “shot heard round the world,” the opening volley of the humiliation of the United States for its imperialistic adventures internationally. But did his relatives overseas have the access to resources he claimed? I felt certain they didn’t, so I went through the motions of asking as a ploy to defuse the antipathy of my friends. How about a good game of Chess?
During the heart-to-heart with Carl I promised Christof and Kicks Iron, I advanced the question, expecting his countenance to fall immediately. I requested enough radioactive material to construct a Dirty bomb, one that could spoil a military base. Instead, he became enthusiastic, said he could make it happen. He didn’t flinch, but he could have been sold a bill of goods by his Uncle. Then I waited for hot air to blow somewhere between the plan for a Dirty bomb and Carl’s relatives. Carl called me ten days later.
“The source is sending plutonium and cesium. They prefer that the bomb be detonated in a heavily populated civilian area.”
“Like hell!” I blasted him. “The Muskets would never attack American citizens directly. They’re whistling Dixie. What did you tell them about us? We’re not a terrorist organization. Forget it! This obviously isn’t going to work. It’s too dangerous anyway.”
“Just hold on, don’t get your dander up. I already told the old man that strategy’s not going to fly, that you want to blow up a base. He’s getting back to them.”
“You need to make it real clear what we’re about, so they’re not under the impression shipping that material’s going to result in a 9/11 scenario. That’s not going to happen . . . ever!”
“Details endanger security. They don’t know shit about the Muskets except what’s on the PR website. When the request to kill civilians came back, I had a talk with Uncle Wady. I didn’t tell him about Montana, but I explained the nature of our objectives. He asked for specific information he could give them. They have to have something. He told me the source was willing to spend the money, take the risks, get the isotopes off the black market, and arrange for shipment. But they want some kind of target detail.”
I took out the tiny notebook I always carried in my shirt pocket and wrote down the name of the target. I didn’t want to. It wasn’t my choice; It was Kicks Iron’s and he had Christof’s total support.
“If this gets out, we’ll never trust your uncle or his connections again.” I warned.
Carl read the name of the target.
“Is this for real?” he asked.
“You should know; you three planned it while I was out of town.”
“We planned the concept, Eric, not a specific base. This has Kicks Iron written all over it. Georgia? That's former Cherokee Land as you know.”
“Yes. Security is lax there. They’ve observed who enters and exits and they’re certain we can pull this off. Is that good enough for your Uncle Wady?”
“Whew! This will light their fire!”
“I’ll bet,” I thought, resenting Carl’s enthusiasm. I felt as if I’d just lost one of those arguments that often threatened our friendship.
“It’s a rain . . . ny night in Georgia” Carl began singing from Brook Benton’s song.
I laughed, but I was totally unprepared for what followed. Fewer than thirty days later, Carl was notified back through his family when, where, and how the materials would arrive. I was astonished, having thought it completely out of reach for them. Moreover, his uncle had secured their provision in accordance with our Musket ideological limitation against direct, civilian strikes, which left me with no further credible opposition.
The shipment was smuggled in through Westport, Washington, concealed in the hull of a fishing boat. Five containers of plutonium and eight of powdered cesium were welded inside hollow steel members. They had been overlaid with wood afterward to make them seem normal timbers. Carl showed me an email–God knows how they provided for that to remain untraceable–informing him that a quantity of another substance, technetium, was needed. What blew my mind was the tip they provided. Their “intelligence sources” knew of a pending shipment en route to Nevada for disposal by rail. With my agreement, Kicks Iron, Christof, and Robert dumped an entire truckload of concrete atop an iron grid work welded to the track at a remote location. Colliding with the dried reinforced concrete mass, the train derailed. No one died. With the help of other M-Montana covert members, the most radical of any–including my brother, Robert–they absconded with all the technetium except the contents from a single container. Some of this, they scattered about, safely somehow, then blew the remainder and empty containers with enough C-4 to create an airborne plume, dispersing it down-wind across the terrain. By the time rescue and DOE teams arrived, it appeared “those reactionary Nevadans” opposed to reactor waste disposal in their state had derailed the train and blown up the shipment. Thus, the technetium ceased to exist as far as anyone but a few Muskets knew.

Chapter Five

Unwilling Sacrifice

Without regret, I formed a task force of Christof and Kicks Iron and included Blevins two sons who had joined as covert members after his incarceration. They intercepted the informant and agent as they left a local restaurant where they were known to pow wow after each monthly Musket meeting. Outside the restaurant was the first time they had met the four.
“We can’t just go with you without any notice,” the agent protested, “and if we did, we’d follow you in one of our cars. Where are you wanting to go anyway?”
“It’s a mission for the national Musket organization. We do more than smash sensors, you know,” Christof advised. “We can’t tell you the location because it’s covert. Can we rely on you or not? I was told you two are good coverts.”
An FBI’ task force had reviewed a recorded conversation overheard following a meeting of M-Texas by an infiltrated member there. The report raised the suspicion that a secret, national Musket cult existed, unknown to most local members. The agent had sat in on that meeting more than a year ago. That much time had passed with no leads. Surveillance of the other nine commanders, Blevin’s counterparts, often around-the-clock, had failed to turn up a single lead. They’d about abandoned the possibility. Now four members of the elusive, national cult were inviting them along on a clandestine mission. The agent could imagine the aggrandizement of his career such a singlehanded breakthrough would afford.
“There’s no ‘national’ Muskets,” The informant objected, nervously stepping toward his car.
“Yes there is. There must be.” The agent reassured, playing along,“How else would these four men know us if there wasn’t?”
“You’re with us, then?”
“Sure. We want to make all the difference we can,” the agent said. “Let’s go along, they need our help,” he told the informant.
“Leave your cell phones inside your vehicles so they can’t be used to trace our movements. It’s a standard precaution.” Christof said.
“I need to let some friends know I won’t be there tonight.” The agent responded. Flipping his phone open, he started to walk beyond ear shot and notify his buddies, but one of Blevin’s sons grabbed his arm.
“He just told you it’s secret! Any call has to be listened to by another member . . . standard procedure.”
“Well, it’s not that big a problem.” The agent replied. He opened the door of his vehicle and made a point of casually laying it on the front seat, but he’d pushed the button to automatically dial his office and placed it upside down before closing the door and setting the car alarm.
“I need to call home.” The informant said, looking at Christof.
“Make the call now.”
“Hi Sue! It’s me,” he said when he had her, “I’m not going to be home for a while . . . There’s something I have to do with my friend.”
“That’s enough.” Christof said, closing the phone. “Sorry to intimidate you, but we have rules.”
Christof had no way of knowing that the words ‘my friend’ tipped off the informant’s wife he was with the FBI agent. The relationship and the payoff from the FBI had enabled them to purchase thousands of dollars in luxuries they couldn’t otherwise afford.
Christof took the agent and informant in his Suburban with Blevin’s sons. Kicks Iron followed anywhere from one to two miles behind to watch their back. He traveled alone because he didn’t want the traitors to know he had enough weapons in the back to stand down a SWAT team in the event they met with any trouble or needed to eliminate any vehicle that attempted to follow Christof. They drove continuously for hours, eventually arriving at a remote mine in Montana, pausing only for piss breaks and a gas stop along an otherwise deserted section of the highway. To use the time, Christof fed them bull shit about Musket operations, total fantasies. The agent was careful not to appear overly interested as he manipulated Christof–or so he thought–into revealing what they’d be doing. Christof told them they were making explosives and needed some help mixing them, that it was pretty straightforward since the materials weren’t dangerous without a blasting cap. It was obvious that neither of them knew dip about explosives and would be easy to fool. Overall, it was entertaining to Christof and Blevins’ boys and kept them from getting bored. Neither the agent nor the informant evidenced any suspicion of hostile intent.
“This is good,” Christof thought to himself.
Without prior notification, with no opportunity to tip off other feds, the two traitors were instructed to combine the plutonium, cesium, and technetium, mixing them together with a sulfur compound. The mixture was then packed tightly in new containers. They handled the material with cement trowels wearing only rubber gloves and paper dust shields over their noses for “protection.” They had no idea what they were handling. Christof told them it was a new kind of plastic. Both became ill, first the informant before the many hours long process was even completed and the agent soon after. The armed watch by other Muskets appeared to be routine, but actually, they had remained at a safe distance until the process had been completed and the new containers were stacked side-by-side in a corner of the mine and hidden under a layer of large stones.
Kicks Iron surprised the agent with a fist to the abdomen with such force it lifted him off his feet. Kicks Iron is an enormous fellow and the agent laid motionless for several moments, looking as dead as Custer. Before he recovered the power to breathe enough to moan, Kicks Iron wrapped one end of a logging chain around his neck and attached a padlock through two links. He attached the other end to a mine post a foot thick six feet away, and padlocked it the same way. That agent wasn’t going anywhere. Then he shoved him down onto a chair beside a rotting, rough-hewn, board table built by the original miners god knows when.
Blevins’s sons simultaneously fell upon the informant. They stood him with his back against the post, pulled his arms around it from behind, and cuffed his wrists. Lloyd Blevins was the first to slap him upside the head. The open-handed smack resounded off the walls of the mine.
“You betrayed a great man when you sold out our father and our family for money.” Lloyd shouted. “You didn’t just take money; you even acted out the scenario to set him up, that got him twenty years! How can you live with that?”
The informant, his face bloodless as a sheet of notebook paper, certain that death was imminent, looked toward the agent, sullen . . . speechless.
“Why are you looking at him? He doesn’t care about you, do you?” Edmund Blevins asked, looking at the agent. “Tell him he’s just your patsy.” he demanded.
The agent was mute until Edmund bloodied his nose. “Tell him, you son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll pick up a timber and crack your fucking skull!”
“I do my job. He was part of making that possible.” The agent said it with a detached, formal air that seemed to embarrass him. The informant remained silent.
“Then you’ll understand that we’re only doing ours.” Christof said, rubbing his shaved scalp with both hands as if he had hair to push back.
He looked at the agent’s identification and went through his wallet. It contained nothing but a driver’s license and badge.
“You, sir, are the evidence that our cause is just and our organization necessary. The founding fathers wouldn’t have hired you, would they? They wouldn’t have had you snooping around, spying on citizens. They believed in the second amendment. They wrote it, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s a different world. The problem with groups such as yours is you act as if it’s still the Wild West days. Honest people don’t need guns.”
“You enjoy the idea of being the only ones with guns, don’t you. You get to abuse civilians at your leisure, free in the knowledge no one can respond with force except you. You’re just a gun with a dick, nothing more!”
“That’s dumb-ass. My time is spent fighting crime. It happens to be a crime to destroy government property.”
“Even if that property targets citizens?”
“NADNARA targets criminals.”
“Right, like Photocop targets drivers. It’s a crime to speed too, but practically every municipality that rushed to install the system eventually discontinued it under peril of voter retribution. There’s reasonable enforcement and there’s harassment and exploitation.”
“Those are local choices. NADNARA is a vital part of the War on Drugs and Terrorism.”
“If that’s true, how is it that 93% of those arrested are for ‘crimes’ that have nothing to do with terrorism or the drug trade? It’s Photocop with a capital ‘N’.”
“I don’t make the laws; I just enforce them.”
“Such an easy retreat, isn’t it, how you justify living off the rest of us? It doesn’t matter how ridiculous the laws are, because you only ‘apprehend those who break them.’ What happened to original thinking? Some of us judge the worth of laws, especially Federal law. To the extent they lead to bigger or more powerful government, they violate the constitution. Why don’t you enforce, ‘all other powers not specifically granted to the federal government are reserved to the states, or to the people?’ Why aren’t you enforcing that one, ass hole?”
“That’s an outdated concept. People of your sort think it’s still the eighteenth century. The world has changed, and the ideas we began with won’t work, especially in the post-9/11 world. They’re outmoded.” The agent’s language and demeanor were condescending.
“The last time I checked, the constitution was still the law of the land, which you claim to enforce. You tout that line as though you’re superior and anyone who disagrees is a red neck. I won’t argue with you. Your thinking has been so corrupted by judging fellow citizens, you couldn’t sleep without justifying yourself. But you can die knowing that you gave your life making possible an operation that will lead to the restoration of those ‘outmoded’ concepts. You just completed the most dangerous part of it mixing the contents of a Dirty Bomb, you stupid shit. Since you forced Blevins to sacrifice his life for his beliefs, it’s only fair that you stand and deliver along with him. You did, after all, come here of your own free will. You weren’t kidnapped. You surrendered your life.”
“Not by choice.”
“It wasn’t Blevins’ choice to have his life destroyed, or his career, or his reputation.” Christof sneered. “You didn’t give his wife the choice of losing her husband’s companionship and support. You didn’t give Lloyd and Edmund the choice of losing their father, so fuck you and choice.”
“He brought that on himself,” The intransigent agent retorted.
“Fine. And you brought this upon yourself!” Christof said.
Lloyd and Edmund walked back to the informant.
“You were a Musket. You sacrificed your beliefs for a few luxuries. Your integrity was for sale.” Edmund said. The informant ignored him.
“Very well. Since you don’t wanna talk, we won’t say another word to you.” Lloyd shouted, spitting in the informant’s face.
Edmund had picked up a hand-sized rock from the floor of the mine. Enraged at the informants attitude, he threw it at his stomach. Letting out a groan, the erstwhile Musket sagged to his knees. The Blevins boys kicked him repeatedly until, at length, he passed out.
“He’s human garbage . . . he makes me sick,” Lloyd said, rubbing one of his knees. “Shit, that hurt me almost as much as it hurt him!”
“Then dispose of the garbage,” Kicks Iron said, picking up the rusty cadaver of an old pick with half the handle rotted away. He handed it to Edmund.
“What?” Edmund exclaimed, without raising his hand to accept it.
“Your father will spend the rest of his life in prison because of that heap of shit. So do him!” He continued holding the pick outstretched. Neither of the Blevins boys took it. Edmund even stepped back a foot.
“To be a hero, Blevins sure raised a couple of pussies!” Kicks Iron raised the pick into the air and cut an arc in the air so swift and exact that it passed through the informant’s right eye, out the back of his head, and far enough into the old timber to lodge in place. The informant’s skull with a pick through it had the impact of an Alfred Hitchcock flick.
“That’s disgusting!” Lloyd shouted. The agent looked on in morbid dismay. The side of the pick was up to the handle in the socket of the informant’s eye.
“I’d like you to meet Kicks Iron, Mr. FBI man who doesn’t judge laws, just apprehends those who break them,” Christof said to the agent. “He’s part of the reason you’re here.”
I had included Kicks Iron as a member of the task force to conduct the interrogation because he’s huge and intimidating. In spite of his size, when he began the interrogation, and what had to have been a horrifying experience watching him dispatch the informant, the agent refused to provide any information. Accustomed to being in charge and intimidating others, he continued in that frame of mind. Christof said he appeared primarily incensed he’d agreed to come. They hadn’t even had to kidnap him. How medieval! Now there he was, as doomed as his informant by irreversible plutonium poisoning.
“To hell with you!,” he said, resigned to his fate, “You’re as dead as we are. I attached a transmitter to your bumper during one our stops, dumb-ass! Who do you think you’re dealing with? This place is probably already surrounded. You’ll hear the choppers soon. They’ll blow your arrogant asses to hell!”
“This transmitter?” Kicks Iron asked, dangling a plastic baggy containing the smashed device in front of his face. The agent swallowed hard.
“Your dilemma,” Kicks Iron said, “is that I do know with whom I’m dealing. I’m wise as a serpent. I know the White man’s lies. You’re one of his agents. That means that lies are your trade! Everything you stand for is a lie. My people have been betrayed by men like you from your first arrival in our hemisphere. You never change. I knew this as a child. But you’re much worse, a traitor even of your own people. You’re the shit on the toilet paper of the White man.”
A loud roar interrupted his discourse.
“That noise outside isn’t the sound of choppers. It’s the sound of the backhoe that will bury the entrance to this mine. No one is coming for you, forked-tongue.”
“Don’t talk down to me, you Indian sicko! They’ll take out your entire organization when they discover we’re missing. You won’t get away with this. You’re nothing, just a menagerie of self-deluded, small-time thugs.”
“No Musket has done wrong, except that Bison dung who valued money more than the friend he betrayed to you. It’s the government that’s done wrong.” Kicks Iron taunted him. “But one of their own–that would be you–is going to speak truth today. You will tell me who you work with, the name and address of every agent you know, every computer password with which you’re familiar, what files it protects, about every operation in which you participated or with which you are familiar. You will reveal the names of all other agents assigned to us, and any other detail of use or interest to us I–or you–can think of. You will do this eagerly, even pleasantly. And you will do it before you die.”
“Like hell! You may as well shoot me now. You’re not getting shit from me; Go screw yourself! I wish you could see how retarded you look through my eyes.”
“You like the word, ‘screw,’ don’t you? Twice now, you’ve told me to go screw, so I think I’ll oblige you by driving to San Diego when we finish here and screw this woman.”
Kicks Iron showed the agent a photograph of him with his family.
“What a pretty wife . . . very sexy . . . nice breasts, too. She won’t be seeing you anymore, so since you’ve insisted twice, I’ll go and screw her in your place. Tell me, does she scream when she comes? Does she suck well, take you deep into her throat? I’ll teach her how if she doesn’t. I can just imagine that cute mouth sliding up and down, over and over, those smooth, moist lips tight against it, and lots of tongue keeping just the right amount of suction! And after I come, I’ll make her continue, make her strip the last sperm with two fingers and swallow it before finally kissing the tip before it goes soft.”
Entirely taken aback, the agent paled and began to shake, his expression tormented by the imagery. He struggled against all emotion to remain silent.
“How old is your daughter there, around fifteen or so? I think I’ll give her a Coke laced with Scopolamine. Scopolamine’s an interesting drug. That’s why it works so well for date rape. The memory doesn’t record anything that happens. A woman will suck for two or three hours, swallowing every load. The corners of her mouth can be bleeding, but she can’t remember from one moment to the next how long she’s been at it. I think I’ll sixty-nine with your daughter, fondle her and work my tongue while she's down on me. That’s what I plan for the informant’s wife. She's a real cutie. It’s too late for her. I’m going to screw her till she shrieks.”
The agent was quaking now. Kicks Iron knew he was weighing the sexual assault of his wife and daughter against the secrets of the FBI, his love for them against his oath never to disclose his knowledge.
“You face the Great Valley of Death where you will meet the spirits of those you have wronged.” Kicks Iron taunted. “The evil men you serve cannot sustain you there. You will walk alone through the Forest of Death. Your part in their evil designs and the souls of those you have brought to sorrow with impunity will become great stones of shame about your neck. They will become heavy as you carry them, stains on your soul when you are forced to bow before the Great Spirit and he asks, ‘What are these stones you bring?’ What will you say?”
The agent came apart. Christof had to turn away to hide the laughing smirk on his face. The agent began unabashed begging for Kicks Iron not to touch his family, interrupted by intermittent vomiting spells.
“I think you do realize what’s important.” Christof said, “Family and friends, the ordinary things in life, not government schemes.”
Kicks Iron set a digital recorder in front of the agent.
“Speak truth. Tell all you know. When we use it against those you have served, the stones you carry will grow smaller.”
The agent may have found Kicks Iron’s counsel unconvincing, but he knew he had been compromised.
“You won’t harm or kill my family?”
“We don’t kill women and children like you did at Ruby Ridge and Waco, you miserable SOB! Your wife and daughter won’t be touched as long as you cooperate, and I mean with enthusiasm. However, every word had better check out, or I swear I’ll kidnap them, carry them to a mountain cabin, and do them five times a day for a month every way a man can. I kid you not!”
The agent believed him. The information he gave filled a 90-minute chip. Every time he paused, a nudge from Kicks Iron convinced him to reveal even more sensitive intelligence. Finally, there was no more to tell.
Christof removed the cuffs and chains, leaving Agent McCall free to move about. With the dead informant his only companion, McCall could ponder his fate in pitch darkness after the backhoe sealed the mine entrance with large boulders and debris. There was no concern he might dig himself out. This wasn’t Indiana Jones and he would find neither a secret entrance nor a hidden exit. Sick from plutonium poisoning, he’d soon be dead in his inglorious, makeshift tomb. If not, he’d die of anadipsia; They left him no water to drink.
The FBI realized the cover of the agent and informant had been breached when they responded to Agent McCall’s cell phone alert and found both his and the informant’s vehicles abandoned together. Official members of M-Arizona were brought in for intense harassment and questioning by the FBI, but not one could tell them a thing about a “national” Musket leadership or any covert projects. It became belatedly apparent that they didn’t know anything about the fate of the agent or the informant. Regular members didn’t know one of their group was an informant nor that a federal agent had been infiltrated. With nothing but the tangle of membership lists from ten office locations, a missing agent, infuriated Musket members and their attorneys, the abusive questioning only made re-infiltration of M-Arizona impossible.
But the wealth of information provided by the thwarted Agent McCall was extensive and would prove useful in sabotaging the FBI and enhancing security for future operations. Kicks Iron hand-carried it back to me at the Montana headquarters. I became ill listening to it, not because of the intelligence it provided about the FBI and other agents, but because of the mortal terror I could detect in the agent’s voice and a degree of fierceness I had never seen in Kicks Iron. I wondered if he was really capable of doing such things to the informant’s wife. I decided never to ask.
A few days later, I parked near the Visitor’s Center. Yellowstone was bustling with activity. It didn’t seem like the same place I had stopped by last winter, finding the building open, but the park snowed-in and not a single tourist there except me. Carl and I generally met at roadside parks, rest stops, or locations like today. We never spoke by phone or e-mail any longer. His family connections, their communications with others overseas, and the consequences if a Musket affiliation with them could be established demanded Carl’s isolation. What if his family was detected? What if the FBI intercepted their communications? His uncle Wady insisted that wasn’t possible, but what if? Carl was sitting on a bench pretending to read a park brochure.
I went inside, used the Men’s room, looked through the book racks, and rummaged among the souvenirs. No one was watching Carl, so I went back out and lit a cigarette, walking just past the bench, my back to him.
“You’re clear.” I said.
“So are you.” he replied, not looking up. He had watched for anyone who might be trailing me. Seeing no eyes focused in our direction, I sat next to him.
“I hear getting the shipment out of Westport went well.” Carl said.
“How do you know?”
“They had eyes there.”
“Had eyes? I thought the source was overseas.”
“It is, but don’t think for a minute they don’t have people here. There’s a network. It penetrates the highest levels; from D.C. on down.”
“If that’s true, why do they need us? It doesn’t make sense!”
“Yes it does. Practically all of the people in their network look as if they’re from the Middle East. They are. With everyone snooping on everyone else these days, an Arab-American can’t board a plane without everyone on board watching them as though they’re about to light the heel of their shoe. To understand what it’s like for us, imagine walking around in South Africa yourself with the intent of blowing up something. You think you could blend in? If they didn’t cut your throat out of spite, they’d damn sure keep their eyes on you. Just because they haven’t put us in camps like they did the Japanese-Americans during World War II doesn’t mean we’re not watched. I put up with it every day. Sometimes, I just want to scream at the top of my lungs or move to Brazil and live in the rain forest, anything to get away from the intimidation for a while. That’s why I like places such as this. They assume I’m a tourist. How did the re-packing go?”
“I see your point. It’s done. We mixed the plutonium, technetium, and cesium just as they said with the sulfur compound. That was a gooey mess; I was glad I didn’t have to handle it.”
“The sulphur compound isn’t dangerous to handle, but without it, you wouldn’t get as broad a dispersion of the isotopes you need for a Dirty bomb to be fully effective, and this one is no suitcase.”
“Those containers were hard to work with. Bulky as hell and almost impossible to break into. It took a backhoe to budge them. If that mine wasn’t a small cavern, I don’t know what we’d have done. But overall, it went very well.”
“You’d better be thankful for those containers. You don’t want leukemia and you damned sure don’t want to trigger a Geiger counter. Plutonium is the most poisonous substance on earth to humans. You mess with that stuff or get the least bit careless and you’re dead. The government won’t have to wonder if you exist. You won’t! What about the agent and that informant?”
“Dealt with. We had them mix it!“
“Oh, my god.”
“ Kicks Iron brought me a 90-minute recording with enough information to sabotage the FBI in a dozen ways.”
I took the portable player from my belt and handed it and the earphones to Carl.
“Listen yourself. Hook it onto your belt and press ‘play.’ I saw an interesting book while I was in there. I’m going back inside and buy it. I’ll sit and read over a cup of coffee. When you finish listening, join me for lunch.”
“Is it good?”
“Shoot!” I replied, with an, “Are you kidding?” expression.
While buying the book, walking to the lunch area, awaiting my coffee, and reading, I occasionally looked out at Carl. I knew he must be getting off on that recording as much as I did the first time I heard it, except for the tremor in the agent’s voice. It was an intelligence bazaar, but as despoiling as a Greek tragedy. Kicks Iron had been rough on him. He was a cruel son-of-a-bitch. But the fact is, I sympathized with the ideology of the Indian nations. Taken as a whole, if one viewed it critically, New World history was pretty sick from the get-go, beginning with the Black Legend of the Spanish Conquest. Spain had justified it, but it was one of the most sordid abominations of history. The English conquest of America was no different, just less gold. Abominations were always justified with religious motives, or some twisted belief in a self-righteous group’s “destiny.” America is divided into 50 states on a modern map. But if you looked at a true map, it would resemble a pirate’s hoard: Hundreds of lands and territories seized from Spain, Mexico, and the Indian nations by every ruse, guise, equivocation, and lie conceivable to human vanity. That’s the reality of America. Even George Washington had shunted Indian chiefs to men of lesser rank. America could only exist if a mentality developed that rationalized the dispossession of the Indians. The genocide that devastated Carl’s people wasn’t unique. It was standard fare from the first moment Spanish and Pilgrim feet touched the soil of the western hemisphere. Oh, they were clever. Washington counseled the young republic never to become drawn into European wars. They’d been fighting amongst themselves over there for a thousand years. Jefferson and other fathers of the American republic contemporized that America’s existence beyond the pillage and plunder committed against the native inhabitants could be justified before God and history upon the basis of the principles of the Constitution, the same logic the Spanish had imbibed to plunder Indian gold in exchange for Christianity. Bush had employed it to seize and occupy Iraq and stealthily work around to holding its oil hostage. The Spanish were sharing Christianity, the colonizers were making productive use of wasted land, and Bush was delivering the Iraqi people from tyranny and implanting democracy. I think the conquerors of all three eras actually believed karma would justify them. NADNARA evidenced a betrayal within a betrayal of all we supposedly believed. Karma had been fucked, and ruin was well underway!
I stood and stretched. I hate the feeling such moments of reflection leave in the pit of my stomach; the nausea. I needed to eat, to squelch it. Leaving my book to hold the table, I went out to get Carl.
“Now we need the trigger, the money, and the technology to construct the bomb, as they promised.” I said, drawing on my cigarette. I let the smoke out slowly. “Do you have any information?”
“They want one more thing from you first.”
“And what would that be?”
“They want the leadership, the three of you–plus Tiffany and Spritz from M-California–to meet them in Yemen for two weeks of training and an exchange of information.”
I lurched. It sounded dangerous.
“Where’s Yemen? It’s an African country, isn’t it?”
“You’re so funny,” he said, “You don’t even know geography! Talk about provincial! Yemen’s on the southwest corner of the Arabian peninsula; Saudi Arabia is to the north, Oman to the east.”
“Sounds pretty spooky. Why in the world would they want to meet there?”
“Tell me a better place. It’s perfect. You’ll love it. It’s beautiful.”
“You say that as though you’ve been there. Have you?”
“No, but . . . “
”You’re funny. You don’t even know what your talking about and you’re telling me how much I’ll like it!” I laughed sarcastically.
“I know all about it from talking with Uncle Wady and he has been there. I know Middle Eastern geography like the back of my hand and the history of the region just as thoroughly back four thousand years. You’ll like it . . . you have to go.”
We stood amid the trees nuzzling the parking area. I sat on the ground next to one and leaned back against the trunk, inhaling deeply and enjoying my smoke.
“I don’t know, Carl. I fail to see the necessity of something so extreme.”
“They want assurance the Muskets are committed. They want to know the leader, you, before contributing the substantial capital you requested. That’s capital we need to be effective. You didn’t think they would just drop a twenty million-dollar check in the mail, did you? Be realistic. They’re not asking anything unreasonable.”
“ I have to earn a living. I’m about to go ahead on another cluster of homes with a partner.”
“Forget it. From now on, your income will be a salary from the Musket organization. This is going to require your full-time leadership involvement, Eric. Get real.”
“Is it safe to provide them with intimate knowledge about us, about me? They could use it to blackmail us into taking actions we oppose, such as the civilian attack they first proposed. It would be extortion. They could take us down with a phone call to the White House if we refused. I think it puts us in a position of unnecessary vulnerability.”
“They’re on our side. Uncle Wady says a man by the name of ‘Beyrouti,’ a Russian, head’s these people. He’s not one of my relatives, but he’s close to members of our family.”
“Why should we bring Spritz? I don’t even know him. He could be an informant. He’s only in because Christof insisted. He vouched for him.”
“They like the anonymity of biological attacks, so they’re anxious to talk to Spritz and learn about his ‘Doomsday’ weapon.”
“Oh, that. Well, why Tiffany?”
“They want Miss Cronin because of her booby-trapped cigarette lighter and poisonous mushroom ideas. Uncle Wady says they have someone in Idaho who can provide the aniline gas, but they’re afraid she may be getting in over her head. They want to engineer the lighters. Inhaling fewer than five parts per million of that gas can kill you. It’s the same concern they had about us messing around with plutonium. Believe me, they want us to succeed. They care about us. We have too much in common and they don’t want us to fail.”
“Did you tell them Spritz hasn’t even tested his Doomsday weapon yet?”
“Of course, but they know he’s designed it, has the virus, and intends to test it. This means heavy funding. We need it.”
“So they want Spritz and Tiffany to come with us and they know he won’t have the virus with him. You told them that?”
“They knew better than to ask, don’t want us to think their trying to coop the Muskets.”
“Aren’t they?”
“Hell, No! However, they’ve already engineered the trigger for the Dirty bomb and they’ll give comprehensive plans directly to you, Eric, after we get back from this meeting.”
“It sounds like bull to me. They may as well ask us to meet them on Mars. What possible relevance could some berg country like Yemen have to do with Milk Truck. No one ever heard of Yemen. It’s nowhere. They know I’m the leader. You haven’t led them to believe it’s you? You didn’t let on like that behind my back?”
“You’ve known me since we were kids. You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“Just thought I’d ask.”
“Can you believe it? This is going to be a classic and kick us up to the big leagues, the circles I move in not only at the UN, but also in Washington. When we get back, we’ll be wielding power we never dreamed of!”
“It gives me the chills when you talk like that.”
He laughed. “Isn’t this the break we’ve been waiting for since you founded the Muskets? None of us know beans how to construct or safely detonate a radioactive weapon. Our strength is the ability to pull off credible tactical attacks and the fact that you three are normal Americans and don’t have Arabian racial features.”
“Neither do you.”
“I do enough that I'm treated with clandestine suspicion by numerous associates. In any case, this Beyrouti won’t release the trigger or the plans unless you do the Yemen thing and he’s the one with final say.”
“You said he was from Russia. Is that where the money and support are coming from? You were supposed to find those things out.”
“Uncle Wady didn’t say exactly, but it’s not Russia, not the cash! The Islamic source for the money is someone in Saudi Arabia.”
“Carl! You know good and well that means it’s Al Qaeda money. What have you gotten us into?”
“We don’t know that. He said they say they aren’t told such things because the Saudis have to maintain the illusion that they’re an ally of the United States. Duh! They’re trying to protect me and their family. Also, there’s some wizard cleric who wants to help you plan a misdirection strategy when you use the Dirty bomb. We have nothing to lose and it’s exciting; It sounds like a James Bond scenario.”
We both laughed, but I wasn’t quite sure who we were laughing at.
“If you agree to the meeting, they promise you’ll get all the cash you need. They have it. They can fund any size project as long as it’s credible. That’s where we come in.”
“I guess you told them we agreed?” I said, shaking Carl’s hand before leaving. He gave me another roll during the shake.
“Don't say a word. Consider this an advance on your Musket salary. You can use it to get your affairs reordered. I knew you’d agree. Christof told me when I asked him.”
“You spoke to him first?,” I asked, discretely putting the role in my waist pack.
“Don’t go ballistic! I couldn’t reach you. It was a safe connection. I have the arrangements. You’ll be personally accompanied, so don’t worry about your safety.”
“You’re a presumptuous shit, Carl.”
He unzipped his waist pack and removed an envelope.
“Here’s the cash to get everyone there, except me. I’m already covered.”
“You’re going?”
“Of course. It’s my family making all of this happen. What’s weird about that? Beyrouti has done the routing. They have you accompanying Tiffany to make it look like a couple on a romantic interlude to the Caribbean They have Spritz traveling with Christof and Kicks Iron out of New York to Paris.” He handed me the itinerary.
“Why are they sending Tiffany and I together, separate from the others?”
“Because they want to take special precautions with you two.”
Chapter Six

Adan

“I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote.
I love to sail forbidden seas.”
- Herman Melville, in Moby Dick


Majed shielded his eyes from the glaring sun, Russian Attache, Vladimir Beyrouti beside him. They watched as the flight from Abadan rolled to the gate. It was an honor for Majed, a diplomatic official of no greater consequence than being attached to the Iranian embassy in Yemen, to meet the notable Beyrouti. Beyrouti’s reputation stemmed from being the petroleum engineer largely responsible for delineating the vast petroleum deposits surrounding the Caspian Sea. Half the shoreline was enclosed by their two countries. Until 2001, those auspicious reserves had generated serious confrontations, especially after further drilling divulged they rivaled those of Saudi Arabia.
The House of Saud had snobbishly prided its preeminent position. With 259 billion barrels of oil and 200 trillion cubic feet of untapped natural gas, it was the envy of the region, dwarfing Iraq’s 112 billion barrels and Iran’s even smaller reserves of 90 billion. But known Caspian deposits had now climbed to 235 billion barrels and 110 trillion cubic feet of gas. Everyone suspected there was much more of both. Beyrouti’s promotion to Attache had real purpose: to bar Western attempts to gain control of the Caspian Sea deposits by keeping Iran and Russia on the same side as allies.
Iran under the Shah, America’s puppet, resisted Soviet attempts to topple Afghanistan, because Washington energy planners knew if the Soviets succeeded, only Pakistan would stand between the Soviets and the warm-water port they longed for on the Arabian Sea.
Even when under the Shah, the Soviets had never ventured to attack Iran directly. Such a move could have provoked the whole of Muslim central Asia. If it had taught them anything, the recalcitrance of the Afghans had made it clear that was the last thing they needed. So the KGB cooped tactics the CIA had employed when they orchestrated the overthrow of Iran’s democratically elected Mossadegh government and installed the Shah on the Peacock Throne. They orchestrated the overthrow of the Shah.
In the heat of the popular uprising, the KGB’s role had gone unnoticed even by the CIA. It hadn’t gone quite as hoped, however. True, the fall of the Shah thwarted America’s attempt to grab hegemony over Caspian reserves . . . the U.S. was effectively ousted from the region. That was highly satisfying in itself. Everyone in the region wanted to see retribution against the U.S. But the unanticipated seizure of the reins of government by the Ayatollah, Khomeini had circumvented uncontested Soviet hegemony as well.
“I’m puzzled why Rashad did not arrive with you if you’re coming from the Sudan. He was to be here for at least a few days.”
“Mr. Rashad returned to Baghdad. He and your colleague, Fahad, are on the flight. Fahad left following a meeting with the President in Tehran,” Beyrouti said.
“Then if you wish, we may proceed together to the hotel.”
Majed enjoyed observing Beyrouti. His European dress and demeanor were equivalent to that of a wealthy Italian businessman. But his high-boned, strong-jawed Kazak face and Milk white complexion would be completely out of place in Milan.
“And how was your flight from Al Khartoum to San’a, Mr. Beyrouti?”
“Very pleasant! I was quite rushed to arrive here via the Sudan, but an urgent matter involving one of our pharmaceutical plants arose, one we don't want the Americans bombing, compelling my stopover.”
“And was the pharmaceutical matter resolved?”
“For the moment. The research in the particular plant requires the greatest attention to safety. Some of our workers became, let us say, careless. But enough of that! The Red Sea was beautiful from the air. The Eritrean coast vies with the beauty of your own. I was surprised how green your highlands remain this late in summer. Truly, this is a picturesque region of which Yemen must be most proud.”
“Indeed, they are. Yemen was home to ancient empires as all know. The increased prosperity brought by the new dam and the unification of the country permit one to envision that their former greatness might one day return under our combined aegis . . . “
”If the U.S. doesn’t invoke a pretext to destroy Yemen’s infrastructure from the air.”
“You know their phobia for security. We are honored to have you here, Mr. Beyrouti.”
Two shifts in the regional balance of power had led to a serendipitous intersection of mutual interests between Moscow and Tehran: The collapse of the Soviet Union and the rise of a member of the Russian Mafiya to power in the person of President Putin was the first. The second was reformist president Mohammed Khatami at the helm of Iran following Khomeini’s death in 1989. Religious conservatives still controlled the interior ministry and military, making them an ever-present threat, but the moderate stance of Khatami had significantly relaxed international tensions, at least until the announcement from Moscow that Russia would sell the technology and assist Iran in establishing a nuclear-powered, electric generation plant.
Snubbing U.S. overtures aimed at regaining Iran as a patsy, Khatami instead chose cooperation with his neighbor across the Caspian. He wanted the battlefield weapons U.S.-sponsored sanctions had barred Russia from providing since 1999. Too close for comfort to the U.S. decimation of Iraq and the commandeering of Iraq’s oil, he also wanted nuclear knowledge and resources. Experience had led not only Washington’s traditional allies, but the entire international community, to recognition that the U.S. was determined to sit astride the planet, lording over all other nations to whatever extent necessary to prevent anyone else from developing an effective deterrent against U.S. predation. Russia had both superior battlefield weapons and nuclear technology, but desperately needed cash. Iran’s 20 billion in annual oil revenues was an appropriate match. The die was cast in the fall of 2000 during a visit of Russian Defense Minister Igor Sergeyev to Tehran and Khatami’s four-day visit to the Kremlin the following spring. Putin and Khatami became allies, forming a new fulcrum of power based upon Iranian-Russian cooperation. They first committed to make certain the Caspian Oil Pipeline didn’t run through any countries friendly to the U.S. Then, predictably, they announced that Russia would sell Iran its first fission reactor to be constructed in Besher. Checkmated by Putin, George W. Bush proclaimed Iran, together with Iraq and North Korea, an Axis of Evil.
“Have the Americans arrived?”
“Except Mr. Stroder and Miss Cronin. They have been delayed. Mr. Wells, Mr. Hogan, Mr. Fawcett, and Mr. White were brought ashore near Al-Makha.”
“They are in Ta’izz?”
“Yes, to be joined in Ibb by Mr. Stroder, Miss Cronin, their guards, and of course, our dear friend, Hassan.”
“Strange they should be delayed. I spoke to Eric before leaving St. Petersburg but three days passed. At that time, they were already in Havana and were to leave Cuba that day for Tripoli to rendezvous with their comrades.”
“A change became necessary. We feared sending them to Tripoli. Our agents contacted us following arrival of the other four.”
“What was the dilemma?”
“They spotted known collaborators with the CIA monitoring the Tripoli airport; local informants. One of them photographed our friends.”
“That is most unfortunate, my good friend.”
“There is nothing to fear.”
“To the contrary, there is much to fear with their photographs and passport numbers added to the CIA’s database.” Beyrouti said, overtly alarmed. “We promised them secure passage.”
“My dear Beyrouti, there is nothing to fear because our Libyan operatives intercepted the two and their cameras. I am told that both they and their cameras shall remain preserved beneath the desert sand for thousands of years. To escape further jeopardy, our four friends were placed upon the Eritrea flight to Saeb.”
“When their informants did not report, the CIA must have suspected immediately they had been compromised.”
“Indeed, that was the justification to avoid additional risk. Thus, Eric and Tiffany were instead routed through Lagos to Djibouti. This is why the others are en route to Ibb one day ahead of them.”
“They surely missed a warm welcome in Libya.”
Beyrouti smiled as he scanned the disembarking passengers. He had coordinated the arrivals with great care, lest the wrong people recognize so much erudition in one airport at the same time. The CIA had informants everywhere. Not having an effective intelligence network in this part of the world, American agents paid well for information.
Beyrouti had met with Putin in St. Petersburg, rather than in Moscow. There were fewer probing eyes and untrustworthy ears. Putin was no less aware than other international leaders that Washington’s strategy for domination of Middle East oil lurked just far enough beneath the surface of it’s “War on Terrorism” to provide denial. Deniability was necessary in the face of increasingly unveiled allegations even from alert sectors of the American public. He was angered when Bush flagrantly conquered Iraq, one of Moscow’s trading partners, even snubbing Iraq’s last minute attempt to avert war. Nevertheless, he could say little. He had his own problems with terrorists along Russia’s southern border. Bush thought the invasion would secure U.S. domination of the region. Set up a puppet democracy, but prevent its Islamic majority from developing natural ties to Islamic Iran. Then up production of Iraq’s oil to weaken OPEC. Having dubbed Iran a member of the Axis of Evil, duping the American people, Washington would have a valid pretext for a second American preemptive invasion of Iran.
But it wouldn’t work and Putin knew it. Everyone in Tehran also knew it. No matter how envious Washington was of the enormous Caspian reserves, the cost of single-handedly occupying and subverting Iraq increasingly alienated Bush’s constituency. Washington had thrown half a trillion into the wind while already beleaguered American schools were cutting the school week to four days. State revenues were strapped, unemployment and underemployment were rampant, and the public was in revolt against tax increases. During a testosterone high, Bush had offered a macho invitation for Iraqis to “Bring it on.” They had. Daily reports of more dead American troops in Iraq quickly had long since sapped the euphoria from the flag-waving bravado accompanying the invasion. Bush made unveiled threats against North Korea and Iran, refusing even to talk to North Korea. It had been easy to mar the landscape with the gutted remains of buildings destroyed by cruise missiles. Bush had anticipated saddling the international community with the cost of rebuilding them. Later, following an international boycott of the American “Cowboy War,” America found itself solely responsible for Bush’s commitments to rebuild Afghanistan and Iraq. Washington eventually had to remove North Korea from the list of terror-sponsoring nations, Iraq’s democratic future loomed dubious, and only Iran was left of the axis of evil, except that the Shite majority in Iraq was naturally allied to Iran, its next door neighbor. Congress, angry at being duped by Bush, Blair, and Powell’s lies, balked when it came time to pay up. Like a child disillusioned by his parent’s humiliating demand that he stand up every individual domino after flippantly toppling the entire row, America hated–absolutely detested–having to trash the federal budget, starve the states, steal education from their kids, and hand it over instead to Iraq. There would be no more Iraqs, no more preemptive wars. Not because Americans weren’t easily duped patriots, but because they were unwilling to eat potatoes and send the pork to Iraq and Haliburton.
Meanwhile, Iran could well-afford to purchase technology and services with hard cash. Beyrouti and Putin were not alone in their meeting. The vociferous new President of Iran was difficult to work with and well aware of Washington’s sullied attempt at Middle East hegemony using Iraq as a base. He had sent Fahad Shiraz, one of the few clerics he trusted, to interact with the D.C.-based high-level representative of an American militia group who called themselves Muskets. He found them willing to deploy a Dirty Bomb against an American base in reprisal for a government sting operation that resulted in the imprisonment of one of their covert members, a response most unusual for the mentality of the American public. The meeting had led to a portentous plan, a plan that would turn U.S. public attention farther inward, defusing further American imperialism. Only five American souls in addition to their representative would know of the plan. No other Americans would ever know.
“Ah, there is Fahad!” Beyrouti exclaimed.
“He looks different than the photograph we had of him; His beard is white!” Majed said.
“Yes, only recently and somewhat mysteriously. Don’t mention it. It‘s a sore point as it emphasizes his baldness,” Beyrouti replied, laughing and waving his arms.
Seeing Beyrouti, Fahad nudged Nahud and the pair approached, broad grins underscoring their pleasure to see him. As he embraced Beyrouti, Fahad noticed Majed’s offered hand.
“And how are you, Majed?” He asked, embracing him in turn.
“I’m so happy to see you, Brother. Like myself, you will enjoy the company of Vladimir during the next two weeks?”
“Allah be praised if I may, so simple a servant as I.”
“Majed, Fahad is an expert in misdirection. I have learned to watch your Persian friend closely!” Beyrouti laughed.
I brimmed with fascination for the Gulf of Adan relative to the Havana harbor as I reminisced with Tiffany.
“Last night in Djibouti: What a contrast with Havana! It’s a completely different look, but I love this Arabian Sea.”
Tiffany leaned over the side aft, forcing wavelets over her hand.
“So childlike for a warrior.” I thought, wiping the salt spray from my glasses. Wiping them only created a blurry haze.
“At times such as these, I think about laser surgery and no glasses. They’re so damned inconvenient. No one’s ever developed a way to keep salt spray from fogging them over!”
“I think you look good for a guy who wears glasses,” she said.
I could ignore the complement. Her smile was as genuine as she.
“This water is warm,” She continued. “But did you know the Red Sea west of here is even warmer, the warmest in the world?”
Of course, she would know that.
“I wish we could visit it,” she said, “I love salt water Tropicals. For my sixteenth birthday, my parents bought me a 100-gallon aquarium. My mother and I spent a week setting it up. Then, they bought me Dominoes, a Cuban Hogfish, a Yellow and a Blue Tang, and the one I wanted most of all: a Queen Trigger. I haven’t been without a salt tank since. The Red Sea has some of the most beautiful and unique Tropical fish in the world.”
“No wonder, being so close, you hope for an opportunity to visit. That’s probably not likely during this trip, but I suppose you could ask. Why not?”
“There must be a public aquarium somewhere around it. I can’t imagine otherwise.”
I spat on the lenses, trying again. The faint sheen remaining still dimmed the clarity of my vision.
“The question is whether they would risk allowing you to travel to it, I suppose.”
It had sometimes been difficult for Tiffany to keep conversation going on this trip . . . periods when I was withdrawn. There was small talk: “The tubers taste like Russets, but look more like sweet potatoes;” “It was all good, especially the dates; I’ll bet I ate half a pound of those things, so large and tender;” “The name for those fish we ate last night was regional, but it was Grouper. I’d know Grouper anywhere,” that sort of thing, but I had a growing lack of conviction about this aspect of Musket activity, particularly agreeing to this trip. Yet, I couldn’t betray my anxiety to her. Especially not to her.
“What I missed last night was the hum and rum of Havana!” I said, trying to appear engaged.
“Oh, please, don’t remind me! We’ll probably have to be satisfied with coffee in Yemen.”
“I hope it’s not that mud they served last night. I’d rather not be spitting out coffee grounds the entire time we’re here. It was too strong, kept me awake for hours!” I knew that chafing, not the coffee, was responsible for my lost sleep.
“That’s okay. We’ll need to be alert. We’re certain of support as long as they take us seriously.”
“Right.”
Amidst everything else, I mostly enjoyed looking at her, especially those legs. Her tan had darkened considerably since we left L.A. Then again, mine had too. An afternoon spent on the beach after snorkeling in Cuba had cooked us both, Piña Coladas notwithstanding.
“Aren’t you glad we’re finally arriving?” She asked.
“Yes. It’s been an ordeal.”
“Especially for you!”
Especially for me. I had run a virtual maze getting to Yemen, more so than Tiffany or the others, beginning with the drive from Albuquerque to L.A. following my sister’s wedding. Tiffany joined me there. I was glad for her company. Culture shock is a problem for many people and might otherwise have been for me. Take them out of their familiar environment and they’re bedeviled.
“That's just insouciance progressing to fear,” She had said. Vintage Tiffany.
One could certainly become paranoid in Havana if they hadn’t traveled much or were by themselves. I’m not anthrophobic; I enjoy people and different cultures interest me. But the decrepit infrastructure, side streets full of holes, missing sidewalks, the smell of an overwhelmed sewage system, a preponderance of old buildings and unfamiliar architectural styles of Havana combined were so bad that even my long familiarity with and love of Mexico made me appreciate having Tiffany along. She was well-traveled and her quixotic nonchalance had a mollifying influence.
Our itinerary required that we fly to Havana from Aruba, just off the Venezuelan coast in the Caribbean. The diversion through Aruba was a brilliant piece of work. Cuban customs doesn’t stamp American passports. Americans who travel or do business there arrive indirectly to prevent the U.S. State Department from discovering their movements. When the plane arrived in Havana, we were met at the gate by two men and accompanied through customs. The sign one of them held high had only three words: Eric and Tiffany, nothing more. The officials checked the passports, then handed them back without stamping them and waved us on.
“It’s important that the State Department thinks the two of you were vacationing in Aruba. It’s a perfect misdirection.” Carl had explained.
Still, I was uncomfortable that neither of the two men who now accompanied us could speak English, though one was fluent in Spanish and I knew some Spanish. It was he who had walked us through in Havana and seen to our every comfort as if he’d done it dozens of times before. I suspect he has. It’s quite an experience spending time with people you can’t communicate at length with and you can feel paranoid after a while. Our comments in English were met with enthusiastic smiles and replies in Arabic we couldn’t understand.
It was so strange that these Arabs could have anything in common with us, even if for entirely different reasons. But they did. They shared Musket antipathy toward the U.S. government. Forty percent of all oil on the planet was right here in the Middle East, easy to extract and in seemingly endless quantity. Bent on hegemony over a part of the world entirely alien for no reason other than to control its oil, Washington’s effrontery toward their sovereign nations galled all Arabs. The trip had been arranged by Carl’s family contacts, but we had been told we would meet others when we reached our end destination, men from Iran and Russia. Russia led a clandestine pact between certain nations working to keep U.S. imperialism in check. I was keen to know how deep the issues ran. My friendship with Carl had fostered that awareness. I understand much more than the average American kept ignorant with a steady stream of rhetoric and timed news reports. Thus, public apathy is reinforced. Joe Six-Pack never considers why certain nations are so bent upon revenge.
They couldn’t speak English, but the men with us could be trusted. They were taking special care to protect me and Tiffany, just as Carl had said. Six Muskets would be in Yemen for two weeks of talks, planning sessions, and training. During the discussion by phone while we were in Havana, Beyrouti sounded very engaging and completely frank. Unlike al Qaeda, he explained, theirs was a cooperative effort sponsored covertly by Putin and others who considered the United States a threat to the security and economic stability of the entire rest of the world. This initially sounded far-fetched to me, but my eyes were about to be opened. According to Beyrouti, none of those in the Pact had been involved in 9/11. They hadn’t even known it was going to happen, not even Putin. Because of 9/11, he explained, the trip to Yemen by a circuitous route was necessary not only to prevent U.S. intelligence from discovering the covert nature of certain Musket objectives, but to prevent Washington from discovering the existence of the Putin Pact, particularly the support that group of nations was providing to a domestic U.S. militia.
“It’s one thing to believe you’re a militia or concerned citizens group resisting NADNARA. They hate you, but they understand the constitutional motivation. They know you’re patriots. That doesn’t lead them to reason, however. Since Washington ceased being a consensus player within the international community, their browbeating of allies has forced us to resist covertly. It’s like the school bully who doesn’t worry about winning friends and influencing people by persuasion, because he can just smash anyone who resists his whims in the face.”
“I understand, Mr. Beyrouti.” I had replied, “And more Americans than you may think also do.”
“We acknowledge that, but history has taught us that the public at large is willingly gullible and appallingly easy to manipulate in the face of confrontation with government. It has always been so. There are few patriots in any society, ideological perhaps, but if the appropriate propaganda is provided, they will submit to almost any abuse of their liberties just to go about their affairs in relative peace. Washington knows many nations would like to strike back, just as the school bully knows any number of those he molests would, but they are outmatched. That leaves only covert activity . . . and it is just. The piper must be paid, so you understand, Eric why we must protect you.”
The city of Adan was dangerous; All of Yemen is dangerous for Americans. The seething population resents the cooperation of the Yemeni government with a perceived U.S. sabotage of Islam in the name of resisting terrorism. Beyrouti was sensitive to the danger civil unrest posed for Tiffany and I. Our bodyguards, both armed with 9mm weapons, were never farther than five feet from either of us when we were in public.
As Adan began to resolve in the distance, well before our boat had crossed the strait, I was struck by the color. The orange mirage glazing the surface of the bay cast an enchanting cloak over my emotions.
“Everything appears orange to some degree, a mosaic of orange and beige.” Tiffany said.
Carl had predicted I would find the country picturesque upon arrival and once again he proved correct. Our trip here had followed a different route than the one he had laid out for me at Yellowstone. I wondered if he knew the reason for the abrupt change. I only learned of it when Beyrouti informed me during the phone conversation at the hotel.
“There was an incident in Tripoli. We’re rerouting to Lagos, Nigeria, then to Djibouti. We want your entry into Adan to be across the strait by boat rather than by air. The port doesn’t lend itself to easy detection such as the airport. Yemenis understand U.S. lust for Arab domination, but presently, CIA agents photograph everyone who enters the country by air, so you’ll arrive by sea and be driven through Ta’izz up to Ibb. There you’ll join your confederates before continuing north to San’a, where I look forward to greeting you.”
“Why San’a?” I asked. “Why Yemen, period? It seems so out of the way.”
“The initial meeting will be in San’a before adjourning to a location in the countryside that can be feasibly reached only from that city. We’ve been working on your behalf; I hope you’ll be pleased with the progress.”
Neither I nor Tiffany could suppress expanding uneasiness as the boat entered the harbor. If we were being smuggled in, it seemed we should be entering at some remote location on the coast. Yet here we were with boats, shipping, and hundreds of people all around. I could only hope our guards were in control and knew what they were doing. One of them spoke into a hand-held radio. A few moments later, a patrol boat came into view and it was apparent that it was deliberately approaching.
“Christ, Tiffany. I hope we’re not discovered.” I shouted above the noise as the boat pulled alongside.
As it neared, the pilot pulled back on the throttle; The bow dipped into the surging spray just before the boats came into contact amidships with a gentle thud. A uniformed official with a machine gun slung over his shoulder stepped aboard and I feared Tiffany and I were standing in a floating sarcophagus. I attempted to look innocuous, but could feel the blood draining from my face.
“Welcome to Yemen, my friends. I am Hassan.” He extended his hand. “I am sorry your guards do not speak the English language, but they have accompanied visitors from Havana before. Their experience was and remains vital to your safety. I will also accompany you now from Adan. We shall pass through the highlands to San’a by vehicle. Today, you will enjoy the drive to Ibb, a city we must pass through on the way to San’a.”
“You scared us to death coming up in a Patrol boat!” Tiffany said, still panting from an inordinate degree of anxiety not yet fully receded.
“Most of the population in Yemen hates the leaders of their government for cooperating with America. Unfortunately, hatred of the leaders can increase to include hatred for Americans generally, which means it could be vented against you. That is why we are protecting you throughout your stay. Anti-American tensions are aflame here. The frequent public demonstrations against Yemeni cooperation are dangerous and you could become caught in one of them. You must remain in the company of armed officials while among groups of citizens to create the illusion you have been detained by us.”
Once I had restored order to the garbled thoughts flapping about against the walls of my brain, I was able to observe my surroundings with something approaching interest. Adan, sitting as it does on the bay, is a picture postcard. Built around two mountains and up the slopes of a third, minarets rising skyward from its many mosques, the city exhibits a very old appearance. Built mostly of what look like mud bricks, it was ingeniously ornamented with colorful tiles so that the whole converges into a mystical tapestry of color. The mixed scents of ancient spices made the air sweet to breath. Even the sea itself seemed to have an aroma. If it hadn’t all seemed so alien to anywhere I’d lived or visited before, hadn’t been infused with the fallout of international political and religious conflict, I might have wished for a week to explore and enjoy Yemen. I'd had an explorer's heart from my earliest memories; I always thought I was an adventurer, too, but events over the last few years had informed my opinion of myself. If it involved what appeared to be inordinate or extraordinary danger, I wasn't.
“Adan is incredibly baroque.” Tiffany told Hassan as we entered a narrow street. “It’s so mysterious and beautiful. The flowers and fruits the women are selling along the street smell wonderful! Isn’t this fabulous, Eric?”
“It’s nice,” I said, enjoying her enthusiasm. “Ah, coffee!”
The smell of rich coffee had just interrupted my train of thought.
“A little pungent, but I like it. Is it safe to get a cup, Hassan?”
He muttered something to the driver in Arabic.
Our driver was forced to slow to a crawl, then stop at the first place he considered reasonably safe. We could observe the local activities we passed in detail. Bins of dates, tamarinds, and coffee side by side extended from the interior of one shop out to the street, shaded under a Camel-hair canopy. The next shop emitted the strong fragrance of perfume.
“What are they doing with the flowers in that stall, Hassan?” Tiffany asked as she accepted the coffee graciously from the driver. I almost grabbed mine, I was so anxious to feel it going down my throat.
“It is a perfumery and they are making perfume, one of the ancient arts practiced here.”
“An exotic enfleurage! I love places such as this. I accompanied my parents on a vacation to Egypt years ago. One of my favorite memories is of the Perfumeries in Cairo. We brought so much essence back! Some aspects of the culture here are very similar. I assumed Yemen would be more analogous, but its appearance differs in many ways. It’s culture is unique.”
“The people here are trying to sustain a nation. Northern and southern Yemen were as two countries, separated for many years. But they share an ancient cultural heritage which is difficult to resist. Since rejoining, the country is holding together.”
I listened to the discussion between Tiffany and Hassan, but said nothing. The more we wormed through the strange streets working our way to the outskirts of the city, the more I wondered, why Yemen? Of all the places in the world we could have met, why here? What compelled the choice of this remote little country few Americans ever heard of for a rendezvous with Carl’s connections? I didn’t say anything about it then, not even as we drove for hours, passing through Ta’izz en route to Ibb. But I intended to ask at some point if it didn’t become apparent in the meantime. Along the way, barefoot boys clad in open shirts shepherded goats, even a few sheep, but goats were the more ubiquitous along the winding, bucolic route. It was amazing how variable the terrain was, rocky hillsides and arid scrub land alternated with rich vegetation evidencing fertile soils. As we ascended to the highlands where Ibb is located, Hassan and the others conversed continuously in Arabic. I expected they would stop in town. When they didn’t, Tiffany became very perplexed.
“I need a Ladies room, Hassan. Why haven’t we stopped anywhere?”
“We are anxious to reach our destination for tonight.”
“Bouncing around on this tortuous road is about to pop my bladder. Ask them to pull over by the road, please, somewhere I can have some privacy!”
“We were preoccupied, Tiffany, and did not intend to be rude.”
Tapping one of the guards on the shoulder, Hassan instructed him in Arabic. I was glad. I was suffering too. I just wasn’t grimacing like Tiffany. At an appropriate spot a kilometer or so farther, the car halted by a thicket of Acacia with tall grasses obscuring the trunks.
“Is this satisfactory?” Hassan asked.
“If you;d delayed further, I’d have peed in the middle of the road with all of you watching!” She cried in exasperation. Hassan blushed at this. It’s interesting to watch a brown face flush red.
Opening the door, she leapt out and ran into the brush, carrying her purse. The rest of us got out for a stretch.
“It’s less humid here than it was down by the coast,” I told Hassan, “and much cooler. I love the green hills. They’re a striking backdrop to the rocky cliff by the road.”
“I would love to retire to this country. I suspect I will.”
Hassan was obviously very familiar with the Yemenis. He hadn’t said much to Tiffany and I, but was certainly loquacious in Arabic with our guards. I wasn’t certain how I felt about him. His moustache was uneven, noticeably shorter on one side than the other. That was weird, and I'd mentioned it to Tiffany, trying to keep it on the down low.
“Eric, he has an infelicitous mole beside the corner of his mouth on the long side that prevents his shaving too closely. Don't be so petty. Give the guy a break. God, he's going out of his way for our benefit.”
So it wasn’t a big sore on his lip. There was something else that bothered me about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what, and I certainly wasn't about to say anything to her again that sounded “petty.”
We walked to the other side of the road and pissed over the cliff onto the rocks below. It must have seemed strange as a car rounded the curve and saw four men in a row pissing over the edge. The curve was so sharp it was impossible to see them coming before they had a clear view. I couldn’t help but laugh and couldn’t wait to light a cigarette. I suffered more from nicotine hunger than a full bladder. Tiffany didn’t smoke. Her sharp protest when our puffing all at once engendered a choking attack earlier in the afternoon shamed us. Since then, we’d gone without. When she returned from the Acacia grove, we were all standing in a huddle, smoking.
“Sorry, Eric and Hassan. I guess I’m being selfish. Stop as often as you wish to smoke; don’t suffer on my account. I just can’t endure having it blown in my face in that little car.”
I pointed to my cigarette when I noticed the guards groping for the meaning of her comment. Sensing that cigarettes were the basis for the discourse, they babbled to Hassan in Arabic, then nodded agreement.
We hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards after resuming the drive when we rounded a curve and spotted a roadblock ahead, not very distant. Two men in military uniforms and sporting machine guns stood in the middle of the road chatting with two locals. The locals looked rougher, especially with their shotguns. That made sense. The soldiers were hardly more than boys, a good twenty-years younger. Three more troops sat in a nearby vehicle that looked much like a Jeep.
Before I could wonder if there was cause for concern, the driver braked so abruptly we were thrown forward. The car skidded to a halt. The soldiers watched as we backed up, tires spinning, until we were beyond their view.
“Quick Eric, Tiffany, out!” Hassan shouted, throwing open the door so hard it bounced back on its hinges and struck him in the face. For an instant, he seemed stunned, then recovered. “Hide in the brush over there.”
When he shouted to the guards in the front seat, though I didn’t know a word of Arabic, I knew we were in trouble. The guard on the passenger side grabbed the driver’s keys, jumped out, and ran around back, opening the trunk. Returning immediately, he jumped in. Meanwhile, Tiffany and I had fled twenty or thirty yards into the brush opposite the cliff, sending a dozen grazing goats circling in all directions. We hugged the ground for dear life. From our vantage point, we watched Hassan pull his AK-47 and a heavy nylon case from the trunk, slam it, and run toward us.
“Stay down.” He shouted. “Don’t move!”
“Oh my God!” Tiffany said as Hassan ran toward us. “Are we about to die here, Eric? It’s bad enough having to lie here where there could be a thousand deadly insects . . . I’m an Acarophobic! But dying?”
Hassan ducked into the taller grass ten feet away. I heard the Jeep approaching. My heart pounded. We had no weapons and no time to flee farther from the road. We laid motionless as though dead. The driver stepped out, left the door open, and walked toward the cliff, dropping a half-empty water bottle on the ground very near the edge. Just as the Jeep rounded the curve, he stooped as though to pick it up.
“That’s clever.” Tiffany whispered. Breathing heavily, she was trying to stay calm, but her grasp on my arm was so tight, I knew she was terrified out of her wits. I was.
The driver stood and made a point of wiping dust off the water bottle with his sleeve as the Jeep stopped. He waved casually at the soldiers, but kept his back to the cliff as he greeted them, raising the bottle. He explained he had dropped it accidentally and gone back to retrieve it (I didn’t need to understand Arabic to get the meaning; his gestures told the story). Both guards appeared completely relaxed, but if there wasn’t danger, I knew Hassan wouldn’t be lurking in the grass with a machine gun propped atop the case, ready to fire. Our other guard waved to the soldiers from inside the car.
“Shit! He’s got a 9 mm in his belt behind his back.” I said. “What if they see it?”
“What about the other guard, the one in the car?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t moved.”
“This is terrible, Eric. I’m so frightened! Do you think they saw us? If they did, this ploy isn’t going to work.”
“I just hope they buy it and leave.” I whispered, “Maybe they’ll just go away.”
One of the soldiers approached the driver. I couldn’t tell from his expression if he knew there had been more than those two in the car. While speaking, he was approaching the cliff as though to peer over the edge. The other two soldiers followed. Our second guard opened the car door and stepped out behind it. His gun was in full view to us, but the soldiers couldn’t see it as they looked over the side. He raised his weapon, poised to shoot all three of them from behind before they could turn around, but he hesitated. There was a clear view down the sharp slope. They would see no one was there. If they reacted, I’d know they were onto us and that we must be hiding on the other side. The first soldier turned to the guard who, having unscrewed the cap, was drinking the rest of the water. He spoke loudly, as if questioning him. The guard replied, shrugging his shoulders and shoved the empty water bottle into a large pocket sewn onto the khaki pants leg. His hands were free. Not satisfied, the soldier spoke again and his tone was much more demanding this time. Again, the guard shrugged. My heart beat so fast, I was glad there was a rib-cage to keep it from flying out of my chest. Glancing in the direction where we were hiding, the soldier walked toward us, his buddies trailing behind. I had no intention of trying to be a hero. It was best to let the crisis be vetted by Hassan’s men. They showed no symptoms of the fear racking me.
They hadn’t gone more than a few steps when our guard nearest the cliff dropped over the side up to his waist. Reaching behind his back, he slipped the 9 mm from his belt, raised it, and fired as smoothly as if he were target practicing, knocking one of the soldiers off his feet. The other two recoiled, a mistake, because the other guard shot one of them twice in the back. The third soldier instinctively grabbed for his comrade as he slumped toward the ground. Caught in a cross-fire between the two guards, he was dead before he could get off a single shot.
Tiffany jumped up, about to run farther from the road, but Hassan stopped her.
“Stay where you are, Tiffany!” he said, “You must not be seen!”
He began half walking, half running through the grass along the edge of the road cut. He was charged personally with our safety and it was apparent he intended to deliver us alive to San’a. The curve had been cut out of a hill, so he could look down upon the road from his height as he moved, his eyes peeled for the other two troops and the two civilians. The guard by the car was running too, just below Hassan, keeping close to the road cut. The first remained sequestered over the edge. When the other two soldiers came running to discover what was afoot, Hassan and both guards were ready.
“They've trapped them in an enfilade of gunfire!” Tiffany shouted above the thunderous exchange, grabbing my arm again, too frightened to speak further. I felt her panting breath on my cheek.
A moment later, Hassan and our guards returned. The guards shot the one soldier that remained alive as they might dispatch a pig ready for slaughter and began lifting the bodies, dumping them into the Jeep-like vehicle. I wanted to stand, but my legs refused. I still didn’t know where the men with the shotguns were or what their disposition might be. I only knew that none of our group had been injured.
“Come, we must leave quickly before others arrive.” Hassan shouted.
At his command, we leapt from the gravelly ground and ran to the vehicle without uttering a word. When the driver returned and started the car, Hassan closed the front door, then sat next to us in the back seat again. Our driver drove around the curve, the other guard following, having commandeered the military vehicle.
“What happened to the men with shotguns?” I asked as the guards loaded the last two bodies into the vehicle.
“They jumped off the side and fled.” Hassan replied.
“They saw everything!” Tiffany cried. “Do you think they saw us?”
“It isn’t their bailiwick; they will say nothing for fear of being arrested themselves.”
“Are there usually roadblocks along this road?” I asked.
“No. Roadblocks are intermittent, but if they checked Americans and found them without papers, we would be unable to mollify them. They would have detained you on the spot and arrested us. We had to ameliorate the situation.”
The other guard had aimed the soldier’s vehicle toward the cliff and climbed out, holding his foot on the clutch. Once he was clear, he released it and we watched it disappear over the side with its ghoulish cargo. Within seconds, we were underway, and within a few seconds more, met an oncoming car.
“They are very fortunate,” Hassan said, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Allah was with them. Had they come upon us, it would have been necessary to send them to him as well. Don't worry about the soldiers,” he said, “Those boys will be well-received. They were only doing their job.”
“What will happen now? Will we be chased?” I asked.
“Nothing will happen. They will be found in the valley below maybe tomorrow or maybe the next day. It will appear they had an accident and ran off the road. When they discover their wounds, they will not know what happened, nor who to blame.”
He sat in silence afterward. I presumed he was rehearsing events in his mind, relieved we were safe.
The guards acted as though nothing had happened, as if the journey hadn’t even been interrupted. They’d shown more interest in Tiffany’s need to pee than having just succinctly shot those fellows dead. I exchanged glances with her. They had been killed on our account. It was a jarring realization.
“We haven’t even arrived at our destination, yet already we’ve accrued heavy karma with their deaths.” She said. “Now we must discharge it by our future actions.”
This became a subject of deep reflection for me. Never in my life had I been involved in any matter, where every event connected with it upped the stakes, dramatically upped them. Evolution was supposed to be a slow process, but I was being forced to evolve as an individual in ways that threatened to rip the fabric of my reality asunder. I dwelt upon that enigma as we continued on our way without conversation for what seemed about twenty kilometers farther, generally north, before turning into a prosperous looking estate with a large home. The style resembled a villa, surrounded by enormous, beautiful gardens and broad, low-branched, ornamental trees.
“Eric, the gardens give way to pastured terraces stacked against the mountain slopes as a parody of surrealistic topographic dominoes Dali’ might have painted. How enchanting!”
“Here, we will spend the night.” Hassan announced.
One of the attendants who came running as we slowed to a stop grabbed our bags. Another directed us into the villa where a humble man and woman awaited us. I was so relieved to be off the highway, regardless of Hassan’s assurances that we had nothing more to fear.
“This man shares my name: He is Hassan Hugari and this is Fatima, his wife.”
As the man shook my hand, Fatima held Tiffany as close as she might her own daughter. Tiffany’s smile discomfited me. I was certain she was about to cry. Fatima then kept hold of her hand as she led us into a large lounge that overlooked more green terraces in the valley below before padding off to the kitchen to bring refreshments. The view was breathtaking. It drew us to the open mirador. As we stood, Tiffany edged closer, quivering. I knew it was due to the emotional after shock of the terrifying showdown on the highway.
“Low blood sugar,” she said.
Right! Taking her trembling hand into mine, I gave it a gentle squeeze, hoping to seem reassuring. Hell, I needed reassurance myself! She smiled in appreciation, touched by the gesture.
“There’s a distinct affinity between these terraces and those in the Andean highlands of South America,” she said, relaxing. “The Andes were similarly terraced by the pre-Inca Indians so long ago that a geologic upheaval has raised many of them above the line of eternal frost. The ancients worldwide farmed the mountains in this way. But how the practice spread around the entire world so far back in the misty past is the question? It’s so strange.”
I was appalled that, even now, her mind returned so quickly to reflection upon postulates.
“She would be the perfect wife for Carl,” I mused. Only Tiffany among all the souls I had ever encountered possessed a mind of such stupefying wonder as Carl. Christoff was in the same general category, but suffered from a background very similar to mine, or so I thought.
“They must have mastered ocean travel far earlier than we suppose,” She said, “How else could the knowledge and techniques have spanned a planet? You'd think some extraterrestrial species had taught them how simultaneously. We generally farm the valleys and live in the mountains, just the opposite.”
“Where’s everyone else, Hassan?” I asked as he walked in.
“They arrived yesterday sooner than expected and determined to continue on to San’a this morning.”
“I’m hot and I feel I’ve got a coating on my body from sweating all day. Where can I take a shower” Tiffany queried.
“I’ll ask them to take you to your rooms.”
Hassan spoke to the women sitting nearby, giggling and jabbering into one another’s ears with cupped hands as though to avoid our hearing what was being said; in fact, as though we understood Arabic! Tiffany stared at their chadors.
“I can’t imagine wearing one of those. They look hot and uncomfortable.”
The women glared at us like a museum exhibit, having seen few, if any, Americans before I suppose. But at Hassan’s request, two quickly arose and led us down one of the halls where we espied our bags on the tile beside the doors of adjacent rooms. This part of the place resembled a resort hotel wing.
“After cleaning up, I’ll rejoin you. Will you be in the lounge?” She asked.
“Yeah, probably. I have a lot to talk to Hassan about now that we’re not running a gamut fearing for our lives!” I laughed, but I meant it.
Returning to the lounge a half-hour later, I found him already there, wearing a clean robe with his hair freshly combed.
“What happened to your uniform?” I asked.
“Here, it is out-of-place,” he replied, “and the customary clothing is cooler besides. It feels good to wash the sweat and dust from your face.”
“I’m used to it. I’m originally from Arizona . . . practically grew up in the desert. I rode horseback several miles every day around the range, among the mountains, or in the alluvial gravels along river beds and arroyos as a kid. The rivers are dry in the summer except after a storm, such as your wadis. I’ve driven my Dad’s old Jeep or ridden my dirt bike over thousands of square miles of Arizona and New Mexico and old Mexico as well. I lived on a horse the first few months after moving to Montana late in my teens, exploring in the Overthrust Belt. It’s called the Big Sky Country up there. Like I said, I’m used to it.”
“Were you a cowboy?” Hassan asked, smiling at the prospect.
“I wasn’t a Roy Rogers or a Gene Autrey, but I’ve done my share of ranching. I love exploring, climbing rock faces, spelunking in the caves, hunting among the Indian ruins. I’ll take it over city life any time. Only the reefs and the sea attract me more.”
“I understand there are many ruins in that area.”
“The southwest? Everywhere. Many are accessible to tourists if they don’t mind risking a blowout, but there are many more unmarked on any highway map. They’re not as picked over. I’ve found arrowheads,–we call them ‘points’–axe heads, all kinds of paraphernalia out there. If you climb to the top of some of the craggy buttes, you can find fire circles, stones in a circle that have probably been in the same spot for a hundred years since the campfire burned, maybe longer.”
“I suppose your life in such an environment gave you a strong love of freedom.”
“Sure did! People tell the government to fuck-off out there, pardon my language. It’s one place that isn’t reeking with government agents. A lot of it is reservation land.”
“It sounds regenerating.”
“It is, very.”
“Well, we’ll relax here tonight without the others we thought would be waiting. It’s better to rise early and travel while it is cool.”
“Tell me something, Hassan.”
“Yes?”
“Why here? Why were we brought to Yemen? Of all the places we might have gotten together, I can’t grasp why they chose this little country, especially as dangerous as it is. Any of us could have been killed today. You weren’t expecting that checkpoint, I could tell. I don’t understand why we came to Adan; I don’t understand why it was necessary to come to Yemen of all places at all, then drive through all that area, all the towns and villages, in a car, knowing how hazardous the situation is.”
“Not all of you were brought into Adan, only you and Tiffany. Your comrades were smuggled in along the coast and came north from there.”
“That just emphasizes my point. Why Tiffany and I?”
“It was for your benefit as the leader of your Musket Brigade, and Tiffany seems always to be your companion, so wherever you are, she had to be as well.“
That last part about Tiffany caught me off guard. Did they really us that way, because I hadn't, not until then.
“Beyrouti and Fahad wanted you to see Yemen, to have an understanding of the world here.”
“Understanding? I’m not sure I follow.”
“As an American, you do not understand the Muslim heritage. More fundamentally, you know very little of the local history and geography and have never experienced the culture or the warmth of the people. I watched your and Tiffany’s enjoyment as we passed through Adan. I listened to your expressions of pleasure at the sights and sounds, the smells, your comments about the construction of the buildings being a builder from America. It will always remain with you. It will seem more familiar to you. And I understand now why she always with you. Her comments show that she is clearly your facilitator. To have sent you alone would have been a serious error, because it is clear she is essential to you.”
Again, I was floored by his comments about Tiffany.
“You can’t be saying that this setting for the meeting and training of our group was based on my seeing Yemen and being almost killed.”
“Not entirely and not in the sense of your statement. What we wanted to suffuse your minds with, especially you, was a feel for things Arabic, things Muslim.”
“I’m not a religious man, Hassan.”
“I don’t mean Muslim as a religion, but as a culture. A culture is fundamentally an expression of religion in many ways. You may not have reflected upon this, but truly, it is so. As an American, you have been made deeply aware of the Jewish faith, of Israel and its history, the history of the Jewish people. There are many of the Jewish faith in America. Their political power and influence are overwhelming. Conversely, you have been kept unaware for the most part of the history of this part of the world, not by a conspiracy to prevent it, but because it is as you have said, so distant and alien to your own. Yemen may seem to you an insignificant little country. It is not. There is a history here that is very ancient.”
“Well, tell me about it then. You’ve spent most of this trip speaking Arabic to the guards, not talking about Yemen. We’ve driven many miles today, seen some beautiful topography and had “quite a cultural experience,” as you put it. You said almost nothing to us, certainly not about Yemen!”
“Eric, I am very close to the men who met you in Havana. If you will allow me, I’d prefer to tell you about that when Tiffany is with us, but there was much to catch up on. That’s why we spoke at length, but I have been observing you closely as I was instructed to do. Much more closely than you have been observing me, though I noticed you have. There is no place you could have been brought, no country you could drive through, that would be more symbolic than Yemen. I know you are here because you have been offered assistance by our group, but we want to give you more than funds or materials you cannot obtain on your own or in America. You formed the Muskets because your government is a stone in your shoe. It is also a stone in the shoes of the Arabic world. We want you to have an affinity for us, not just benefit in the manner you expected. We want to give you a greater gift, the gift of knowledge, of understanding, and if possible, of wisdom, Eric. Else, you would wonder at our motives for assisting you, would you not?”
“I know you probably consider us an enemy.”
“It is so much more than that, Eric, but you could not understand fully without this experience. That is what was felt. This is not just Yemen. It was known anciently as Happy Yemen, for it is a very ancient country and has been blessed from an age that long preceded America.”
“Happy Yemen?”
“And for good reason. The Arabian Peninsula is four times the size of Germany and France, but the high country that borders the ocean on this southern end is very different from most of the barren, stony, sandy desert to the north. Yemen, as well as Oman and Bahrain to the east are blessed with water, with abundant timber; Yemen far more than they. The heart of Islam lies two-hundred, seventy miles to the Northwest on the Red Sea, and Mecca is known even to Americans, but it is Yemen that from ancient times has been the coveted land. The waters of Mecca and Medina are bitter and brackish, flowing as they do over sulfur and salt in the subsurface. But the waters of Yemen are sweet and pure. Mecca and Medina are famous only because Muhammed graced their presence, but that region is pitiful. The Homerite Kings built the great towers of San’a and a reservoir at Merab so large that it was the envy of the ancient Arabian world. It attained such proportions that it burst, inundating the city. Of the forty-two ancient cities of Arabia that Abulfeda enumerated, the largest were in Happy Yemen. They were exulted even in the famous poem of Dionysius Periegetes, which embodied the wealth and fertility of Yemen. Separated as it is by the Arabian Desert from the former empires to the north, it has never been defeated or reigned over by any of them. Even such magnates as Cyrus the Persian and Trajan of Rome could not conquer it. From ancient times it was known for its frankincense, coffee, spices, timber, and gold. Yemen is Arabian to be sure, the original home of the horse. Even today, Arabians remain the finest horses in the world. But it was also the home of the fierce, cunning warrior, with emphasis on the word, 'cunning.'”
I was wishing Tiffany was hearing this. It was the kind of information that really charged her battery.
“The women tended to the horses and camels, but the men rode them, practicing the art of the bow, the lance, and the scimitar. So you see, Eric, of all the places in the Arabian world, none could be more symbolic than Yemen.”
“You leave me speechless, Hassan. Your argument, your logic, is compelling. It just seems so uncanny to me.”
“If you return to America with an affinity for this little country, having seen so much of it, you will have received a great gift more valuable indeed than the funds and assistance you seek. More importantly to us, it will give you the underpinning to assist you as you fully develop what you began when you founded the Musket Resistance.”
Tiffany returned and I was startled at the contrast between her and the other women around the house who must have thought her horribly immodest in her blue shorts and a white, sleeveless top. They seemed encumbered by their clothing. She was free as a bird. Mr. Hugari and sweet Fatima entered about the same time. She brought coffee in small cups. Sipping it, I grimaced involuntarily. Fatima became troubled, asking Hassan something.
“Fatima fears her coffee is too hot and may have burned your mouth.” He said.
“It’s not too hot. You brew it much stronger than we do,” I explained, “and it caught me by surprise.”
“As strong as in Europe,” Tiffany said. “No one seems to know how to make coffee such as we do in the states. Don’t tell her I said so, but I’d rather drink a cup in Barnes & Noble while reading a book anytime.”
Hassan spoke to the others in Arabic and the entire group laughed heartily.
“You didn’t tell them what I said, did you?” Tiffany didn’t want to embarrass or offend Fatima.
“Not as you said.” Hassan laughed. “Your comments are very humorous to them. Coffee was first invented right here in Yemen during the eleventh century. Few Americans know that.”
“I certainly had no idea.” She said. She actually blushed as though deeply embarrassed. I would remember that.
“I thought it came from Colombia, maybe it was a pre-Colombian drink, such as cocoa from the Maya Indians in southern Mexico and Guatemala.” I added.
Hassan translated my comments for the others. They nodded and made comments among themselves.
“They didn’t know chocolate came from American Indians,” he said, “They thought maybe from the Dutch or from Belgium.” It was mine and Tiffany’s turn to smile.
“The Dutch were the first to make it palatable – smoothed out with milk. I don’t know how interested you are, but the Dutch got it from the Basque colonists in Venezuela. Spain only sent supply ships twice a year, so Dutch ships snuck in and traded with the locals. They’d planted cocoa from Mexico and chocolate was the principal commodity they exchanged in trade with the Dutch merchants.”
Tiffany stared at me as if in disbelief that I knew that. Well, I felt proud. I wasn't quite as colloquial as she had thought. Points for me!
Fatima motioned to her, and she left with the women for the kitchen. They returned carrying bowls of pungent white cheese, rice, sliced cucumbers, and pieces of fried meat which I immediately recognized as the equivalent of cabrito.” That was one thing Tiffany and I definitely had in common; we both loved to eat, especially good food. We were fortunate that we had body types and metabolisms that prevented us from becoming overweight.
“This smells wonderful,” I blurted to Hassan, “I’ve been waiting all day for this!”
“There’s more coming,” Tiffany said as she placed a large platter of rice on the table.
More women arrived and the selection grew to include lamb, fish, tubers, and fruit.
The lamb puzzled me, I don't know why, but I made no comment.
“Hassan asks that we join them at the family table,” Hassan said, “to enjoy the meal Fatima has prepared. It is their custom, their hospitality. Knowing of our hunger after this long and trying day, she has prepared a feast!” The odor of spices permeated the air.
“I love the tastes and aroma of these foods!” Tiffany said, touching Fatima’s shoulder.
“They remind me of restaurants where I’ve eaten with my friend, Carl. He invariably picks an Old World restaurant, Hassan. Every time I visited him in L.A., and later in D.C., I tried a new one. You’ll meet him, he’s a real character! Be careful if you get into a political discussion with him. He’s got the ‘take-no-prisoners’ mentality of Genghis Khan!”
Hassan laughed, “I’ll certainly remember your description of him!”
Tiffany leaned over and whispered in my ear, “This cheese tastes a little like bonnyclabber, don’t you think?”
“Bonnyclabber?”
“You know, sour milk!”
“I don’t drink sour milk, though I love Buttermilk. It’s pungent, but I don’t mind. I’ve eaten Queso Natural in Mexico, It tastes about the same. I don't mean Manchego, but the queso natural made locally in the small towns.”
“Manchego?”
Clearly, there was much Tiffany could learn from me as well.
“This cheese is made from Goat's milk. I like it too, especially with cucumber.”
I was impressed by the communal nature of the meal. I had seen an extended Vietnamese family encircling an enormous wok filled with rice while fishing off the dock in San Francisco, eating the rice with their fingers. Now I was getting the impression that communal eating must be common in many places in the world, particularly parts of the Middle East and Asia.
“You never told us your last name, Hassan.” Tiffany said.
“I am Hassan Alashwal, very proud to be spending time with you. You are both special people. My relatives regard you highly. You will always be beloved to everyone in this house.”
“Would you thank them for risking their lives for us, today?” Tiffany said, smiling at the guards. “What are their names?”
“The names of your two friends are Naseem Hugari and Shaker Eshaq Hugari. They are cousins,” Hassan said. “Mr. Hugari is Naseem’s brother. They were raised in this home built by their father. Shaker is Naseem’s son. The family has lived on this land for three generations.”
Hassan related Tiffany’s appreciation to Shaker and Naseem. They smiled at her and at that moment, despite their fierceness on the highway, they seemed as humble to me as two little boys, though they were about our age. Then the table erupted into intense conversation between them and the rest of Mr. Hugari’s household, astonished as they related their account of the highway skirmish with a military unit. The women glowered at we five survivors as they might at a gathering of the undead.
“Did you tell them how much we appreciate all they’ve done to get us here, especially for today?”
“Yes and they are very humbled by your regard for them.”
“Their humility is bewildering,” I said. Hassan didn’t translate.
“The Yemenis are a humble people. They confirm that pride is not strength and humility is not weakness.”
After eating, Hassan and I joined the other men who’d gone outside to smoke. As we sat relaxing, Tiffany trailed out, astonishing me by sitting on the tile with her back against my knees. The perfume on her exposed shoulders tantalized me. She hadn't been wearing it at the table when we were eating. Had she been, I would have noticed. Was it regard for the Yemenis, or . . .
Hassan stood. “Take my chair, Tiffany.”
“No, no, keep your seat. Thank you though.”
Her affable choice of seating surprised me as much as the feel of her back snuggled against my legs aroused me. I guessed after what we had just experienced today, she felt close to me, but there was something more than that in her manner of snuggling.
“Hassan, your English is almost perfect, almost no accent. Can you tell us where you’re from?”
“The U.S., the same as you, Tiffany.”
“No kidding? That's the last place I would have believed. Where in the states do you live?”
“Bethesda, Maryland, not far from D.C.”
That was in Carl's geography, his very turf!
“Well I’ll be! That's downright weird! I thought you were a Yemeni official coming up in that boat. How about the uniform you were wearing?” I asked.
“I have been here several times before. I met the Hugari family during my first trip to Yemen when I visited the country with the Russian Attache, Beyrouti.”
“You’ve met him already, then,” Tiffany noted. “We’ve only spoken to him by phone when we were in Havana.”
“I’ve known him a few years, met him in Khartoum. He’s the Attache at the Russian embassy.”
I felt uncomfortable at this, wondering just how all these people were interconnected. I intended to discover exactly how, but decided to see wait and see how forthcoming he was with it. He had to know that, second to the question of why we had been brought to Yemen, that was the second elephant in my mind. If he chose to play Hide & Seek with me, I wasn't going to trust him any farther than I could throw him, and after seeing him in action today, that wasn't very far.
“We immigrated from Iran when I was nine. My father worked as a driver for a bakery. His route grew as the area developed and we lived very well. I had little school before we left Iran, so from the third grade on, I was as any other elementary student, except that the first year was very difficult as I learned the language. After graduating from high school, I received a scholarship to attend Cornell. I stayed through my Master’s in Physics, but international events bore down upon me, distracted me.”
“You're a physicist?!” Tiffany and I exclaimed together as though it had been rehearsed.
“You may be surprised that a physicist would transfer to Columbia. I earned my Doctorate in International Studies there. It was during those years that I learned to appreciate my Islamic heritage.”
“Your whole family is Muslim?” she asked.
“Yes, but didn’t practice their faith openly and spoke Arabic only in the home. I thought they were ashamed, but my father told me he wanted us to become real Americans, for their children to have a better life than they had in Iran. He saved the money earned in his date business for many years before he could afford to bring us across. Many came from Iran to America while the Shah was in power.”
“You’re Iranian.” I said. This was a second surprise. The first was the ease and resolve with which he had eliminated the military convoy.
“No.”
“But you just said . . . “
I’m sorry to confuse you so by my comings and goings. I’m actually an Iraqi from a village called Huzgan near the border with Iraq. The border is arbitrary, not a natural divide, and my father’s family lives on both sides. Some are Sunni Muslims. Huzgan is only 95 miles north of Abadan, but as a young boy, Ahwaz, small by comparison, was the biggest city in my world. I often accompanied my Father when he traveled to Ahwaz to sell goats and dates. By the time I returned to Iran as a man to reconnect with my relatives, all I could remember of my early childhood was drying dates in the sun, and tending goats, of course. I’d forgotten the richness and diversity of the culture. That’s when I visited Abadan for the first time.”
“Knowing you’re a physicist from the states, I’m wondering what your reason is for helping us. Obviously, you have maintained an external perspective.” I decided it was time to start opening this can of tangled interconnections.
“It wasn’t an external perspective. Not at first. The genocide committed by the U.S. under the guise of sanctions against the people of Iraq shook my family to the foundations following the Gulf war. Through our relatives, I was galvanized that thousands of innocent Iraqis, mostly children, were dying every month! Sanctions which massacre children are genocide, regardless of the political propaganda put out by those responsible. The world knew that sanctions wouldn’t remove or restrain Saddam, that the population becomes the effective target. I was appalled by the inability of Americans to grasp what was really happening and they seemed to care less. Living in Bethesda, it was easy for me to drive into the Capitol. I presented pictures to congressional leaders within both parties myself, spent weeks in the Congressional Office Building – entire weeks. My relatives in Iraq begged my help . . . two of their children died of dehydration. I told senators and congressmen they could have been saved by a re-hydration tablet that costs less than a penny, but because of the sanctions, I wasn’t allowed to send even those to my own relatives, and at the time had no connections who could get them there. I demanded that congress pressure the administration to comply with the 1948 U.N. convention on preventing and punishing genocide, reminding them the United States had refused to endorse it until 1988! ‘Why? I asked, do you think our government ignored it for forty years?’ They clearly saw in those pictures the horrifying U.S.-orchestrated genocide occurring right then, fewer than three years after finally endorsing it! I asked, 'if deliberately causing more than 800,000 children to die from contaminated water, starvation, and easily preventable disease isn’t genocide, what is?'”
Tiffany’s expression betrayed mixed emotions. After being embraced by sweet Fatima, feeling that love, the warmth of the people, such an atrocity committed in her name by Washington would certainly generate righteous indignation. Her expression seemed to say, “I want to kill someone responsible.”
“What did they say?” She asked, pursuing accountability.
“They agreed it was an insufferable outrage; They spoke as if about to storm the White House door as soon as I left.”
“But . . . “
”But nothing changed.”
“I just don’t get it.” She said.
“There’s an all-pervading ‘Thing,’ Tiffany. I don’t know a better name for it. This Thing controls Washington. It doesn’t care about children; It doesn’t care about women or sick people or old people; It just doesn’t care. It flouts all human compassion and foils every attempt to defy it. When you or your family falls under the power of the Thing, perhaps only then you understand. The experience forces your mind to resist the veil of massive marble structures you once believed empower Americanism. You understand with the clarity of a crystal why the White House demanded that the U.S. be excluded from possible prosecution for War Crimes, even withholding aid from any country that insists upon parity among nations.”
“Carl talks this way all the time,” I said. “He loses patience when I don’t burst into flaming anger. You two could be related.”
“We are; distant, but related.” The surprising interconnections were mounting. Suddenly, it was all beginning to make sense to me. Just how and how deeply did Carl figure into all of what was happening? Hell, he was even Hassan's relative? I tried to remember if he had ever mentioned that name when I was visiting him years ago in D.C. Shortly after he had graduated from High School. I certainly hadn't seen Hassan at his aunt's home or during my stay. He must be related to Carl through his aunt's family, I thought.
“I’d be a sanctimonious hypocrite if I pretended to understand the rage you felt, Hassan,” Tiffany sympathized, “Eric and I became involved for reasons that must seem insignificant to you compared with the genocide enacted against your family.”
“How could I live? How could I believe I am a man if I disavow my own blood? How can I not resist those who trounce the most fundamental principles of our Constitution and tread international law underfoot?”
That pushed my button.
“You can’t!” I almost shouted, fuming, “Carl’s right about that. You have to resist evil men, no matter how sanctimonious they think they are or what bullshit they’re feeding the public. It’s the same as Christof and Kicks Iron have insisted with no let up. Voting out one president and replacing him with another doesn’t change anything. The new leader is still controlled by the Thing you allude to.”
“How does one destroy the Thing?” Tiffany asked.
“You must pull it down! That’s why I’m helping you!” Hassan said. “That’s why we’re all helping you.”
Hassan’s comments appeared to reassure her. As she tried not to stare at the garish knot that had developed behind Hassan’s right eyebrow since the door bounced back and smacked it, I could see Tiffany’s heart going out to this man. He had vision penetrating enough to encompass struggles between nations, a magnanimous soul that couldn’t abide genocide and do nothing, courage sufficient to engage armed soldiers, as he had today. But a car door could kick the shit out of him!
CHAPTER SEVEN

The “Thing”


“An elective despotism was not the government we fought for.”
-Hamilton and Madison, The Federalist Papers


“Hassan,” Tiffany said, “What exactly is the training we are to receive. Eric tells me that Carl said we are to be taught misdirection by a man named, Shiraz.”
“Misdirection is the art of evasion, the art of escaping the power and attention of the Thing. The training you will receive, I have already completed. My reference to the Thing is not original, but comes from a man I regard as great, Fahad Shiraz. He’s Iranian. How do I begin to impress upon your mind the truths I’ve come to accept? I’m an American just as you. So such truths deeply disturb me. In fact, notwithstanding the tragedy which befell my family, it was nevertheless difficult for my thinking to arrive where it is today. It was an intellectual and ethical journey as fraught with terror as the fabled Black Forest, a transition haunted by one’s private dervishes and ghosts. The trek across the veldt of truth affords many exits and detours for the weak or weak-minded. Thus, they are unable to complete it. I suppose that if there were 100 Americans in this room and we asked all those who were weak or weak-minded to stand, fewer than five would. Yet . . . and this is the vital terror to which I refer . . . it is likely that 99 of the 100 fall into this category.”
“I guess I don’t understand the definition you’re applying to the terms,” I said, “because I would contest your numbers on purely statistical grounds.”
“It is not the definition, Eric; It is the Thing that you do not fully comprehend.”
“Why do you call it The Thing?” Tiffany interjected. “It sounds like an attempt at a romantic pejorative. What is the Thing?”
“I think I know what it is,” I said. “It’s about power, that ‘power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ It was that knowledge that led the Founding Fathers to limit the power of government.”
“Correct, Eric. It is about power and yours is a valid approach to understanding it,” He replied, “But it is a hyperbole of a more fundamental law. Perhaps Tiffany has provided the opening for me to enter with her question. May I speak as though you are a school child, even my child whom I desire to be wise? I know that wisdom will expose that child to danger, that as the ancients knew, 'He who hath great knowledge hath great sorrow,' but I desire it for my child still, because as the ancients also said, 'Wise men store up knowledge'. Would you find that approach offensive or condescending?”
This was a different Hassan than I had come to know since we first met. I had seen the Warrior, Hassan, seen him in action. Then I find out he's physicist from the U.S. With a doctorate in International Studies. That brought him into focus. But, this was Hassan, the philosopher, adopting the demeanor and air of his mentor whom we had yet to confront. Tiffany looked at me, that searching look. Hopeful. Nothing was going to offend her, but she wasn’t sure about me. I had grown so weary of others doubting my sincerity that I was willing to go along with almost anything to escape the effrontery. You have to endure this to fathom it: The sense that others suspect that you are less than you pretend or claim to be swirls your psyche such as flowing water swirls sand into surrealistic patterns of doubt, self-doubt. I’d had enough of it. There was no way I was going to appear to be less open-minded than Miss Tiffany Cronin. My mind was solidly made up on that point.
“It’s fine with me. Go on; consider me your son! What did this Shiraz fellow we’re going to meet say the Thing is?”
Tiffany’s smile was reassuring, more to her than to me. Hearing my reply, she could relax, feel she was among like-minded Americans who alone were worthy of the intellectual feast, the Pearls of Great Price about to be cast before us. She could believe I wasn’t a provincial, intellectual swine.
“The prophet, Jesus told the story of leaving the ninety and nine and going after the one sheep that had left the fold,” he began, “Do you recall it?”
“I do.” Tiffany said.
“It’s been a long time since my summer Bible School days.” I said.
“It was not original with Jesus. Joseph and Mary fled into Egypt when he was but a child to avoid losing him in King Herod’s massacre of all boys aged two and under throughout the coasts of Galilee. Jesus was suppoedly there for many years and it was in Egypt that he encountered that story. Whether he was actually ever in Egypt or not doesn't change the fact. It’s from an ancient, Middle Kingdom manuscript. Its import impressed him, as did much that was Egyptian. You can tell from many of his sayings and parables.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point, Eric, is that we three are not among the ninety and nine safely in the fold who are weak or weak-minded. Those in the fold will tolerate unspeakable things because of apathy or fear. We have abandoned our flock. We are the one.”
“I try not to be overly proud.” I said, not certain I’d gotten the point.
“It’s not about pride, Eric,” Tiffany objected, “It’s about a kind of ‘knowing,’ a sense that you care when others don’t, are more awake, more in-tune, more . . . alive somehow than your fellow man. You begin to notice it more and more; their general disinterest in all but party politics, religious prejudice, and so forth. Anyone and everyone does that, but they seem blind to the real issues, as if the world ended at the edge of their little world. Isn’t that what you’re talking about, Hassan?”
“Indeed, you have made the very point, because to confront the Thing, we must first confront ourselves, the most difficult prospect we humans can face, and we Americans are no exception. For us, it may be even more difficult than for those of other cultures.”
“‘Humans’ is a broad term.” I said.
“The broadest, I hope. Fahad begins by asserting the axiom, 'For every force, there is an oppositely directed force of equal strength.'”
“Isn’t that a law of physics?” Tiffany asked, “As you are one, that probably seemed a rather lame opener to you.”
“It is a law of laws,” he replied, the lines of his face hardening.
“Is that good or bad?” She asked.
“Neither. It just is and it accounts for the existence of what we’ve agreed to call the Thing. It’s a satisfactory acronym and metaphor. If you forget or ignore the law of laws, you cannot grasp that which rests upon it.”
“It’s a physical law, but you are applying it to sentient, organic beings.” I said. “Can that be valid?”
“All organic beings are sentient,” he said, “What Western civilization has lost is the knowledge that the line between physical and organic is ephemeral and that what you regard as inorganic is also sentient, but let’s not divert our attention in that direction. It is only important to recognize that man is subject to the law of laws and that our subjection to it is older than man. Thus, we may not escape it.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Tiffany said, pressing more closely against my legs.
“So do I.”
“Very well.”
I wasn’t Tiffany’s boyfriend, far less lover, at least not yet, but I felt a responsibility to assure that her anger toward the government wasn’t preyed upon by those with objectives more devious than her own. I guess I regarded the relationship as equivalent to a big brother looking out for his sister at that point in our relationship. At the same time, while I intended to keep an open mind, wide open, it didn’t necessarily follow that I would swallow carte blanc anything that fell from Hassan’s lips. Not that I didn’t trust his motives. He had a great deal to give, but I prefer to think I process all information through my own sieve before accepting it as true.
“The Thing draws its power from the people, regardless of the type of government they are subject to.” He said. “It applies equally to a kingdom or a democracy, to a regime or a theocracy. However, what you must never forget is that its interests are exactly opposite those of the people. Strangely, it relies upon the basic goodness of society at large . . . let us define that as the masses . . . for its survival. It cannot flourish if a majority of a society has degraded to lawlessness and irregard for order. The Thing is evil, evil in the most fundamental sense. There are no exceptions, yet it can only exercise dominion over the good.”
“Talk about a contradiction,” I exclaimed, It’s an oxymoron!”
“On the face of it, Eric. The more you understand the law of laws, the less oxymoronic it will appear to be. Do you understand the meaning of inertia?”
“Certainly. That’s a physical law as well, the tendency of an object to remain at rest. If you want it to move, you have to apply a force.” I felt I had scored a point.
“Again, you must remember that although it is regarded as a physical law, it rests upon the law of laws also and is therefore universal and applies to man as well as all that is below man.”
“In humans, it’s merely a dislike of change, resistance of progress, that sort of thing.” Tiffany sounded sure of herself, “Like old hussies that love cats, but hate people.”
“In your words, you evidence the universal applicability of the law.”
“How is inertia applicable to the Thing?” I asked.
“The greater the goodness of the people, the greater the force the Thing can exercise over them. The people seldom resist the Thing; often, they worship or revere it. It could be a king, a prophet, it doesn't matter. They are under its dominion, often willingly because they lack understanding of the Law of laws, the degree of their intelligence or education notwithstanding. If the Thing openly manifests its evil nature, normally, they retreat farther and farther toward what they regard as the pillar of their goodness, their faith, as the Thing progresses farther and farther toward absolute dominion. It is as I said, axiomatic. The people are the ninety and nine and the Thing does not fear them except at the voting booth in a democracy or republic. Thus, it is deeply veiled within the institutions of the people the very ones it seeks to destroy. They are easily manipulated because of their apathy and timidity. What the Thing fears is not the ninety and nine, but the one!”
“Damn!” Tiffany said, “It’s as simple as mathematics, isn’t it?”
“There are many complicating factors, so many that the incontestable power of the axiom can be difficult to recognize, far less to prove. But it is always there, always operating, always controlling.”
“In that sense then, NADNARA is just another progression of the evil of the Thing.” I observed.
“Yes, cloaked as the Thing begins, after it has amassed sufficient power, it will attempt to operate without restraint.”
“That’s why evil is so pervasive in government,” Tiffany exclaimed, “The people will not see and if they do, they refuse to believe it can be evil.”
“They want to believe the myth of the Good King, Tiffany, but there are few good kings, as widely separated as we find ourselves from the pax romona today. It is probably true that a good king is better than a democracy, but there is no guarantee that his successor will be as just. Perhaps he will be a monster.”
“I guess the Tories knew that.” Tiffany said.
“No, the Tories did not lust for the excesses of the Crown. They were merely subject to the law of inertia as applied to man. There were far fewer patriots, far fewer ‘ones,’ than our textbook history implies. It’s just that the one drew many of the ninety and nine into revolution by its resolve. They were dragged in, not by choice, but necessity.”
“You seem to be underscoring the power of the one, Hassan,” I said, “And in the case of the American Revolution, that was probably the case. Today, the people have become far too docile to become drawn in again.”
“All change stems from the one in opposition to the ninety and nine,” He said, “Please, Eric and Tiffany, please remember the law of laws: There is an opposite and equal force! The Thing knows this and you must never forget it. The one has power equal to the Thing exercising dominion anywhere at anytime. The power is not in the ninety and nine. They are unwilling to know, afraid to understand, easy to manipulate. They are, despite their goodness, indolent in most extreme sense of that word!”
“God, why aren’t we taught this in school?” Tiffany asked. “If every American knew just that, that one principle, there wouldn’t even be a Thing!”
“Our political correctness, another link in the chain forged by the Thing, will not permit honesty in education any more than honesty in government. The entire struggle between individual freedom and social responsibility stems from a realization by the Thing that if such truth were known, the one might increase to the two, the three, perhaps the twenty. Then there would be no Thing. It is not about politics as the people are carefully misdirected to believe. The Thing knows this. It is about the survival and increasing empowerment of itself. But please, remember that the ONE doesn't need two or three or twenty. It has force equal to the Thing in itself.”
“The Federal government in the specific case of America.”
“Again, you are correct. It matters not who resides in our White House.”
“Can you imagine if Peter Jennings was among the one and said such things on ABC News?” Tiffany laughed.
“Peter Jennings among the one?” I laughed. “He’s the spokesman of the ninety and nine; Media is an instrument of the Thing!” I roared though I was actually nauseated.
“I think enough has been said.” Hassan exclaimed, the lines in his face visibly softening. “You two are definitely among the one.”
It was flattering and at the time, I believed it. I have since come to know that though I aspired to be among the one, all of my uncertainties, doubts, and misgivings stemmed from the fact that I had one foot inside the fold with the ninety and nine.

MISDIRECTION

“These panes certainly prove glass is a liquid,” Christof said, drawing his finger down one of the distorted panes, “I love seeing them.”
“Glass is a solid,” Kicks Iron replied, looking puzzled. Are you talking about melted glass?”
“It’s not solid. Glass is a flowing liquid, just so viscous that it takes half a century to notice the ripples. The bottom of these panes is thicker than the top. See these wriggles? That’s where it’s collapsing; You can see for yourself. Look.”
“Christof's right.” Carl assured him.
“Who gives a damn?” Kicks Iron said, refusing to allow his impatience to be placated. He cast his eyes down the hall. Majed worried at the big Indian fellow’s temperament. He was the biggest man he had ever seen. Someone had installed a ceiling fan in the wall above the door at the end of the long, tiled hall sometime in the past. Judging from the incessant squeaking, Majed felt it must have been the distant past, imparting an even more antiquated feel to the old building where he had brought the Americans. Its proximity to the former Soviet embassy here in San’a, away from the city center where they wouldn’t have to worry about surveillance, made it convenient. Beyrouti had told him to bring them at 11 am. He would be in a meeting with Nahud and Fahad to discuss the opportunity the Muskets afforded, but it should be more or less concluded by then. They’d meet the Americans face-to-face afterward. It was now approaching noon, Beyrouti still had not emerged, and the Americans were becoming impatient, especially the giant Indian man who made him nervous anyway.
It looked to Christof that the doors all had windows to permit light into the offices off the big hall in case the city lost power. The door and window casings had been constructed from rough-hewn lumber, then sanded and rubbed until they had the quality of nineteenth-century or handmade Mennonite furniture. Missing plaster had left the clay bricks exposed here and there, but it was obvious from the elbow-grease a woman on hands and knees was putting into scrubbing the tile that the Yemenis kept the building scrupulously clean.
“She must be sweating like a stuck hog in that Charon,” Christof said, “You couldn’t pay me to wear a sheet, a black sheet at that, in the sun? I never understood how they could stand it!”
“She must have skunk pussy between her thighs by the time she gets home.” Kicks Iron said, unaffected when Majed blushed. Kicks Iron didn’t like him anyway. He didn’t like anyone displaying formality, anyone stuck up. Even Carl always dressed down any time he was with his buddies.
“They’re cooler than you suppose.” Carl said. “You have to appreciate different cultures. She’d rather be wearing that Charon than a pair of jeans.”
“How long are they going to keep us standing out here in the hall?” Kicks Iron demanded, “I’m ready to get this show on the road!”
Carl was pleased with Kicks Iron and Christof. They had the ardor to do whatever needed to be done.
“If I was the leader instead of Eric,” he had often thought, “we’d be getting the show on the road all right and without his whining about getting ‘too violent.’”
“We certainly got it on the road with Agent Lane!” He said.
The growing impatience of the Americans was causing Majed considerable embarrassment. Carl didn’t like waiting around, either, but was more tolerant with the way things were in this part of the world where no one was in a hurry about anything. They both burst out laughing.
“Yeah . . . I wonder what he thought when he came home and found his house burned down.” Christof laughed.
“Especially burning up all the art that egotistical prick had in the place.” Kicks Iron added.
Had he been to Carl's D.C. Townhouse, he would have thought the agent's collection minuscule.
Majed turned to them. Comments about burning down houses seemed to entitle him to join in the conversation again as though he was a diplomat. He’d become so intimidated by Kicks Iron, he’d fallen into a fixed stare at the door of the conference room, wishing Beyrouti would emerge. He’d announced their arrival to Beyrouti before eleven.
“We’re going to torch the house of every agent on that list the same way.” Kicks Iron said. “They won’t find gas cans, either. That microwave idea of yours was brilliant, adroit.”
It had been easy as hell setting a jar of gasoline inside the microwave and a lit candle beside it. They were miles away after entering ‘twenty minutes’ on the panel and pressing the ‘start’ button. The fire was their first of its sort and looked impressive on the evening news the night before they flew out.
“Too bad Lane hadn’t just walked in before it happened. He must have been jaded by that blaze!” Christof said, spurring another bout of laughter.
The door opened. Three men stood there. Beyrouti was easy to pick out: Tall, light-skinned, European slacks and cuff-links. The other two were darker, one wearing khaki pants and a white cotton shirt, much shorter than Beyrouti, and a mystic fellow with a long, white beard. His robe and the turban wrapped around his head set him apart. All three were smiling as Beyrouti waved them in.
“Come on in! I’m sorry we didn’t break off at the time I indicated, Majed. We had a few tangent matters to discuss.” Beyrouti had a relaxed posture, but his expression was anxious.
“Let’s get introduced before we do anything. This is Nahud Rashad from the Sudan.” He said, indicating the man in the khakis.
Carl got the feeling Nahud was a professional of some sort as they introduced themselves and shook hands. He lacked Beyrouti’s official stance. He seemed even shorter next to Kicks Iron.
“I live in Khartoum,” he said. “This is Fahad Shiraz from Tehran.”
“Please, please come in,” Fahad said. He spoke even better English than Beyrouti and certainly better than their erstwhile guide, Majed Aziz.
Beyrouti had instructed Nahud and Fahad how to mix with their guests before opening the door to greet them.
“Don’t sit together on the same side of the table; If we polarize the group, everyone will be uncomfortable. We are neither interrogating nor negotiating, just becoming familiar. Later, we’ll get into details. Spread out, blend in, and relax.”
Following his counsel, they seated themselves first, Beyrouti at one end, Fahad and Nahud on opposite sides.
“Majed, Mr. White might enjoy the seat on the end there instead of being crowded on the side; this is such a small table.” Beyrouti said observing Kicks Iron’s enormous frame. Carl and Christof took one of the empty seats on opposite sides of the rather small conference table. It seemed out of place in the large room. Carl sat next to Nahud. Beyrouti seemed pleased with the distribution.
Majed was the last to sit, selecting the remaining chair on the side with Fahad and Christof. Two men entered, rolling a cart laden with coffee, bottled water and juices half-submerged in a wooden tub of ice, and several platters with a variety of crackers, breads, and cheese.
“You are probably as thirsty as we are.” Beyrouti said.
“Do you like cheese, Carl?” Nahud asked, offering Carl the tray.
“Love it.”
“You appear local; Where is your home?” Nahud asked.
“California; I’m an Iraqi-American.”
“How splendid! My wife also is an Iraqi. Her father was sent by Hussein to conduct research at our pharmaceutical company. I met her through my friendship with him. She has borne me three children. I have two sons to thank Allah for, may he be praised.”
“Are you a biochemist?”
“Microbiologist. I am here at Beyrouti’s request to meet with your Mr. Hogan. He is not here until tonight, I was told.”
“Meet with Spritz? So you’re involved in the biological weapons program Saddam moved to Khartoum after the Gulf War?”
“Yes, Carl. Our role was very important even before the war. Saddam sent millions in cash, American dollars. I oversaw transport of the substrate with biological agents. After the Americans brought down his regime, but before they established a firm grip on the country, a very large truck with many pallets of American dollars in the back arrived at our facility. My friend, Mr. Beyrouti, was responsible for exchanging it into a currency we could use.”
“You must be very interested in Spritz’s Doomsday Bug! Spritz is Hogan’s first name.”
“I see and what nationality is the name, Spritz? Is it a nickname”
“I couldn’t say, but it’s not a nickname. It’s his given name.”
“I was amazed by Majed’s discussion of the virus and the assertion of its power. I understand humans have not yet been exposed.”
“Not to my knowledge, but Spritz is definitely the one to talk to. It’s a shame they’re running a day behind.”
“And what is your profession, Carl?”
“I’m an attorney. I specialize in Constitutional and International Law, so most of my cases involve abuse or violation of constitutional rights. I’m on retainer with Amnesty International.”
“How worthy an effort. You must enjoy your work.”
“I spend a great deal of time in New York at the U.N. and around the country speaking to human rights groups. I also sit on U.N. committees alleging war crimes. I have a number of close friends at the U.N.”
“America is perplexing to you, no? A land of immigrants. You live there, but your country has twice destroyed the nation of your heritage.”
“It is perplexing. Militarism dominates Washington society.”
“Your military-industrial complex requires it, does it not?”
“The lobbyists have relationships with every individual of importance or influence, and I mean every individual or entity. It's the growth industry of growth industries, spiraling larger by its nature. Their campaigns are funded by those interests. Anyone not supporting the system is considered an outsider, or not in the know, ignorant.”
“How is this so for a country with so many churches?”
“Nahud, you have to live there to understand the contradictions. You have to grow up as an American as I did to understand, from childhood to manhood. The violent mentality is unassailable. The American people are good, most people most of the time. And yet, society is capable of incredible disregard and violence against those considered outcasts or in conflict with current trends. They’re effectively ostracized. Because of the nature of my work, I come into contact with that group most frequently . . . “
Beyrouti stood, focusing the group’s attention.
“We’ve been anticipating meeting you for some time,” Beyrouti began, “We’re intrigued by your Musket organization and stirred by your commitment. Hassan informed us it was your organization that orchestrated widespread destruction of the NADNARA system. You’ve been remarkably effective in defending your ideology!”
“We’re proud of that,” Christof said, “but it’s been stalled lately. They’re guarding all remote installations now, and we can't gain access to the supermarkets, atms, not even traffic lights. Officers are stationed systematically. They know we'll hit any array not protected 24/7. The cost to bring a damaged system back on line is significant. They intend to stop it. They’ll arrest you if you’re within fifty feet of an array if it's outside the city limits. Signs have been posted by each one. After what happened to Blevins, many of the coverts don’t go out any more.”
“Nevertheless, it has proven your ability to organize effective operations. The strategies we agreed to fund or assist with are several orders of magnitude more destructive. They are patriotic acts of course, but terrorist acts by definition and scope. We would have been hesitant to invest such sums or assume the associated risks had you not already proven yourselves under fire in the fight against American governmental tyranny, which is now directed inward as well as outward.”
Kicks Iron had been studying the three foreigners.
“That asthenic Fahad has been checking me out very closely.” He whispered to Carl. “He’s been leering at Christof’s shaved head, trying to reconcile the symbolism with the man, I suspect, as if we weren’t equally put off by his robe and turban.”
“I can see how both you and Christof could seem pretty creepy to him,” Carl said.
”We’re from different parts of the world,” Beyrouti continued, “but not from different worlds. We share a common interest. I don’t desire to appear bombastic. That is for insipid politicians. But to function together as we have begun, we must have a basis upon which to work. Our ideologies intersect in critical ways, but we must develop a working ideology that is separate and distinct from our individual ideologies, one with well-defined objectives that achieve mutual goals. We shall find it necessary to properly structure each of your operations in a manner which protects not only your group but also our involvement in its actions. You have requested financial and technical assistance to conduct the Milk Truck operation. To ensure that the attentions of your government are not directed toward the group of nations we represent involves complex considerations. Thus, we felt it unsound to proceed farther without this meeting. A concrete understanding between ourselves is imperative on such potentially slippery turf.”
“What do you mean by a separate, distinct ideology?” Christof asked. “One that isn’t rooted in religion?”
“Not a religious ideology of course. I am not Muslim either. We must establish a common paradigm upon which our mutual agreement is not in question. An ideological quagmire could subvert our resolve and ultimately bring our goals to ruin, however honorably begun.”
“Well, let’s discuss those principles.” Christof said.
“We should wait until your leader arrives with Tiffany . . . ”
“That may be counterproductive,” Christof interrupted, “depending upon what operations may be envisioned.”
Every head in the room turned to Christof. Carl was outraged at this unnecessary revelation.
“I’m afraid I don’t comprehend your statement.” Beyrouti said. Fahad began twisting the ends of his beard, a disappointed expression on his face.
“Well . . . “ Christof seemed hesitant to continue, having caught Carl's condemning expression. “Let me put it this way: Eric founded the Muskets and he is the leader. He’s a great person, a good person . . . “ He paused.
“What he’s saying,” Kicks Iron said, ending the conundrum, “is that Eric is a coward. He’s dragging his feet.”
“What do you mean? What is the substance of your comment?” Fahad inquired, still twisting his beard.
“Eric is patriotic as hell. He hates, certainly mistrusts, the U.S. government, but for his own reasons. He doesn’t see the big picture like we do. When we conceived Milk Truck, he almost lost it, even though one of our best friends had been arrested doing the Musket’s bidding, his bidding.”
“How would you characterize his reticence?”
“The idea of civilian casualties stops him in his tracks. He’s trapped within the system. NADNARA was a unique opportunity. We were destroying property. There was no risk of the loss of life other than our own. When the FBI organized the sting for Blevins, they destroyed Blevins’ life. Eric was distraught over that and agreed to reprisal. He didn’t flinch at killing the agent and the informant. Kicks Iron and I are more like Carl, meaning that we see NADNARA as a symptom. The disease is in Washington. You can’t cure a disease by treating symptoms. You have to attack the cause. Eric wants to hack at the branches, not go for the Tap root, because in America the government is civilians. If you strike the government, civilians are going to die, even if it’s a military base. It’s unavoidable. I don’t want to kill civilians either. I understand the moral impasse. We identify with his. It’s the same dilemma a member of the National Guard confronts when he’s called up to quell a civilian disturbance. Those are your people out there. There’s a possibility you could end up firing upon them if things get out of control such as happened at Kent State. That was a long time ago but it seared the national consciousness. Justification is the line you have to cross if you intend to do any real harm to the government. If you’re unwilling to cross that line, the struggle can’t succeed. The government has sufficient resources to repair any damage you might cause hacking at its branches. You’re nothing more than a nuisance. Washington’s mentality is a total affront to the constitution, but when a branch-hacker like Eric sees them commit atrocities such as Ruby Ridge or Waco, he just stands and watches! This is a fact. People may scream about it or mumble back and forth privately, but they don’t reach for their guns because they’re afraid. They’d rather lie to themselves–buy into the spin that the atrocities were justified–even if somewhere deep down inside they know they weren’t. There aren’t many Timothy McVeighs. That’s the reality at work, a damned contentious reality. That’s the concern Kicks Iron and I have about Eric. It might be fortunate that he and Tiffany were delayed.”
“That’s an astute summation Christof, even if you’re not an attorney!” Carl said. The levity of a moment of laughter was welcome during a taut discussion.
“What about Tiffany?” Fahad asked. “Carl describes her as close to Eric. Does she share his reticence?”
“She’s not a problem,” Kicks Iron said, “You shouldn’t infer anything philosophical from their relationship. She’s twisted, but in the right way. She wants to kill those she believes are responsible for the embarrassment and grief her family has borne at the hands of the government.”
Beyrouti and Fahad had occasionally exchanged glances during Christof’s discourse. Carl was edgy, concerned the disclosure might bridle the commitment of their benefactors. He hadn’t anticipated the possibility they’d be sitting in the room with Eric on the lam. “Think of Tiffany,” he said, “as a kind of covert mentor of Eric in that respect.”
Whatever the outcome, it troubled him. Kicks Iron’s forcible disavowal of Eric’s character was vexatious. It sounded too like a Swan song for the Musket Founder’s participation.
“Just a moment.” Fahad said, “Mister Beyrouti, I believe it would not be apropos to proceed with the assumption Mr. Stroder may oppose this or that operation. I ask this: Is there a concern he might divulge these comrades to the authorities?”
“Never,” Carl said.
“Then the comments of Kicks Iron and Christof are misplaced so early in our discussions. We thank you for expressing your concerns, Gentlemen, but at this time, his commitment does not appear to differ that markedly from your own. I wish to spend sufficient time with him. I wish to determine the boundary conditions which confine his reasoning. I wish, Mr. Beyrouti for Mr. Stroder to remain in the city and for these gentlemen to proceed to the country for training. They devised Operation, Milk Truck. Mr. Stroder will have the companionship of his friend, Tiffany, and the company of Spritz. I wish to pass much time with each of them to determine the nature of their individual commitments and the extent of their individual antipathies.”
Beyrouti and Nahud nodded in agreement, relieved to postpone confronting divisive issues surrounding Eric.
“Very well,” Beyrouti replied. “Milk Truck requires a high degree of technical sophistication. Those aspects will be addressed in the country. It also requires a high degree of risk and the U.S. government must be misdirected. I wish to discuss now the manner in which I believe this will be achieved effectively if Kicks Iron and Christof do not object to this.”
“I have no objection. Just remember that Eric is no McVeigh.” Kicks Iron said. “He’s a good person . . . he has ethics. Keep in mind when you speak with him that he cannot endure the perception that he’s a hypocrite. It’s his greatest vulnerability. Use it as we have against him for his own benefit. Remember also that Eric’s leadership is in serious question in any action that invalidates his ethics by seeming to prove he is as immoral as those he seeks to pull down. Eric has an empty place in his soul, but doesn’t always see issues with clarity. When he does, he acts, but often doubts the rightness of his actions. Does that make sense?”
“Eric may represent certain risks, but we are able to avert them,” Fahad said, twisting his beard, “We will isolate him from direct involvement in Milk Truck. To defuse the potential danger of him exposing the existence of our support, we will all agree here and now to withhold from him the nature of the misdirection strategy I shall discuss. If for any reason Mr. Stroder reported or indirectly revealed our involvement . . . “ He sighed, “We would all, you and we, be in a position of grave risk. I must demand your agreement with this point.”
“Christof’s analysis is overstatement,” Carl said. “Eric is an ethical being. Of course he questions his own motives, his reasons for what he does. I think that’s healthy. I’ve known him since we were children. Christof is a relative newcomer and doesn’t know Eric as intimately as I do. Eric’s paradigm is more inhibited than ours, but regardless of doubting himself, he would never give up his friends.”
“So this is a consensus?” Beyrouti asked, still standing, obviously flustered.
They nodded.
“Okay.” He said, shuffling through the papers spread in front of him, “We will leave him here when the rest of us go to the countryside. Fahad, please proceed with your vital discussion.”
Sitting, he thumbed through several pages of hand-written notes. It was evident to Carl that Beyrouti had been more distracted by the discussion than Fahad. He himself felt Fahad’s approach made good sense.
“Rage overwhelms dismay,” Fahad said. “For this reason, we must misdirect your government by providing a foreign scapegoat upon which to vent the initial reproach. But it must be a foreign scapegoat that America already controls. This will leave Washington hawks with no one to attack in retaliation. This, in turn, will generate national internal frustration, our common goal resolved to its simplest cognitive content. If Americans believe that their future will be marked by periodic attacks of unpredictable severity and great loss of life, they will consider the prospect unacceptable. They were led to believe that spectator sport militarism was possible, certain their country was omnipotent. When the World Trade Center was destroyed, they realized they had become participants . . . that they could not enjoy watching Muslims die in Palestine or elsewhere on CNN with impunity. Now they have been assured that with NADNARA, there is little probability of another 9/11, certainly that one of greater magnitude is highly improbable. We wish to help you because Milk Truck by design will destroy their confidence in the ability of the military to provide adequate security. The elements of your plan are ingenious. Are you certain security is as lax at Fort Benning as you say?”
“Yes, it is. We’ve watched it for weeks. It's being watched right now, this very minute.”
“Why did you select this particular base?”
“Call it payback for the Trail of Tears.” Kicks Iron replied.
“The Trail of Tears?”
“That's what my people, the Cherokee, called the forced march west so the American colonists could take the Cherokee's lands, homes, and property outright. The Cherokee were so much like them in manner, dress, house styles, and every way they could placate the lust for their lands and homes that even the Supreme Court ruled against it. But Andrew Jackson was an Indian hater. He didn't care what the Supreme Court ruled. He sent the army in and sent us out. Many of our people died along the way and were buried in shallow, unmarked graves. The old, the sick, the young, the weak, most died, about a fourth of our entire population just along the way. So the choice of Ft. Benning is part of settling the score. That's payback of equal magnitude in loss of innocent life, and long overdue.”
Fahad had been studying Kicks Iron carefully as he spoke. For a moment, he said nothing. The silence became noticeably uncomfortable. Then he seemed to snap out of it.
“If you are successful, it will be obvious to all Americans that if the military cannot protect itself, it is powerless to protect the people. Only then will they respond ideologically and demand abandonment of the policies that led to a strike against their country. Only then will they realize that bullying the world, refusing even to restrain Israel’s apartheid, guarantees more hatred of America and even worse terrorism later. The kernels of misdirection are these: Two ‘Afghans’ must accompany your attack team.”
“There are no Musket members of Afghan ancestry,” Carl said. “That will be a problem.”
“I did not mean to imply that they must be Afghans, only that the government believe they are because of similar facial features. They must be abducted. And, they must be casualties of Milk Truck. They must be seized and forced to assist you. Beyrouti has a device which he believes will make any man completely cooperative. He will instruct you in its use as part of your exercises in the countryside. It will be necessary for them to be brought onto the base by a high-ranking officer whose authority will not be questioned. They will not leave the base of course and will not survive to inform your government officials of the ruse. The bomb must be detonated in an area distant enough from the gate and downwind of it to ensure that the guards at the gate will not be casualties and will later report the presence of Afghans on the team. The abducted officer must explicitly state to the guards upon entry that the individuals with him are Afghans.”
“Brilliant! A la Milk Truck.” Christof said. Kicks Iron nodded, no longer oblivious to the import or importance of Fahad’s misdirection strategy or his critical involvement.
“You say Afghanistan will be the scapegoat. Do you mean al Qaeda in Afghanistan, or the country?” Carl asked.
“It is my wish that your government will ask themselves the same question!” Fahad smiled. “I have another meeting I must attend. “Carl, would you accompany me? Kicks Iron and Christof, I will leave the two of you in the astute care of a great military strategist. Beyrouti will work with you from this point. He has pondered the Milk Truck operation in great detail. Will you excuse me? Carl will rejoin you for the meal tonight. Then tomorrow, all of you must relocate to the Amran Hills north of here for training. Nahud will also accompany you there. Eric and Tiffany will remain with me. Remember that only the three of you should be privy to the details of the misdirection strategy.”
After circling the table, bowing, and shaking every hand, he left with Carl.
“We must now focus our attention upon a discussion of the actual strategy for Milk Truck,” Beyrouti said. “This is how I believe we should proceed . . .”
As Fahad walked along the hall with Carl in tow, he paused momentarily and another man spoke to him from within a darkened office.
“Was your first layer of misdirection successfully applied?” the man asked in a whisper.
“As planned.”
“That will do.” the shadowy figure replied.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Meeting

I of course had no idea that any of this had occurred when Tiffany and I arrived in San’a. My “friends,” Christof and Kicks Iron had made statements redolent of slander, implacable in their insistence that I was weak and uncommitted. I had been transformed into a subject of grave concern to Fahad and there I was, foisting myself off as the estimable leader of the Musket Brigade! Had I known, the humiliation would have pushed me over the top. Not because I expected to be touted as a paragon of strength, but after all, it was I who had formed the Muskets; it was I who had created the covert units that smashed the NADNARA arrays; I supported the concept of retaliatory ops against the FBI and the traitor within our ranks. I later endorsed the derailing of a train to secure technetium, even endorsed (albeit with concern) the smuggling of cesium and plutonium into the country. As the leader, it was not merely my prerogative, but an overriding obligation to examine and reexamine not just my own motivations, but the motivations of those associated with me. I may not have acted with the celerity Carl, Christof, and Kicks Iron thought I should, but I did act when reason compelled or their arguments were sufficiently cogent. I neither expected nor demanded their veneration, but neither would I have been able to abide such open disrespect. Being considered irresolute was already a frenetic issue with me. I probably would have insisted in disgust that I be returned with alacrity to the States. But as I said, this was all kept from me until much later. Frankly, I was surprised when Carl revealed every detail of that day’s conversations and the misdirection strategy Fahad had designed . . . after Milk Truck had gone down successfully!
After introducing Tiffany and I to Fahad and recounting our adventures during the journey to San’a, Hassan left with our guards to join Beyrouti and the others in the countryside. I had expected to be met by Beyrouti, so I was quite surprised by the introduction to a Persian cleric. I was also surprised to learn that Spritz Hogan had flow to Manila innocuously, then been routed from the Philippines to San’a through Malaysia and India! Apparently, our benefactors were so concerned with cloaking their involvement that no route seemed too convoluted to avoid any of our movements being noticed or traceable.
We were taken to the same building where the meeting with Christof, Kicks Iron, and Carl had been held, but to the third floor, where we were directed to a large central area surrounded by numerous rooms which I suspected had once been offices of some Administrative agency or other. They had been converted into simply furnished suites. In the center of the open area, two women wearing chadors were busily arranging various foods around a basin of yellow rice on a large, circular table. The table was surrounded by wooden chairs at least as old as the building itself. The pungent, redolent smell of the local spices wafted through the air, reminding me just how hungry I was. Tiffany nearly frightened them when she lunged forward to grab a thick, ripe tomato slice.
“God, I’m hungry as hell,” She said immodestly, “I’m assuming this is for us?”
The women merely looked at her, ignorant of English.
“They’re Milquetoast servants. They don’t understand a word I’m saying.”
“Mr. Stroder, you may use this room,” the porter told me, though he seemed far too ministerial to fill the role, “and Miss Cronin may use this one. The toilet is across the room. Do you see it?”
“The room with no door?”
“Yes, but quite private inside. Your food is prepared. I shall return for you in the morning. Mr. Beyrouti left instructions I was to remind you not to venture from the building, not to venture outside. This would be potentially dangerous for you.”
I assured him we had no aspirations or intentions even to go downstairs again.
“Where’s Spritz?”
He showed no reaction. “Who is Spits?”
“Sorry, where is Mr. Hogan? I assumed he would be here.”
“Perhaps they put him elsewhere for the night.”
I thanked him for his assistance and he promptly took the staircase back down. Tiffany followed me into my room, still munching on the tomato slice.
“At least we’re together.” I said, opening my suitcase. “Frankly, in an alien environment, I want to be proximal to each other.”
“Forget unpacking, let’s eat.”
By the time I joined her, she was already heaping rice onto one of the ceramic platters set out for plates.
The next morning, during breakfast, as I sampled what must have been a strident attempt to make thin-sliced, smoked lamb or goat taste like the pork bacon or sausage we heathens consume, our porter returned.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Very well.” Tiffany and I chimed.
“Mr. Shiraz has asked that Miss Cronin remain here while he speaks with you. Is this agreeable to you, Miss Cronin?”
“I suppose,” Tiffany replied, busily eating.
“It could be some time.”
“That’s fine with me,” She said. I was just hoping to finish eating first. I brought things to read and I need to bring my journal up to date.”
“I shall return for you in an hour if this is acceptable to you, Mr. Stroder.”
“I’ll be ready.”
When he returned, I had showered, shaved, donned fresh clothing, the thinnest garb I had to deal with the heat, and had prepared myself psychologically to confront whatever the day might present. Leaving Tiffany buried in a romance novel, I accompanied the porter downstairs. He was a non-conversant fellow who said nothing along the way. I trailed behind patiently as we passed almost the entire length of the second floor hall before halting in front of the only room with the light on inside.
“One moment, please, Mr. Stroder.”
He darted inside, closing the door behind him, leaving me to wonder at the secrecy. Momentarily, he returned with Mr. Shiraz.
“Eric,” the robed man said, “I’ve been waiting anxiously to meet you, the founder of the Musket Brigade.”
“I’m happy to meet you,” I said, pleased by the honor shown me.
“Were the accommodations adequate for your needs?”
“They were great and the food was wonderful.” I said, leaving unaddressed the oppressive heat, lack of air conditioning, and a failed attempt to mimic bacon. We were saved only by the small fans positioned on a table beside the bed in each room.
“Come in; I wish for us to become familiar.”
I entered a small foyer. Like everything else I’d seen in the building, the furnishings were ancient, all in wood, even the walls. Only the Persian carpet seemed a recent accoutrement.
“We can speak in the next room,” He said as the porter left. I followed him into a small conference room where I was astonished to see Spritz sitting.
“Eric, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”
I had thought our meeting was to be one-on-one, but I was happy to see Spritz. Even though I was the leader, I had met him only once, brought him in at Christof’s insistence, but had never spent time alone with him. Shiraz directed me to the table.
Fahad, a man of conspicuous vitality, seemed pleasant enough, very composed and relaxed, even serene, the mark of a man who has it all together. Engaging, he had what Tiffany would later describe as an “avuncular air” that at once put me at ease, despite his long, white beard. The only thing that betrayed a lack of absolute composure was his habit of twisting the ends of the longest hairs burgeoning from his chin. Fiftyish and lean as most men from cultures whose cereal staple is rice rather than wheat or corn, he nonetheless had a full, strongly sculptured face. Heavily browed, his eyes gleamed from deep sockets, not Neanderthalian, but intelligent. They were the wise eyes of a sage, mesmerizing eyes that communicated they had beheld what they would have preferred remain hidden. Still, I felt no discomfort.
Not being privy to Fahad’s concerns about me, nor to what I would learn were the actual motives of our “benefactors,” I was like putty. His ominous concerns completely escaped me.
“How shall we begin our discussion?” He said.
I took this as a deferment to my prerogative as the leader and founder of the Muskets. I had no reason to suspect any ulterior or untoward motives from the man.
“Well, I assume you’ve been talking with Spritz.” I said.
“No, I just arrived,” Spritz said, “and Mr. Shiraz brought me to the office. We’ve only had introductions.”
“Well, we could talk about ourselves,” I said, “but I’d rather know something about you.”
I did want to know something about him. This man, irregardless of all else, was an Iranian. After all, Iran was supposed to be part of the Axis of Evil Bush concocted back when. It was supposed to be committed to the destruction of America’s way of life. Not that I was a gull for Washington propaganda, but such things always reached me on some level even if I suspected Bipartisan or imperialist motives. In any case, my desire for perspicuity demanded he go first so I could decide what and how much to share with him.
Fahad seemed tousled by my request, but after pausing to mentally assess his electives, acquiesced and proceeded with a deft and benign deportment.
“Very well, I accept the honor. Please, both you and Spritz may call me, Fahad.”
We nodded agreement.
“My allegory is a simple one,” he said, “and much of my mental disposition I owe to an American who was much like yourselves. I am a different person because of him.”
“No kidding?” I said, startled somewhat by his opening. “How so?”
“To explain, I wish to return to my youth. Iranian children, shielded as we are from a truly free press, still hear things. We hear a great deal. As a boy, the attitude of Americans, most of whom are Christians, was troubling to me. The young strive for justice and understanding, so to hear that Americans hated Muslims because of our beliefs and cultural practices perplexed me. I anguished over this contempt. Do you remember that in that time, there were no Muslim “extremists” as today, but your people still despised us. To me it is clear that not only our faith, but those who practiced it, were considered less valuable, less human. Nations where Muslims predominate, such as Iran, are viewed with contempt because we aren’t Christians. As I grew older and my studies progressed, I learned that the nations in our region had checkered pasts. History is littered with atrocities committed by and against Muslims. The legacy of the Crusades is burdened with them. Religious contempt therefore became plain enough to comprehend, but Americans carried it farther in their unfailing support of Israel. Since 1967, Israel has occupied Palestinian land and while going through the pretense of incessant negotiations, Jewish settlers have been colonizing it, stark evidence Israel never intended to abandon Palestinian territory. This was long before your former President Bush’s “Road Map” was advanced or Israel built a wall, a prison barrier within which to contain and forever ensure their isolation and their inhuman poverty. Israel never received U.S. ultimatums, yet not even a decade of sanctions which inhumanly killed hundreds of thousands of Iraqi children placated U.S. antipathy toward Iraq. Your media remained silent. Israel stockpiled weapons of mass destruction, including nuclear weapons, but U.S. statesmen, many of Jewish heritage, remained nonchalant where Israel was concerned, while invading Iraq. How much do you know about Iran?”
“Almost nothing.” Spritz replied.
I knew little, but certainly didn’t want to seem among the prejudiced masses of Americans Fahad had just described. I searched my memory for information, but could only come up with a story from my school days as a very young boy.
“I remember learning that Cyrus the Persian had a vision and freed Jerusalem and the Jews,” I offered. Fahad seemed non-plussed by my ignorance, almost as though the Biblical account was repugnant.
“That is an ancient story, but less relevant than recent history to our reason for being here today. From the time of Alexander the Great until 1219, Iran was blessed with rich farmlands that produced abundant crops.”
“In the desert?” Spritz asked.
“It wasn’t a desert then, not all of it. The people prospered until that year, when invading Mongol hoards laid waste everything in their paths, including razing our irrigation ditches. Before, the region had flowered, but without irrigation, it did become a desert. In my younger years, we established our own democracy and elected Mossadegh. He wanted to use the revenue from our oil to re-establish the extensive irrigation system that once made our country’s agriculture so productive. He wanted to provide the infrastructure we needed: Pipelines, electric generation, water treatment facilities, to build prosperity . . . the same things Americans have for their families. But because America wanted our oil, rhetoric, attempts to impose sanctions, and attempts to persuade others to withhold technology and industrial materials, we faced an uphill struggle. Things were improving and would have continued to improve had not the American CIA arranged the overthrow of our democratically elected, but Muslim, government. This is the same reason for Bush’s arbitrary pronouncement when he was in power that he would not allow an Islamic government in Iraq. He didn’t care about the people. He knew that an Islamic government that represented the majority would be a natural– Shiite Muslim–ally of Iran. Do not forget that the CIA imposed the Shah in power over us and he promptly signed over 40% of Iran’s oil wealth to them. The agent who arranged the coup was rewarded by being made the president of the resulting Gulf Oil. Even this did not galvanize Americans, even though they are supposed to believe in democracy!”
“I didn’t know about that.” Spritz blurted, “but it damned sure doesn’t surprise me.”
“With the aid of the Soviets, we ousted the Shah in a popular uprising, but fell under the dark curtain of the Ayatollah, Khomeini. He regained control of our oil however. Finally, sanity was restored in the person of president Khatami. I have lived through all of this to see our current president who deliberately provokes your government because he understands their motives and lust for access to our vast reserves surrounding the Caspian sea.
“Khatami, knowing America still coveted our oil, especially now that the Caspian Sea reserves had been discovered, allied Iran with Russia. The Caspian Sea is enclosed by our two countries, so the regional alliance is simply logical. Why should we involve a country on the other side of the world when the Caspian Sea is sandwiched between our two nations? But America viewed the ouster of the Shah as a checkmate, because their international policies are not based upon the moral implications of their Constitution, but upon demagoguery. Washington first moved to occupy Iraq and seize control of its oil. They planned to establish seven large bases there, giving them a local power base in the Middle East and a “democracy” which would be an economic ally. Iraq’s oil production could be tripled, overwhelming the market and breaking the power of OPEC. Breaking the power of OPEC means to Washington that they can steal our resources at ridiculously low prices. America would benefit not only directly by a lower price for crude, but indirectly as Iraq’s oil wealth poured into American coffers as Iran was forced to purchase all things American. Our new president, though he makes every effort to be difficult for Washington, is no less aware of American motives.”
“Many Americans know that,” I said. “Even the beliefs of American hawks aren’t completely immutable. The vicious ones don’t want to know the truth. They hate other Americans they consider different, let alone foreigners. They could care less if we blew them all away. But more and more of the essentially honest ones belatedly figured it out as the steady stream of body bags coming home prompted them to open their eyes and think for once about what was really happening.”
“This brings me to the sensitive aspects of our discussion,” Fahad said, “so if you will permit me to delay that, I’d like to know about the two of you before continuing.
“I don’t have a problem with that,” Spritz said.
“Why don’t you go first, Spritz,” I said. “I don’t know that much about you myself.” Frankly, I didn’t.
“Okay. What do you want to know?” He asked. “You've certainly been honest, open, and frank with us, exposing your underbelly.”
Before I could answer, Fahad spoke, which seemed to please Spritz.
“Tell us about your background, your professional experience, and how you came to join the Musket Brigade. I’m interested how you came to have the appellation, Spritz.” Fahad said.
“‘Spritz’ is my name, not a nickname. My parents never told me why they named me that. I never asked. I was into elementary school before I knew it sounded strange to anyone else.”
“Interesting,” Fahad mused, “How about your professional background?”
“I’m a virologist, a person who studies viruses. When I first heard about Eric’s Muskets, it was from Christof, not anything I’d encountered in the media. I had advanced to Senior Virologist at AntiBiotech, a research & development firm in Hesperia, California. I lost my father about that time. Because of the way he died–the senseless nature of his death–I was deeply disturbed, with grave doubts about my beliefs. It took me years to come to grips with my sister’s death, the first great injustice of my life, religiously speaking. That as the first time God let my family down.”
“So you are a strong believer, a Christian?” Fahad asked.
“No, far from it. I was when I was young, even after my sister died. But the second crisis of Dad dying victimized the family so much, broke their spirits, left them so scarred that I’d have shit on God’s face if he existed. I no longer believe that bullshit mythology. Dad committed suicide.”
This was news to me, as Christof had never mentioned personal details about Spritz, merely his scientific acumen and his “Doomsday Bug.” I’m certain I looked sympathetic; I was. The loss of my cousins was likewise senseless, so I had an idea how he felt.
“I’m very sorry about your father.” Fahad said, gazing at the floor and fidgeting with his beard. “We do not always understand the mysterious workings of Allah.”
“Betsy was the sister closest to me in age. Her ignominious death by lightning strike while braving the weather on her way home from school was entirely purposeless . . . she was just a little ninth grade girl. Everyone always said we were two peas in a pod, inseparable. But it was more than that. My fondest memories were of us playing. How could I forget the long hours we spent in the tree-house Dad built high up in the big oak, how I goaded her because she had to climb up using the board steps nailed to the trunk, but I could ascend the big rope with a knot tied every foot along its length? Then one day, tugging on my hand as she led me outside, she announced a surprise. I stood aghast as she grabbed the highest knot she could reach and pulled herself off the ground, her skinny legs encircling the rope. Knot by knot, she struggled upward until she reached the branch outside the entrance. I knew she must be thoroughly exhausted, but she didn’t let on, just looked down at me for approval. I was overcome by her commitment, her sheer resolve. I applauded and shouted accolades. Her face glowed with pride. No, we weren’t just peas in a pod; We were soul mates.”
“That’s a great story,” I said. “I can see why you felt betrayed by god when she died.”
“Her passing made no sense. Why would God snuff out so precious a life, so vibrant a personality, a soul so tender and so kind? I was offered clever equivocations by phony backyard philosophers and the Parson who tried to console the family. I hated his puny excuses about how I would ‘understand it all someday.’ It’s all just bullshit so people will keep attending church, keep giving him their money. It was mean. It was cruel. If there is a god, he’s a damned sorry one. The trauma left me a virtual agnostic.”
“There are many things in life we do not understand,” Fahad said, “regardless of our system of belief or our concept of God.” He seemed reticent to say more.
“I have four other siblings still at home with Mom in Susanville, California. It’s a rural area of the state. Over the years, Dad built a prosperous hardware business there. They suffered even more than me. Mom was devastated by his suicide and every day they live under the shroud of her gloomy depression, listening to her accuse two IRS agents, Marisa Taylor, and her partner, Sally Williams of driving Dad over the edge. How dare they? How dare they?”
I could see Spritz’s anger. The veins were sticking out on his forehead and his face became flushed. I guess that’s the instant I realized how little I knew about this man, yet here he was in Yemen, the other side of the world, sewn into a fabric of conspiracy with me. He seemed unstable, perhaps dangerously unstable. I don’t think I ever felt more vulnerable than I did at that moment! Fahad just sat there, patiently listening, occasionally observing me from the corner of his eye, saying nothing.
“Mom–Martha’s her name–came home and found Dad–Terrence is his name, was his name–lying dead. There was blood and brain tissue splattered over the kitchen ceiling and walls, a 38-caliber revolver still grasped in his right hand. I think she blamed herself as much as she blamed the IRS agents. She had to be wondering where she had hidden that he couldn’t find her in his despair? She had derided him, blamed him again and again with caustic words for bringing trouble to the family. Why did she turn him away when he tried to reach out for her support? Instead of comforting him in his moment of deep personal anguish or offering him a thread of hope to soothe his seething guilt, she refused his embraces.”
“Why do you suppose she reacted with such reprisal?” Fahad seemed curious.
“Because she was depressed, not beginning with the tax issue. She had been for years. I think she was on the cusp of losing her own mind, so deadened herself that she was oblivious and uncaring about Dad’s internal conflicts.”
“Had she always been so depressed? Could it have been related to your sister’s death as your own anger was?”
“No, not always. She told me when I was in my early teens that as a young woman, she had once pondered a lone drop of dew upon an uncoiled rose beyond her raised window. ‘I was once that alluring,’ she said, “My heart melded with Terrence’s salvo on life and we carved from it a zone of our own making, living abundantly.’ Then she sighed, became depressed again, and said, ‘Or was that just wistful imagination?’”
“How is your family handling her depression coupled with your father’s death? Were they there when he died or when she found his body? Did they witness the death scene your mother found?”
“No. I’m certain they didn’t. She told me she sat alone after finding him, said she wiped her eyes, that mixed with blood, the smears resembled cheap rouge on aging cheeks. She was either unable or unwilling to leave his spoiled body or release the phone following a hysterical call to 911. Then she began to laugh aloud.”
“Laugh . . . aloud?” I asked with unbelief.
“I know it sounds crazy. Obviously, she was in shock. She said she started remembering when they visited the property in Susanville the first time after speaking to a fast-talking real estate salesman, their astonishment that the ‘stream with Brook Trout’ he had spoken of was hardly more than a rivulet sporting a minnow or two, and the ‘fixer-upper barn’ he had touted to Dad turned out to be an old, wooden shed which had collapsed in a rotten heap years before. She recalled how they looked in amazement over ten acres strewn with volcanic bombs that rained from a distant volcano thousands of years ago; there wasn’t a square foot of land without one or two jagged, volcanic rocks, most as large as cobbles, some boulder sized. But the view of the surrounding mountains and valleys was so breathtaking, they purchased it nonetheless. I can still remember myself how we spent weeks clearing the heavy stones and boulders to create an area for a home site, and even worse, clearing a path wide enough for an asphalt driveway to the location where Dad wanted to build our place.”
“Your father was successful, I take it, before the tax problems?”
“He was very energetic, always had projects going, had a great imagination. He bought what had been the old Higgs station. When I wasn’t in school, I helped him remodel and enlarge it. I remember the putrid smell of hot asphalt when he paved the enlarged parking lot. The hardware store generated prosperity for us. Everyone in the community loved him. He was a gentleman. But later, Mom started coming apart. I think the years and six children just wore her down.”
“That’s not uncommon, Spritz,” I said. “I hear similar stories all the time: mid-life depression, reliance upon Prozac.”
“She’d rarely been truly happy since Betsy’s death and the family, especially Dad, had to bear up under her depression. When the IRS charade materialized, she withdrew farther into her shell. Dad felt responsible. To my brother and sisters, her self-indulgence seemed unjustified, her woebegone attitude too often erupted into abuse, usually targeted at my brother, Randy. Randy was a little slow, but he wasn’t retarded. When he was the object of one of her tantrums, she invariably called him retarded, slapped him silly for some omission of judgment, or screamed at the top of her lungs like a banshee for some perceived offense. That started early in my childhood. I frequently overheard her denunciation when in conversation with an empathetic friend whose ear she had for a moment: “Randy’s retarded.” It was never in a context sympathetic to Randy, merely a reach for compassion she could dissipate on herself; ‘Poor me; I have to suffer the afflictions of a retarded son,’ that kind of shit.”
“You resented her abuse of course.” Fahad said. He seemed satisfied with what he was hearing and it was interesting stuff, but I failed to grasp its relevance to Fahad or the Muskets. I just went along, determined not to air my family’s laundry for him and Spritz or anyone else. It wasn’t any of their damned business anyway.
“ . . . her instances of abuse, yes.” Spritz replied.
“And they involved you as well as your brother?”
“Randy, primarily. One afternoon I was burning trash in the burn barrel by the barn yard gate 100 feet from the back porch when Randy came bursting out, shouting my name and crying out, 'Help me, Spritz.' I tell you it was heart-rending. He crouched behind me and she kept wildly swinging the belt, hitting me half the time, saliva at the corners of her mouth. She looked like someone who'd escaped from an institution for the criminally insane. In a moment of rage, I grabbed the end of the belt in mid-lash and jerked it violently from her grasp. Without conscious thought, I bunched it into a wad and thrust it deep into the burning trash, hardly aware of the flames engulfing my arm.”
“My God, Spritz! How old were you then?” I asked
“About fourteen, I think.”
“That was brave, man. What happened then, what did she do?”
“I just sort of went nuts myself. I shouted, ‘Now whip him with it!’ My actions seemed to startle her back to reality. She almost smiled.
‘You just wait till your father gets home,’ she said,’You’re going to be sorry for this!’ Then she returned to the house, leaving the two of us standing by the burning refuse.”
“Shit, Man.”
“I spent the rest of the afternoon worrying what Dad would do to me, figured my insolence would probably mean a memorable trip behind the barn. There weren’t many of those trips; having been there once, no kid in his right mind would relish another. I lingered in the general area of the barnyard, afraid to return to the house. After what seemed an eternity, I heard the ominous sound of tires crunching the gravel driveway out front. I waited with a lump in my throat. A few moments later, Dad emerged from the back porch door, walking in my direction.
‘What happened?’ Fahad asked.
“He had a drawn expression on his face. He was a wiry man who could do ten one-armed chin ups. At that moment, he looked as if he’d been hewn from a block of Idaho granite.”
I was actually getting caught up in Spritz’s story. I felt sorry for him, sorry for his youth, sorry for his Dad, and I began feeling a little less concern about him being unstable. In truth, he sounded like an incredibly brave person.
“I used my most innocent voice when I answered him. It had occasionally helped. I recounted the screaming, Randy’s cries as he fled calling out to me for help, how she was hitting both of us, showed him a welt on my side, told him how I had grabbed and shoved the belt into the fire, that I didn’t mean to; it just happened and how she had threatened retribution once he got home before storming back to the house. He asked me, ‘That’s how you got those burns?’ It was the first time I’d looked at my arm. Sure enough, there were two or three spots with second-degree burns. In my reflective mood since the incident, I hadn’t even felt the stinging.
‘I guess so,’ I told him, ‘My arm was all the way down in the fire.’
He stood motionless for a moment, as if studying the belt buckle still half-visible among the smoldering ashes. Then, without a word, he just walked away. He never mentioned it afterward, nor did it come up during any verbal assault from Mom.”
“Did the abuse continue?” Fahad asked.
“It continued and calling Randy retarded continued, but I noticed she never seemed to attack Randy after that when I was around.”
“Do you feel she was completely unjustified in her frustration with your brother?”
“He’d been a good kid, the kind that would do anything for you, for anyone, but as Randy advanced through puberty, he changed. I didn’t notice at first, but gradually, the stubbornness became a fixed trait. The appellation ‘retarded’ was supplanted by ‘stubborn.’ ‘You’re as stubborn as your father’ became Mom’s favorite retort after he grew too big to whip. During a visit home while Dad was still alive, I discovered that Randy had taken to drink. Not all at once and not openly; Just a whiff of his breath betrayed the new vice. Eventually it became a trademark. Randy continued to live at home after the suicide and he still kept up the one-acre lawn. He liked the riding mower because he could drink clandestinely while he rode around. He still did chores. But standing by the fence at the side of the yard debating what to do with Dad’s fishing boat, I noticed a two-foot heap of one-pint Wild Irish Rose bottles in the brush on the other side. It stunned me. So the course of Randy’s life with Mom went from retarded to stubborn to allegations he was ‘nothing but a drunk.’ In truth, she has caused it all; Turned a wonderful soul progressively in a drunk. What kind of “mother” would do such things to her own flesh?”
“How did that make you feel after having left home to pursue your life alone?”
“It was good not having to live with her, to be on your own, to be free. Only then do emotional scars heal. I don’t think they ever do; You just push them deep down into the subconscious, the way I thrust the belt as far as I could reach into the fire that time.”
“Thank you for your openness, Spritz. You have completely overwhelmed me with far more information than I expected.”
“It felt good to talk about it all. It helps to let it out.”
“I suspected as much. Could you tell me about your employment and how you came to possess the ‘Doomsday Bug’ I’ve heard so much about? You needn’t go into quite so much detail unless you wish.”
“Dr. Borden at AntiBiotech was a microbiologist. His wife, Dr. Patricia Borden, was a biochemist, also a great DNA specialist. They founded AntiBiotech to develop markets for bacteria and fungi. A fortuitous sequence of events led to the probability of success developing a powerful new antibiotic. Years before I was employed there, they conducted experiments with various soil bacteria, discovering that Psuedomonas species could effectively degrade hydrocarbons. Those strains were then isolated and grown out in volume for sale to the bioremediation industry, which used them to clean up oil spills and underground storage tank releases. But the process was costly. Maintaining the purity of their inoculum products was tedious. One January, this was about two years before I was employed, Borden was pushing to increase the efficiency of a number of key species. His wife was off perusing the White sales when an unannounced visit interrupted his work in the lab and changed the direction of the company’s research thrust. The representative from a company marketing a seaweed extract stopped in, claiming the extract would compel AntiBiotech’s bacteria to grow at a highly accelerated pace, improving efficiency and therefore reducing production costs. The timing was serendipitous.
‘There’s nothing new about growing microorganisms on seaweed extract.’ Doctor Borden reminded him, ‘The dawn of the Antibiotic Age began in 1928, when Joseph Fleming discovered a colony of Penicillium notatum growing on a gel prepared from seaweed extract in one of his petri dishes. The natural antibiotic secreted by the fungus had killed all of the bacteria within a clear band surrounding the colony. You do know that, I hope?’
‘We don’t claim originality in using an extract from kelp, Dr. Borden.’ the salesman argued, ‘What I’m telling you is this: Our extract is better than any other ever produced . . . much better.’
Borden asked him how it was extracted, was it an acidic or basic extract, perhaps even neutral or buffered. You probably don’t understand what I mean by that. To make a long story short, Borden was curious enough that he agreed to conduct tests with a sample provided it was free of charge for research purposes to determine if it might be of use in the production of commercial quantities of his hydrocarbon degraders. As expected, the compound induced Psuedomonas to grow profligately, but the growth wasn’t sustainable. Suspecting that certain nutrients were being depleted during the exponential growth phase, he combined it with a blend of trace metals and organic nutrient additives. The results verified his assumptions; propagation rivaled even the phenomenal growth rate of E. coli, which lives in the human gut.”
“Which lives in the human gut?” Fahad asked. I was about to ask myself.
“Few people know that it’s the exponential multiplication of E. coli after eating beans and other complex carbohydrates that produces the embarrassing gas.”
“It converts the beans to gas and makes you fart, Fahad,” I said, waiting for him to blush. He surprised me though. He didn’t blush, just nodded, twitching that beard of his again.
“Borden improved the product, economically producing Pseudomonas products that could be applied in commercial quantities. That’s when he noticed the phenomenon that led to my employment.”
“The phenomenon?”
“Within 48 hours of preparing plates with his newest nutrient growth medium, the Pseudomonas grew so fast that they covered the entire surface of the agar. But that wasn’t the phenomenon . . . it was the only microbial life on the agar! That meant the bacteria’s natural antibiotic, which is defensive exoenzymes the bacteria secrete, had destroyed, prohibited the growth, of actinomycetes or fungus, and had out-competed all other genera of bacteria. That was an unexpected phenomenon. Rapid growth had been the objective; This was more than rapid growth.”
“That had never happened before since the discovery of Penicillin?”
“Not with Pseudomonas, but the compound added to the agar stimulated the production of copious quantities of its normally scant natural antibiotic. In the increased volume, it was more powerful than that produced by any other microorganism sharing its environment. The Bordens immediately made the decision to develop a new antibiotic which they would call, Psuedomodrine. New antibiotics mean hundreds of millions, even billions, in revenue and the Bordens believed they had in their possession one of the most powerful ever discovered.”
“This was because it killed everything else.” Fahad repeated.
“Yes. To produce the most effective commercial antibiotic, it would be necessary to determine which Pseudomonas species excreted the largest relative volume of the exoenzyme and determine which of the enzymes was the most potent. That’s where it got interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Where were they to look? The genus, Psuedomonas are found everywhere. When kids playing in the back yard stick their fingers in their mouths, they ingest the local microorganisms, including Psuedomonas. How does one design a program to locate and isolate the most effective species within the genus? At length, they hit upon an idea of grandiose proportions. If samples were collected from the mouths of major rivers around the world, it would enable them to compare thousands of members of the genus from vast regions of the planet which had worked their way down from the mountains and highlands. During and after precipitation, rain soaks the ground and every drop of water which begins to run off contains anywhere from tens to thousands of the local micro flora. The runoff first accumulates in tiny trickles. Those trickles flow into rivulets, then the rivulets into brooks and streams. The streams flow into an ever-larger series of tributaries which flow into the local rivers. Farther down, the rivers merge into larger rivers; Every confluence combines unique organisms from one area with those in the water draining from other areas. Ultimately, the main river flows into the sea, carrying a collection of fresh-water bacteria, fungi and actinomycetes to their deaths, because most of them can’t survive in salt water. However, if the water was intercepted before it encountered the deadly sea salts, the bacteria from the entire drainage basin comprising a river’s watershed could be collected alive for research. They knew that microorganisms from so diverse a series of environments from widely separated basins upon the surface of the globe had passed through varying evolutionary histories. The genus, Pseudomonas is present in virtually every one of them, yet each species possessed highly variable enzymatic characteristics which they would contrast with those from other river basins, isolating the best specimens for the development of Pseudomodrine.”
“That sounds really exciting.” I said. “It’s the kind of thing Hollywood could turn into a very exciting film. There are lots of rivers emptying into the ocean around the world. If men evolved such distinct characteristics separated by natural boundaries, bacteria must have done the same. Am I correct? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Exactly, but in the extreme. Bacteria are single-celled organisms and evolve very rapidly compared to men, the most complex organisms of all. All Pseudomonas species are recognizable as belonging to the genus, but you cannot imagine how different the species are from each other. And you’re correct. Even though a single river contains most of the species from its entire watershed, the earth is a big place and there are still many great river systems which do not connect. The Bordens knew this. They knew it was a mammoth undertaking, yet it was conceptually quite simple and very predictable. They called it the Basin-Branding program, an attempt to collect samples from as many river mouths around the world as possible. With government approval, they imported water samples drawn from the mouths of virtually every major river system draining the world’s continents. It took several intense years even to approach completion of so ambitious a program, but by working with microbiologists and other scientists worldwide, they had attained an astonishing completion rate of 90%, phenomenal almost beyond belief! Now it was time to let the best bacteria isolated from each basin communicate with one another.”
“And that’s where you came in?” Fahad asked.
“Not yet. Remember, I work primarily with viruses. The Bordens were working with bacteria.”
“Hmmm,” Fahad said, twitching his beard.
“Bacteria have a pili, a small needle-like appendage. By moving alongside another bacterium and inserting its pili through the cell wall, one bacterial cell injects genetic material into the other, a form of genetic communication.”
“Such as our penis?” I asked.
“Who knows? In an evolutionary sense, it might have been a forerunner.” Fahad seemed lost in thought over that one.
“Anyway, by this process, genetic factors are shared, such as resistance to an antibiotic. For a time, this capability was misunderstood, so over the years, as bacteria became steadily more resistant to antibiotics once completely lethal to them, the fear of “super bugs,” which no antibiotic could stop, began to develop. Resistance to penicillin is a good example of this capability. It’s amazing. When first discovered and isolated, a mere 10,000 units would cure most strep infections or a case of gonorrhea. But bacteria began developing defenses against the penicillin exotoxinase. During the period between the 1940’s and the 1990’s, the quantity necessary to deal with a common strep infection increased from 10,000 units to a staggering 24,000,000 to cure the same infection! Even with such large doses, it is still possible the antibiotic will not be completely effective, so new antibiotics are constantly needed in the race against resistance. That’s rapid evolution on the part of bacteria, a period of only fifty years, because the bacteria that survived in each case transmitted their resistance factors to other bacteria, so that after a time, new antibiotics become less and less effective.”
“That’s absolutely disarming, Spritz. It's like a war. I hear about resistance all the time, warnings not to take antibiotics unless you really need them and to take every pill in the bottle if the Dr. does prescribe them, but this is the first time I’ve really understood why.”
Fahad smiled, the first time I’d seen him smile and also the last time I would. I wasn’t certain if it was amusement or his way of showing excitement.
“Each time the Bordens found a promising species, they placed it in a test tube with one or more other promising species, allowing them to share genetic material. This process reduces the number of distinct species, increasing the potency of their natural antibiotic. For a while, their progress was extraordinary. Then, without warning, a problem surfaced. An entire plate of bacteria was spoiled, the bacteria killed. Electron Microscopy evaluation showed that the colonies had been invaded by a contaminating virus. This threatened the successful development of their miracle antibiotic – particularly if it is escaped and spread throughout their collection of isolates. It could bring years of work and research to complete ruin.”
“That’s where you come in.” I said.
“That’s when I was interviewed and later employed. I wasn’t quite prepared for the entire responsibility I was dealt. It was my job to isolate the virus responsible. Soon, I had two others working under me. The project soon became difficult, because I discovered the virus had appeared after many species from many sources had been blended. I went to Dr. Borden to explain how insurmountable the task was.
‘It could be from anywhere,’ I explained, ‘The problem is, the Basin Branding program doesn’t just collect bacteria, fungi, and actinomycetes. It also contains the local viruses. Precipitation sweeps the airborne viruses from the atmosphere. Theoretically, your samples potentially contain viruses from vast areas of the globe!
‘It’s killing our prized samples, Spritz.’ Dr. Borden told me in a most grave voice, ‘We’re uncertain where it’s coming from.’
‘Do you know what geographic area the affected bacteria on these first plates are from?’
‘Not exactly. We were several combinations into factor accumulation when it appeared. Now, the seven species remaining together possess all of the characteristics forcibly accumulated from dozens. As you know, genetic swapping reduces the total number of species, preserving the shared characteristics from each. You’ll have to study the samples separately and isolate the viruses from each.’
‘That could take months. I’d have to postpone everything else I could work on to assist in your project’
‘It has to be done. Once you isolate the antigen or viral enzyme responsible for contaminating the bacteria, we’ll omit the water sample containing it and see if it makes any difference. It’s the only way to be certain. Otherwise, our entire Pseudomodrine program is in jeopardy. If the samples aren’t free of harmful viruses, the series may not reproduce reliably. We could lose it all. Nothing is more important.’
So I began isolating the viruses from each original sample, testing the bacterial amalgamate that had succumbed against each group. I isolated the airborne viruses by completely evaporating drops of water from each sample in an air stream in a sealed compartment to prevent escape of the viruses. We tested the waterborne viruses by allowing rats to drink the water and the airborne ones by releasing them into the glass compartments containing other rats. The work was slow and tedious, but I felt it would eventually produce the culprit. During research, the deadly virus finally showed itself when one of the water samples from the Congo river was evaporated. The virus turned out to be airborne, a worst case scenario; It killed every bacterial cell on the plate. When we tested it with mice, rats, and guinea pigs, more than 80% died within 24 hours of inhalation in their isolation tanks. Had the animals not been isolated, the fatal disease might have spread to the laboratory staff. I reported to Dr. Borden that it was from the Congo specimens, but could have originated anywhere in Zaire or even from the tributaries of southern Central Africa or northern Angola, as many of them ultimately flow into the Congo.
‘Some of our best species are from Congo samples. We can’t eliminate them. We’ll have to determine the geographic limitation of the virus by sampling farther upriver.’ He told me. Within a month, samples collected upriver from the confluences of the Ubangi river in northern Zaire, and the Kwa river in southern Zaire with the Congo were obtained. We determined that Borden’s prized species were present in the Ubangi samples. After further testing, I determined that the offending virus was not. It originated somewhere in the basins drained by the Kwa river. Thus, the Bordens were able to continue the Pseudomodrine program without further viral setbacks., but they still kept me on, just in case. The program that saved their ass was my baby.”
Fahad’s eyes were riveted on Spritz’s as though he was a god. He couldn’t hear enough fast enough. This was the gold his people were after . . . Musket gold! That's the moment when I realized how lucky I was to have met Christof. He had brought both Tiffany and Spritz into the covert program.
“And how did you come to possess this virus, Spritz?” He asked.
“I preserved specimens of the lethal Kwa river virus, applied the pejorative, Doomsday Bug, and put the samples in special flasks with tops that converged into glass tubes. After placing the virus and a nutrient substrate at the bottom, I melted the end of the glass tube closed on each flask and placed them in sub-zero storage for research at a later date.”
“Did Dr. Borden approve?”
“To be honest, I never mentioned preserving them. I’m sure he thought I ran everything through the autoclave, but I didn’t. I worked at night. The only way he would have discovered their existence was if he happened to run across them in the freezer. I had them labeled as toxic in the event someone might get too curious and I happened to be away at the time.”
“How did you connect with the Muskets and, perhaps more importantly, at what point did you consider the potential of your Doomsday Bug as a weapon? This seems a very unusual thing for an American and you appear to me not only as a very brilliant scientist, but also quite sane. I am perplexed on several issues.”
“It’s not as strange as it might seem. It didn’t happen like a revelation or a sudden burst of compulsion. It was a gradual progression, Mr. Shiraz.”
“Could you explain this in detail?”
“I had become friends with my neighbor, Christof Fawcett. He lived in the apartment next to mine. I had lived there since relocating to Sacramento for the position at AntiBiotech. Christof bitterly resented NADNARA, watched every protest against it on cable daily, and wrote endless diatribes to his congressman and the state senators. His enthusiasm was interesting to me. After my father’s death, I was sitting by the pool one evening drinking a Manhattan. He happened to notice me when he came home, came downstairs with a beer and we started talking. When I told him my father was dead, he of course tried to console me, even more so when I told him how he had died. He let me talk like you guys have today and eventually it came out that Dad had left a suicide note, telling Mom that she was to use the life insurance money to settle the IRS claims, leaving the business intact to support the family.”
“Isn’t there an exclusion for suicide in life insurance policies?” I was amazed at this.
“Only during the first two years in Dad's policy, and maybe others. I don't know. Dad had maintained the policy for more than a decade.”
“So the company paid?”
“Eventually, but not before the two IRS agents decimated the family with a vengeance.”
“Christof told me about what they’d done, how they destroyed your family. I assumed it was because the insurance didn’t pay.”
“No. They didn’t want to, tried everything they could think of to squirm out of it, but Dad’s lawyer was also his friend, and they’d thought everything through before he killed himself.”
“The lawyer knew your father intended to commit suicide!”
“Yes. Dad owed the IRS a bundle and they added enormous penalties and interest, almost doubling what they claimed he owed. There was no way out, no way to come up with that much money and he wouldn’t hear of a payment plan because it wouldn’t leave enough to support the family. On the other hand, if he sacrificed himself, Mom could pay the IRS and every other account they owed, pay off the home, and still have the hardware store and something approaching $200,000 left over. It makes sense in a crazy sort of way. Who knows what thoughts went through his head. I guess he thought since Mom blamed him for everything, it was his debt to pay anyway, and that was the only way he could exonerate himself in her eyes.”
“Jesus!”
“Getting back to Fahad’s question: When Christof learned of my anger toward the IRS, justified, because they forced Mom to sell the store for less than half its value, then they put up the house without even telling her–she actually learned about it when a friend called and said they saw it in the real estate classifieds–when she called me and told me what had happened, I decided justice was in order, the same justice they had forced Dad into. He was forced into a corner and forfeited his life. I decided to use the Doomsday bug to forfeit the agents’ lives. An eye for an eye, so to speak. I knew Christof well, knew I could share anything with him, so I did. That’s when he told me about Eric’s Muskets and after I learned more, I decided to join.”
“Just like that?” I asked.
“Just like that!”
“And that is when Christof learned of the Doomsday Bug, when you told him of your intention to use it against the tax women?” Fahad inquired.
“Yes and he said Doomsday could be used by this Tiffany Cronin lady as well as by the Muskets for other operations.”
“I see . . . ”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Fahad was so excited, he was actually twisting his beard with the fingers of both hands!
“He told me it was originally organized to fight against NADNARA with letter-writing campaigns and so forth and still did, but there was a clandestine group too . . . ‘a few people we can trust’ he said, ‘who use the strategy the colonists resorted to against the British . . . fire their muskets and run.’
“That’s vintage Christof,” I said.
“That’s the same night that he persuaded me to return secretly to the lab. I parked by the back door and waited. He said he was bringing someone else as well. When he arrived, he had a man with him brandishing a 45-caliber weapon. He waited outside while I took Christof in the back door of the lab. We emerged a few minutes later, carrying the four flasks I’d labeled with the Hazmat biological toxicity code and the words, ‘TOXIC - Potentially Fatal.’ After we stowed them with extreme care in the back seat of my car, Christof told me to wait. He and the other man . . . “
”Who was the other man?” Fahad asked Spritz, but he looked at me.
“I never knew. He looked like someone from India or Pakistan or one of those countries.”
“Carl,” I added. “He had Carl with him.”
“I see,” Fahad said, reflecting upon the information.
“They took two five-gallon cans of some highly flammable liquid, their mission to damage the lab sufficiently to remove existence of the Doomsday Bug from Borden’s memory. The blaze was fierce even before they could get out the back door. I don’t think they realized how close they came to getting burned in there themselves.”
“There went your job, right?” I said.
“No. Well, yes, at the Borden's place. Carl said the reason they had damaged the lab massively, leaving the freezer unharmed, was so I would have an excuse to quit. He placed a roll of $100 bills in my hand, a big roll, then said, “You're on the Musket payroll now. Give notice, and call me at this number when your period is up, handing me a card.”
“Wait,” Fahad responded, “Unless I fail to grasp your account, you are saying that you did not know they intended to incinerate the Laboratory?”
“No, it all happened so quickly. The other guy–Carl you say–left immediately and Christof left with me. ‘It looks as though you may be temporarily unemployed.’ is all Christof said, but he hadn't seen the exchange between Carl and I.”
“That’s not how we usually operate,” I said, embarrassed at how it must sound to Fahad. “Normally, we plan our missions in detail, at least when I know of them.”
“You didn’t know?” Both Fahad and Spritz chimed.
“Hell no. Carl. Christof, and Kicks Iron, for that matter, have gone out on their own more than once, informing me only after they had done something.”
“Is that so?” Fahad said.
“When I plan a mission, we plan it in detail, every last detail. You have to be careful when you’re taking risks attacking government property. NADNARA arrays are incredibly costly. They’ve added significantly to our national debt. You can’t be careless. When a Federal agent infiltrated our San Francisco group, we lost a good man. We talked it through afterward and decided as the leadership what we should do. Then we planned every detail and it went down smoothly. But Carl is like Christof and Kicks Iron; They do things too quickly sometimes, or at least it seems so to me.”
“But you are the leader, the man who founded the Muskets.”
“True and you’d think they would keep that in mind, but Carl has a mind of his own. He's far out of my intellectual league, almost anyone's. I keep him at arms length for that reason. Plus, being Middle Eastern, he could be under surveillance and not be aware of it.”
“Hmmm.” Fahad muttered, then looked back at Spritz.
“I'm not naysaying them. I'm just telling you how it is.”
“What is your plan as you said regarding the tax women, Spritz. That will of course be a test of your Doomsday bug, a human test.”
“We need to plan it carefully,” I said, “I don’t want you to take any chances or an approach that might put you or the Muskets at risk.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“What do you mean, it’s too late. Fahad is right; It’s essentially a human test.”
“I know that. What I meant was, it’s too late to plan it because I’ve already released it.”
“You’ve released it? Jesus, Spritz, what are you saying?”
“The day before I left. I released it in their car.”
“The vehicle of the tax women?” Fahad asked.
“Yes.”
I felt as though I’d just been punched in the stomach. A member of the Muskets, a man I hardly knew until that day, had released a biological weapon, or what amounted to one, in an attack on two Revenue agents.
“I thought you guys were tight, Eric. I thought you knew about it.”
“Who did know?”
“Christof, as far as I know, but I thought surely . . .”
“Goddamn it! I’m so sick of these attempts to keep me out of the loop. Those guys are reckless. They’re going to fuck around until they bring the entire brigade down, I swear!”
“I will speak to them about this matter, Eric,” Fahad said. “It is necessary for one person to remain at the head of your organization. That person must have the ability to approve or disapprove of all actions taken.”
“That’s my point! That’s why they went around me on this! They knew I’d want it to be well-planned. This really pisses me off!”
“It was well-planned,” Spritz said. “It couldn’t have gone better than it did.”
“So you and Christof did this.”
“No, I did it alone.”
“Where was he?”
“We talked about it. I told him how I intended to release it, the details, and he told me the next morning that it was perfect. ‘Just watch your ass,’ he told me.”
“Tell me how you did it. I want the details of it.”
“I constructed a simple device consisting of an Erlenmeyer flask with two glass tubes inserted through a two-hole rubber stopper which plugged the top of the flask. One of the tubes had a rubber squeeze-bulb attached. Then, I sealed the connections between the rubber stopper, the squeeze ball, and the holes in the stopper with silicon, forming a leak-proof device. After the end of the outside end of the other glass tube through the stopper was broken off, the contents could be released by depressing the squeeze-bulb a few times. The contents would be forced out into the atmosphere. It would work as a weapon.”
“What motivated your decision to do it when you did. Why be in such a hurry?”
“During a phone conversation with Mom some time ago, she mentioned that the two IRS agents had scheduled an appointment to meet her at the hardware store three weeks hence. They wanted her to sign papers giving the government permission to sell the business and apply the proceeds to Dad’s tax liability. I decided it was time to test the viral toxin. When I made the weapon, I knew I’d be leaving in three days for a “distant” undisclosed location to meet the national leadership, including you. Christof said I was to receive ‘vital training’ for two weeks. I decided to be present during the agents’ confrontation with Mom at the hardware store, but without her knowledge, certainly without the agents’ knowledge. I could see the plan of action in my mind as vividly as if I had already done it. Without anyone’s knowledge except for Christof, I drove to Susanville, secreted myself, and observed the agents threatening and intimidating her to dump the business via the IRS. Their attitude was so brash, so cavalier, I wanted to club them to death, but I decided to channel my rage by targeting them with my biological weapon. As they left, I trailed them down the Interstate til they stopped for lunch. I went inside the restaurant to see how long I had, bought a cup of coffee and drank it. While they were eating, I overheard them disparaging Dad, smugly slapping each other on the back. That did it for me. I left and nonchalantly approached their car, breaking the solid tip from the glass tube as I did. I intended to smash the glass, but I was able to slip the glass rod between the front window and the rubber seal. That was perfect, because they’d never suspect anything. I applied several sharp squeezes to the rubber bulb. To avoid killing myself, I had carried a formaldehyde-soaked towel which I removed from its bag, wrapped around the apparatus, then walked around back and smashed it repeatedly against the ground. I discarded the remains in the dumpster and fled immediately. The shards of the device could never be reconstructed and the remaining virus would be destroyed. During the drive back to Hesperia, I savored the clanging of brass bells in my mind. The cows were coming home; the draconian cruelty of those two cunts would be repaid.”
“That’s all that was involved?” Fahad asked.
“Yeah, it seemed so easy. I kept wondering why someone hadn’t done such things before? The government only gets away with murder because the American people are basically good. For all their numbers and generous funding, the FBI, ATF, DEA, and IRS federal police forces with their state-of-the-art weapons, cool outfits, and flak jackets are helpless against citizens once they become aroused. I remember thinking, ‘How foolish. All of that affords no defense against a $15 bio weapon!’”
Fahad and I were both distracted by our own thoughts hearing all of this. Christof and Spritz had gotten a real leg up on me, based upon a grievance completely disparate from NADNARA or retaliation for Blevins. I couldn’t help but admire the simplicity of Spritz’s mind, the crystal clarity, how clearly he had conceived of and carried out his vengeance, retaliation for his father’s death, all with the ease and disposition with which Hassan's men had dispatched the soldiers. Once proven, he and Christof figured the Muskets could wield his bio-weapon against any official so corrupt he had to surround himself with armed guards within a prison of his own making to keep citizens from getting their hands on him. I didn’t like the sound of it though, too much like Murder, Incorporated. It was right up Tiffany's alley though. And . . . God! Once Proven? What had happened afterward? We were all underway to Yemen by a diversity of routes when he released the virus against the two women. I was already in Aruba with Tiffany at the time. What was the outcome? Who knew?
“Spritz! We need to know what happened to those agents.”
“No way to verify it until I get back. No matter, I promise you they’re dead. I sprayed enough virus in that car to kill a roomful of people. They were inside it the rest of the way back to Sacramento. Believe me, I know they’re dead!” He smiled. At least Fahad didn’t. He seemed to be off in his own world, likely thinking how his group could use that bio weapon in any number of scenarios.
I’m not going into detail about mine and Fahad’s private conversation after he arranged to have Spritz driven north to join the others in the countryside. For one thing, my childhood was happy, my parents weren’t unstable, and there was nothing remarkable about it. We discussed it at length, but it would bore you and I’m not a “blellum,” as Tiffany calls people who like to sound off about themselves when there is little remarkable about them. Secondly, I don’t pretend to be a brilliant scientist like Spritz. Indeed, I was rather lazy in school, content with my life, and generally unmotivated. From Spritz’s account, it’s apparent that he became a man beside a trash barrel at the young age of fourteen. Not me. I was ten years beyond that. The inferno at Waco began my maturation process. NADNARA completed it.
What I will relate is that Fahad insisted afterward that I forgo the training in the hills and return to the states the next day, saying Tiffany and the others would be returned by a variety of routes two weeks later. He justified this by touting the importance of keeping me safe from detection. He really wanted me back to gauge the success of Spritz’s biological attack against the Revenue agents. I know this because he made a very big deal of reporting anything that surfaced in the press and faxing any posting any articles that appeared in print to our website. I wanted to follow up on the Doomsday attack myself anyway, so little encouragement from Fahad was necessary. I already doubted the “training” in the hills held more than intrinsic value. I felt it wasn’t that relevant to the Muskets. Fahad apparently agreed with my sentiments, at least in my case.
There’s something else. Before we parted, he made a call. I heard him tell the person on the other end he was authorizing release of the trigger for the Dirty bomb . . . not in those words, of course. He told me someone would contact me to arrange transfer to the Muskets. That individual would instruct me how to attach it to the canisters we had stowed in the mine. Then he surprised me by taking it upon himself to assure me that I would have total control over mission planning and further, that he and Beyrouti would talk to Carl, Christof, and Kicks Iron, informing them in no uncertain terms of my control and final say.
“You have the confidence to plan and conduct this operation.” He said, almost as a question.
“Yes.”
“And your ethical rationale? How do you confront the death of noncombatants?” His eyes seemed to bore into my soul with the question.
“Let me explain it this way, because it’s the path my reasoning followed to get where I am. And it wasn't easy for me like it seems to have been for the others: In every conflict we’ve been in since Viet Nam, we accused the enemy of using human shields. We’ve killed tens of thousands of civilians. In Iraq, that number is probably in the hundreds of thousands, certainly if included all the maimed, especially women and children. We did this; we’re Americans and we did it. We have been able to live with it–those who supported various wars and police actions–by appealing to the “greater good.” Yes, innocent people have died. We have blown up so many women and children, it’s shocking. Pick any one of them . . . a little girl, say. We never knew her name, how the corners of her mouth turned up when she smiled, the sound of her laughter, how well she did in school, what her special gifts or hobbies were. You see my point? We didn’t watch them slowly waste away with disease because we had destroyed the drinking water infrastructure. We didn’t see them die, weren’t at their funerals. They weren’t real to us. If they had been, I don’t think Americans could have lived with the enormity of their numbers. I also don’t think one American in a dozen would make an outright statement that one of us is worth more than one of them, at least not those who really believe in the principles our nation was founded upon and have any human decency at all.”
“And so?”
“And so logic drives your question about the noncombatants on an American base to three inescapable conclusions. That’s all it boils down to, just three points: First, I don’t know any of the innocent people that live on the base we plan to hit; Second, the greater good of restoring our country to its former greatness justifies their deaths; Third, the hundreds of thousands of innocent people we’ve killed were just as valuable as American lives. Being militarily superior and from a wealthier nation doesn’t make us better than anyone else except in our own minds! Maybe for some Neanderthal crank, but not any thinking person older than three. That’s my ethical rationale for Operation Milk Truck.”
“You evaded one point.” Fahad said, “rather deftly, if you don't mind my noting so.“
“Which point?”
“Washington officials often accuse others of using human shields when they plan to kill the civilians working with the military, but no country has more noncombatants as thoroughly mixed with its military as the United States.”
“That’s because our government is civilian. But that just proves my first three points.”
“So Milk Truck is “up close, but not personal,” as you Americans say.” He replied.
“Exactly.”
When led out, I had the impression Beyrouti wasn’t the one who would orchestrate what laid ahead, nor was really the man in charge at the top helm. It was Fahad. The next day, when I expected to leave alone as Fahad had said, Tiffany suddenly returned to our rooms, saying that her meeting with Fahad had gone very well, and he had asked if she was willing to return unaccompanied, but she had said she wanted to stay with me. Fahad had agreed, and we would be routed roundabout back to Aruba, where we would return back to the states. She hadn't met Spritz as the had anticipated, because Fahad had already sent him to join the others in the hills. Nor had he mentioned anything about his interview with Spritz and I. I recounted the details, and she was absolutely delighted.
“Now, I understand why he said they would have a certain individual contact me and arrange for the aniline gas triggered cigarette lighters, but that they now had a better device for me to use in any operations, provided you approved, I wanted to conduct.”
“I know what he's talking about, I said,” and told her about Spritz's release into the two IRS agent's vehicle. She was so delighted, she could barely restrain her enthusiasm. I wasn't in the least surprised.


CHAPTER NINE

Romance in Aruba

Being back on the island of Aruba was great. We had a free night before returning to the states the next morning, so I suggested to Tiffany that we go out for the evening, enjoy a lobster dinner, margaritas, and dancing. Since the evening at Hassan’s relatives home when Tiffany came outside and sat on the floor, leaning back against my legs, I hadn’t been able to resist the idea of at least suggesting a move toward intimacy. She really turned me on and I guess I just wanted to rule myself out before trying to get her and Carl together.
“I’d love that, Eric. What kind of place?”
“I spent a great deal of time in Mexico during my youth. Let’s see if there’s a club or restaurant with a Spanish flavor. This is a Dutch island, but being just off the coast of Venezuela, there’s bound to be something here.”
I walked to the lobby and spoke to one of the clerks, inquiring if she had any suggestions.
“You should go to the club, La Cantina. You’ll think you’re in Mexico. They have a wonderful terrace out back, and the best steak and grilled seafood you’ll find on the Island. They serve only Argentine beef; there’s even a Mariachi band!”
I asked for directions.
“Just say, “La Cantina” to any of the drivers along the curb by the entrance. They’ll take you for a reasonable fee. You’ll find it convenient when you’re ready to return, because others linger in front awaiting fares.”
“What did you learn?” Tiffany asked when I knocked on the door of her room.
“There’s a place called La Cantina that sounds ideal,” I said. “How much time do you need to get ready?”
“Give me half an hour.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes when she emerged from her room wearing yet another outfit I hadn’t seen during the trip to Yemen. This time, it was a very provocative Canary cocktail dress accented by a Canary Poa flung across her shoulders.
“You look stunning.”
“You said ‘dinner and dancing,’ so I dressed for the occasion. I’m eager to get there!”
As our driver neared La Cantina, the sight of the club rekindled fond memories of Mexico, not run down like much of Havana looked after decades of neglect. Built like a hacienda, it was a much larger place than I expected to find on Aruba.
“Oh, Eric. This is divine. We’ll have such a fine evening, and we won’t be distracted.”
“Distracted?”
“When we were outbound, en route to Havana, I hardly saw Aruba except from the air, and my attention was principally on the volcano then.”
Once inside, she asked if I minded waiting for her at the bar while she visited the “Senorita’s Room.”
“I’m Eric.” I said, extending my hand as the bartender placed the margarita on the bar.
“Manuel, Eric; Manuel Hernandez, and my wife’s name is Esperanza.”
“Esperanza. That’s a beautiful name.” I glanced along the bar but saw no woman nearby.
“As beautiful as she. She is home tonight.”
Okay . . .
“My friend and I are here overnight, and La Cantina comes highly recommended. This place is awesome. You look like a Maya Indian. What brought you to a Dutch island?”
“My cousin was here first. He persuaded me when La Cantina opened. How could I resist?”
“Are you from the Yucatan or the lowlands?”
“I came from Merida. All of my family are full-blooded Mayans. We all live in Yucatan.”
“I knew you had Mayan blood as soon as I saw your brow and nose.” I drew heavily on my margarita, lighting a cigarette. “You may as well make another of these right now, Manuel. Give me some extra lime this time. It’s so fresh.”
“My Grandmother always told me I had a great nose,” he replied. “I’ll bring you another.”
“Thanks.” Manuel moved toward a couple seating themselves at the bar.
“How strange to find this place here,” I thought, “and how great to have Tiffany with me.”
Tiffany had no inkling of my romantic reflections. She was a dedicated Musket trusting me to involve her in our operations. She was beginning to know me as more than the founder, especially after our recent experiences together.
“The atmosphere tonight and our relaxed mood before returning home are ideal if we want to be closer.” I thought as I sipped the cool margarita.
Did she? Want to become closer? Why else would she have snuggled against me the way she did that evening in Yemen, sitting on the patio and leaning back against my legs when she might have had a chair? I hadn’t imagined it. She is a lovely woman, striking. Hell, why not? I didn't have anyone, and I had come to enjoy her being with me.
Tiffany wasn’t in love with me. We were far from that. I was flattered by her interest, loved her feminine touch, and those legs. She excited me. It was feasible to think that the comradery that develops between individuals in a cause could lead to intimacy, especially after the adventures beginning with the sight of Adan and the intrigues that lasted until the moment we left. Who could be more appropriate than another who shares your ideology?
Tiffany waved, pointing to the Gift shop, but motioned for me not to come when I rose to join her. She just wanted to leer at the merchandise. I jotted the pros and cons of a relationship with her on my napkin. The pros were things we had in common, and the lust she stirred within me. Her scissor-sharp intelligence. The cons were differences. Differences such as her rich vocabulary, compared to mine, which I had thought was exceptional until I met her; her cultured and widely traveled upbringing, the way her assertive attitude at times intimidated me.
We could be a hot couple, or we could flash and burn if things didn’t work out. At length, I folded the napkin and left for the Baño to make room for another margarita.
“Manuel! I’ll finish this when I get back.”
“I’ll leave it, Eric.”
Manuel confided in me later that Tiffany arrived soon after, and cast a searching look around the bar. Not seeing me, she was about to check the restaurant.
“Excuse me, but are you looking for Eric, Ma’am?”
“Yes. Do you know where he went?”
“He’s sitting farther to your right. That’s his drink. He left for a moment. I can prepare you a drink? My name is Manuel.”
“I’m Tiffany. I’ll have a margarita also . . . on the rocks, no salt.”
“A margarita on the rocks with no salt coming right up. Eric added a lime. The same for you?”
“Why not?”
Tiffany took the stool next to mine. Manuel must have been tempted by her outfit. It was very revealing and really accentuated her lovely, supple breasts.
“Your margarita.”
“How much do I pay you?”
“Eric told me run a tab. You don’t pay, the gentleman does. Enjoy your drink. Please call if you need me.”
“Thank you,”
As she sipped, her eyes came to rest on the folded napkin by my glass. She must have noticed the writing, because she decided to peek. Why would I care? She unfolded and began reading it.
“Well, so you have amorous intentions, Eric? How surprising!”
“Ma’am?” Manuel asked, standing nearby.
“Nothing.” she replied. “I was thinking out loud.”
She quickly refolded the napkin, replaced it, and looked behind to see if I had seen her reading it. Then, according to Manuel, she picked up her drink and sat down several stools away. Manuel, bless his heart, said she swallowed her drink so quickly that he felt guilty she noticed him watching.
“May I have another drink, Manuel?”
“Coming right up,” He answered.
She became confident I was unaware of her knowing what I’d written. I suppose it set her wondering where she fit into my future, or future plans.
“Your drink, Tiffany,” Manuel said, removing her first glass, “and I see Eric leaving the Gift Shop.”
“Thanks Manuel,” she said again, raising the glass.
She laughed when I came walking up wearing my purchase, a tropical shirt with peppers. She seemed very relaxed and happy. Manuel looked closely, then said, “What a contrast to the shirt you were wearing.”
“Complete with habaneros.” I said.
“We call them sleeping peppers in the Yucatan.”
“Yes, that’s where I first encountered them.”
“Why ‘sleeping peppers?’” Tiffany asked, amused.
“I’ll tell you a story.” Manuel said, if I may intrude.”
“Go ahead,” I said, already interested in the coincidence of meeting a full-blooded Mayan here on the island.
“I was traveling from Merida through the little towns as a boy. It was my first time to visit my Grandmother alone. My papa had given me a few pesos to buy beans and rice along the way, so I stopped to eat in pueblo, Hohol’tun. There are fifteen wells in Hohol’tun. That's what the name means in Maya. With my beans and rice, the Mujer brought a pottery bowl of tortillas and a smaller one of salsa. I eat salsa always with my food. I love peppers and chilies. I eat seven pickled Jalapenos with my wife’s fried chicken. Her name is Esperanza, Ma’am.”
“What a lovely name!” Tiffany smiled, engrossed in Manuel’s story.
“I began enjoying my food and the salsa, but I was surprised very soon. I thought the salsa crawled out my mouth, across my lips, and onto my face, burning like fire. It was more hot than any salsa I ate before that my mother made, or her sister, my aunt. My eyes were watering, and my nose began to run! My tongue was tender.”
“That’s because Habaneros are 1,000 times hotter than Jalapenos! It says that on the card that came with this shirt.”
“What did you do, Manuel?” Tiffany asked.
“I told the Mujer how it burned. She pointed to a man asleep at another table and told me he was drunk and ate much salsa! The side of his face was resting in his plate, in his food! ‘It makes them sleep,’ she told me.” Manuel laughed spontaneously, remembering how pathetic the man looked as he busied himself making more drinks.
“I bring two more margaritas for my friends,” he said, setting them in front of us.
“They’ll be our last for a while,” I said. “The smell of grilled seafood is starting to work on my stomach!”
“Would you enjoy a pleasant surprise?” Manuel asked, as Tiffany’s eyes met mine.
“I love surprises, especially good ones.”
“You should enjoy these margaritas on the patio outside. That’s where the good smell is coming from. The band has arrived. Soon, there will be music.”
“Oh, let’s do!” Tiffany shrieked.
“Okay. I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”
Tiffany agreed, picking up her drink and walking along with me. I suddenly felt embarrassed. “Eat a horse! I sound like a red neck!”
But I didn’t let on.
“This is Senor Eric.” Manuel introduced me to a man who appeared to be in charge of the Patio Restaurante.
“I am very happy to meet you, Senor. I am Ricardo and this is my restaurant. I will see you are served very well tonight.”
“My associate’s name is Tiffany Cronin.”
“Welcome, Senora Cronin, or is it Senorita?”
“‘Senorita’ would be proper.” I said.
“A beautiful senorita, Senor Eric. I am so happy to have both of you tonight. Will you allow me to seat you myself?”
“Close to the grill.”
“Certainly, and let me take those for you.” He reached for our margaritas before smiling and leading the way.
His white coat and black pants were smartly pressed; his manners professional. Tiffany seemed pleased that I referred to her as my “associate.”
“How is this table?” Ricardo asked, “beside the open grill.”
“Perfect.”
The chefs were busily at work turning and shifting an array of steaks and seafood. Smoke poured from the coals, forming a swirling column as it disappeared upward into the night sky. Waiters stood nearby, and the bartender tipped his head from behind a well-stocked bar. This place was ready for any guest. I marveled how well-dressed many of the women were. I knew Tiffany felt relieved she had worn a becoming outfit. A Mariachi band wandered among the customers, the four musicians speaking in muttered Spanish amongst themselves. They smiled and likewise tipped their sombreros as we passed. Tiffany was almost giddy with delight.
“This is an exceptionally nice restaurant, Eric,” she said. “These tiles look like pottery.”
“They are, handmade, probably imported along with the employees. Tile is a huge industry in Mexico. So is pottery.”
As we sat, one of the white-gloved waiters brought plates and silverware to our quaint table. All employees wore white shirts and black slacks, and the tables were spread with colorful, floral-patterned cloths. An enormous platter of tropical fruits added to the Latin American flair. Pineapple, guava, papaya, two or three types of melon, mangos, some sort of tiny little bananas, Pitaya, and several other fruits awaited the hungry sampler.
“The food, the bar, the music, and the mood this evening are all yours.” Ricardo said. “Stay as late as you wish.”
As another waiter appeared with glasses and bottled water, Ricardo thrust our drinks toward him.
“Bring fresh ones for my special guests,” he said, “and fresh limes.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Ricardo. They were still fine.”
“No melted ice for my guests. If anything fails to please you, send for me personally. I am also proud to say that we serve only Argentine beef in my restaurant.”
“I hear it’s better than U.S. beef.” Tiffany said.
“And very fresh, Senorita, flown in daily as the price reflects.”
“Gracias, Ricardo. Usted es muy amable.”
“May we sing your favorite song, Senor?” The Mariachi group clustered alongside us. “We’ll sing anything you like.”
“Do you know El Pastor?”
“Si, Senor. Our tenor, Juan is very good with high notes!”
“Okay, that’s what I’d like you to play for us, but not now. Wait until we’ve begun to eat.”
“Si, Senor. It will be our privilege to return and sing for you and the Senorita.”
As quickly as they appeared, they walked across the patio to another table where a waiter was motioning, and presently were singing to the guests seated there.
“El Pastor . . . ?” Tiffany asked, “I’ve never heard it before.”
“It means, The Shepherd.”
The waiter returned with our margaritas and suggested we observe the meat and seafood cooking on the grill.
“There are so many choices,” Tiffany exclaimed, “I don’t know where to begin. And this is Argentine beef!”
“I know what I want first.” I told the waiter. “Some of the butterflied garlic shrimp and a couple of the Langostino tails. They were driving me crazy inside. I’ll get around to a steak later.”
“I’m sold. I’ll have the same!” Tiffany said before he could ask.
“Eric,” she said as we enjoyed our drinks, “this is like paradise. The surroundings and accouterments are so stimulating. The band is magnificent. I could live on Aruba.”
“Or in the real Merida. You’ve been to the Yucatan, haven’t you, as widely traveled as your family is?”
“Actually, not the Merida side of the peninsula.” she said, sinking her teeth into a slice of field-ripened pineapple. “Oh, it’s so sweet! Oops!” She reached for her napkin. “My mouth was watering so much, I couldn’t keep it all in!”
“Not to be outdone, I selected one of the Passion Fruit and a three-inch banana. I was curious. To be so small, they must be really special to bother fooling with them.
“I’ve traveled to Mexico City, Guadalajara, border towns, and Cancun a couple of times.” Tiffany went on. “We took the Maya tour from Cancun–saw Tulum, Chichen Itza, and some lesser sites–but never crossed to Merida. My parents love Cancun.”
“Merida’s provincial, so you get a feel for how the culture must have been a century ago . . . if you ignore the cars and modern embellishments. I could live in Merida. I could live almost anywhere in Mexico on the coast, though I don’t much care for the Baja. I can stay home in Arizona and see dry, saline Desert.”
Tiffany glowed more brightly as the minutes passed. That old Tequila magic I’d known since my teens south of the border was on me. I knew it was working on her too when she stood and attempted to drag her chair around to my side of the table!
“Please, Senorita,” a waiter cried. “Permit me.”
He grabbed the chair, moved it around next to mine, rearranged the table and moved Tiffany’s margarita across to her new position. All within a few seconds. Impressive.
“Bring me another of these,” Tiffany said, emptying her glass and holding it out to him. He looked at me.
“You may as well while you’re at it.” He smiled and hurried off to the bar.
Soon, a platter of garlic shrimp and Langostino was placed in front of us, surrounded with salad, seafood salsa, and a bowl of tortillas. Tiffany immediately forked a shrimp. As she took her first bite, the corners of her mouth turned up.
“This is so good! It’s the best shrimp I’ve ever eaten, and the largest.” My eyes followed every movement of her mouth. “Some of these are almost as large as a lobster tail!”
“These are Langostinos, large for shrimp, small for lobster but bigger by far than prawns. They fall between. Further south, you can get larger lobster, but nothing like those from Maine.”
“These Langostinos are to kill for!” she said, continuously wiping the sides of her mouth with her napkin. “I’d kill for these, come here just for them any time.”
I laughed, but felt a tingling reminder that the woman sitting next to me really was prepared to kill; not for Langostino, but for the irrigation water overzealous environmentalists had stolen from her family.
“Words can’t describe . . . the broiled Langostino may be small, but they’re still lobster. Lobster tail and drawn butter is second only to King Crab legs and claws for me,” I said. “King Crab is my favorite food on earth. I’m not talking about the cheap buffet variety, so skinny, they’re not worth fooling with. I buy from a wholesale seafood house. I know the guy. I get a fifty-pound box and keep it in the freezer. The legs range an inch or two in diameter and there are always plenty of large claws.”
“Fifty pounds! That must last a year!”
“Three months, if I’m lucky. Big legs go quick.”
“I love Crab as well, but I couldn’t go through fifty pounds. It makes me happy feasting on Langostino and these delicate butterfly shrimp. Hmm . . . so crisp on the outside, so tender on the inside. What an accent the garlic butter adds.”
“You missed out not getting to the Merida side while you were in the Yucatan. Shrimperias dot the coast, open day and night. They sell shrimp cocktails in different sized glasses. Cheap by American standards. I really was beside myself. You might say, I eat my way to Merida when I’m driving.”
Tiffany laughed. I beamed, delighted the provincial recipes we were enjoying were as grand an experience for her as for me.
I don’t know if they floated over or it was the Tequila, but I became aware that the Mariachi group had arrived. They began singing El Pastor. The tenor was exceptionally talented, as promised, and the song had never sounded more hauntingly beautiful. Tiffany watched my eyes closely.
“You’re very passionate, Eric, not just about truth, but also beauty.”
“I love this song, the sustained tone of the tenor rips my heart out, sets my emotions adrift. I requested it for us to share.” I replied.
It was as though it had been written for the moment. She seemed overwhelmed to see tears crawling down my face.
“Wow, Eric.” She spontaneously drew the tips of her fingers lightly across the back of my hand.
“I’m sorry. This song has a powerful effect upon me. Something about it touches my soul.”
“I’ll never forget this evening.” She said. I sensed she felt love for me and wanted me to know how pleased she was to be enjoying this mysterious night together.
“When did you first hear it? It is haunting.”
“On an Alvaro Torres CD,” I said, trying to wipe my eyes inconspicuously. “He’s actually not from Mexico originally. He immigrated from El Salvador. I still remember the first time I heard it. I love his voice, and many of his songs, but when El Pastor played, a rush of passion flooded through me like a thunderbolt. If you like it, I’ll buy you the CD for Christmas this year, or for your birthday.” I said. “When is your birthday, by the way?”
“November 12th, you know I’m a Scorpio,” she replied.
We sat motionless, allowing our emotions to ebb and flow with the music. When the men finished, we thanked them profusely, and I tipped them generously before they moved to another table to sing again.
“It’s something here after sundown,” I said, embarrassed that she had seen my tears. “The Palms swaying in the breeze, the stars, this incredible place.”
“A fantasy world.” she agreed. “You’re attracted to Mexican culture, aren’t you? It seems so from your comments.”
“I love Mexico. I love its variety. On the oil coast along the Gulf, it’s as modern as the United States: Freeways and ostentatious office buildings. In the Yucatan, it preserves much of the Colonial look. Elsewhere, each region has its own, homespun flavor.”
“It would be grand to travel the country together, sometime.” she said.
I watched her intently as I spoke, this intriguing woman beside me.
“Like a dream.”
“Better than a dream, because it’s real. Thank you for bringing me here. I’ve never been happier out with any man.”
She squeezed my hand, moved her fingers along my arm, then placed hers atop mine, where it still remained. I realized the margaritas had impacted my mood and must be having the same effect upon her. She was entrancing in her outfit. I wanted to reach out, touch the soft skin of her neck with my fingers, kiss her breasts, feel her inner thighs against the sides of my face. I wondered how she might respond if I made it known?
How could I trust these intense feelings of a single evening and consider them valid? Like the message of her touch, they were borne of the moment, deepened by the fermented juice of the Maguay that had beguiled the minds of men for centuries. Desire could prove ephemeral.
“Would you dance with me?” she asked.
“If the margaritas don’t get in the way of my feet,” I said.
“It’s a slow one.”
I rose and took her hand. She allowed it to go limp within mine as we walked to the dance floor. I put my arm around her waist, and without hesitation, she laid her head against my shoulder. The scent of perfume seemed to exude from her. Her hair smelled wonderful. She had worn it up for the evening, making her seem older and emphasizing her refinement. My body responded to the supple tenderness of her breasts as she pressed against my chest, enjoying the reassurance of my arm around her waist, as though she felt safe. Our relationship. What would it be after this evening? What was it to become? She was like a peach bursting with the juice of life, ready to be plucked from the tree, and I wanted to partake. Since Christof introduced her to my life, circumstances had dangled her in front of me like an exotic maiden dancing before an ancient king until, in his lust, he took her to wife. She had played the part without realizing it until tonight, she was a protagonist in a romance cast in a shifting setting, first in the states, then in Havana, then in Yemen, and now in Aruba, my arm about her waist, her cheek against my shoulder.
After dancing, we returned to the table and enjoyed the remainder of our meal. Ricardo wasn’t fooling about Argentine beef. I gained great respect for Argentina after the prime rib that night and promised myself I would enjoy it again. We talked and laughed during dinner, treasuring the music and the mood. Afterward, we danced again for what seemed an hour until, at length, we took a cab to the hotel and I accompanied her back to our rooms. I searched her face. Anticipation was in her eyes. She wanted to lie with me in erotic bliss, free her passion within my embrace.
There was a moment, ever so brief, in which I almost withdrew, uncertain about what tomorrow might bring. Then it was gone. She opened her door and pulled me by the hand as she backed into the room. When I turned to close it she disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out, she walked over and turned her back to me.
“Would you unbutton my dress?”
Her skin felt almost hot to the touch. I couldn’t resist kissing her neck as I unbuttoned the dress down her back and unclasped her bra. She turned and faced me, shaking with desire. She pulled the dress and bra from her and tossed them aside. Tiffany Cronin’s breasts stood in full view. I think I lost all recourse to reason at that moment. I remembered Sagan’s book again. He and his wife had men pegged correctly. I could feel my forgotten ancestors about to break lose and take control of me. I set about undressing. Shirt unbuttoned, thrown into the chair, sandals unbuckled and stepped out of, belt loosened, pull off the slacks without tripping.
There!
We were now dressed exactly the same, panties and briefs all that separated us from primate history.
“This is going to be so good.” she said in a half-breath.
That made me hard as a Cave man.
I won’t corrupt you with details of what followed. I’m fairly confident you can imagine for yourself what it’s like to devour a Georgia peach. Even one raised in Oregon.

CHAPTER TEN

Pandemic

Marisa Taylor and her partner, Sally Williams, were very ill. They were returning to Sacramento from a settlement meeting with Martha Hogan of Hogan’s Hardware in Susanville. They had informed Ms. Hogan that they intended to sell her business on behalf of the government to satisfy the tax lien against her late husband, Mr. Terrence Hogan, and herself. At noon, following the meeting, they stopped for lunch at a local restaurant. Shortly after eating, they began to experience nausea and headaches, which intensified as they drove back to the Sacramento IRS Service Center.
Taylor and Williams were delighted to be rid of the son-of-a-bitch who had withstood their efforts to intimidate him into handing over $220,000. The actual amount of the tax they felt he owed was $85,000, but with penalties and back-applied interest and other fees, they were able to dramatically increase it. His wife was so devastated by her husband’s death, she’d been docile as a lamb during the meeting. She had no spirit, said almost nothing, and signed whatever they placed in front of her. They could sense that nothing seemed important anymore, with Terrence gone, that she wished she could die, too. There were four young children still at home who depended upon her, now more than ever after their father’s abdication.
“Why did he have to do it and with such dreadful violence, just when I needed him most?” She had said, not embarrassed for them to hear.
These thoughts and the state of mind they provoked made it easy for Taylor and Williams. Mr. Hogan had been an erstwhile cunning and intimidating adversary. Once, he arrived at their offices in leathers, carrying his silver Nazi bikers’ helmet and buffalo leather gloves, having ridden his Harley-Davidson all the way to Sacramento from Susanville. His Jacket and other attire sported the Harley name and logo in various ways, even his deeply embossed, Loper biker boots. To them, he was a symbol of revolutionary resistance to all authority, always making snide comments about government in general, and taxation in particular. But they had the government power of the gun on their side, so the week before his suicide, they gave him an ultimatum: Sign an agreement, or have the case transferred to the Criminal Investigation Division.
True to form, in their minds, they felt he had conceived of a plan to loot the life insurance company the way he had looted the government to maintain his style of life before slipping from everyone’s grasp. The agents viewed his suicide not as an altruistic sacrifice, but as a cop out . . . on someone else’s nickel.
The insurance company didn’t pay immediately, however. They were quite onerous and pompously ‘demanded’ an inquiry.
“Hogwash,” attorney Simpson said, assuring the grieving widow it was a reaction to the outrage they felt when someone occasionally mustered the courage to exercise the option of doing themselves in.
“But they will pay . . . eventually. They must. The policy vouchsafes the death benefit in suicide cases except during the first two years. Terrence and I had several conversations regarding his affairs. I didn’t know of his plans, but he was honorable and to hell with anyone who says differently. I knew the man. He was my friend.”
But the government refused to wait. IRS agents had no time to grovel in compassion. The taxes were owed.
“You don’t like draconian penalties and fees?” Terrence had caricatured during a verbal tirade a week before blowing his brains out, “Hey, if you don’t want an example made of you, don’t steal from the government. Be glad you’re not in chains, citizen! You give to the government, you don’t take from it. If you want a license to steal, join the military-industrial complex, Asshole. Figure it out! Don’t try it on your own. That’s the situation facing the average American.”
Terrence Hogan had tried it on his own, concealing part of his profits in an International Brokering business attached to his website. When possible, he instructed payment for offshore orders to be wired to his offshore account. He never wrote a check against it. All transactions were by credit card purchases with a card issued by the offshore bank and occasional ATM cash withdrawals. He had made one mistake, however. Following an especially slow month in sales, he had instructed that a wire be sent to his local business account from offshore for deposit. Later, during a routine IRS cross-check of information from different sources, a flag turned up for Hogan’s Hardware. Assigned to the case, when Taylor and Williams did their preliminary work, they discovered the business was about to be sold, converting Hogan’s principal asset into cash. Mr. Hogan was retiring. They made their first trip to Susanville, walking into Hogan’s Hardware unannounced.
“Mr. Hogan,” Marissa had said, “I’m Ms. Taylor and this is Ms. Williams.” Sally was new, but tried to look distinguished in her cheap, Sears suit.
“We’re with the Internal Revenue Service,” she said as Marissa handed him her card. Sally sheepishly handed him one with her name written in. Her printed ones weren’t available yet.
Terrence Hogan didn’t turn white as folks normally did. The agents often discussed how funny it was to see people panic.
“It’s fun to watch,” Marissa had told Sally on her first day. “It really gives you a sense of power.” But Terrence didn’t even flinch.
“Okay, so it’s Mr. Cool,” Marissa thought. After learning the reason they were there, he denied doing anything illegal.
“The bastards always do,” she would later explain to nervous Sally.
“You’ll have to talk to my attorney. My business arrangements are private. You guys,” he asserted cavalierly, “already get a pound of flesh from me every year.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Hogan.” Marissa said, “We routinely work with attorneys. May we have the name and phone number?”
Months went by, but they registered a lien against his business in lieu of resolution of the case, blocking the planned sale. As the second year of the investigation drew to a close, the increasing disclosure required by the audits they now did every quarter on his business and at year-end on his personal return began to turn up more and more interesting tidbits. Eventually, the offshore account surfaced and attempts to legitimize it only strengthened the issue that he had failed to disclose its existence, a requirement of law. He was caught with his hand in the tax jar. Maximum penalties and interest were calculated back to the date of each offending transaction and now it was time to pay up. He was dead, but his assets were a sitting duck and his wife was too distraught to care. It would enhance their stats to pull a big chunk out of the Hogans, now a certainty.
“There are always several interested parties just waiting for a successful business to be auctioned off, Sally. In this case, we even know who they are, because they were upset when the negotiations were terminated by the liens, which, though totaling considerably less than the value of the business, didn’t provide for terms. Now, it will be sold to the highest bidder and if it brings in less than the amount owed, we’ll just sell the family home which we also filed a lien against.”
Liens were also recorded against the Hogan personal assets, including their boat, RV, and especially against the Harley, Hogans favorite icon.
“That’s very harsh for Mrs. Hogan, don’t you think?” Sally asked.
“Harsh?”
“To sell the family home and the business.”
“Perhaps, but she enjoyed the ride on the government’s money right along with her husband, so now she can bear the consequences. In this job, if you indulge yourself in pity or care about someone, you’re just helping them get away with it. Besides, she’ll be fine once her attorney forces the insurance company to pay, so why beat up the IRS? It’s a dirty job . . . ” she added, as they drove away with a signed agreement.
“…but somebody’s got to do it!” Sally agreed. Neither of them dared to laugh.
After reaching Sacramento and returning their vehicle to the Motor Pool, they rode the elevator to the fourth floor of the Federal Building and checked in.
“I don’t think I’m up to completing the report right now,” Sally said. “I’m going home and lie in bed until I feel better. My head’s killing me and my stomach’s telling me I might throw up.”
“Don’t fret, Sally. I’ll take care of it. You seem much more ill than I, although I’m feeling worse by the minute. Go ahead. I’ll be leaving myself after I complete the report.” Sally left immediately.
Marisa moved to her desk and began reviewing the notes. By typing a report of their discussion with Martha Hogan and attaching the signed agreement resolving the tax lien by sale of the business, she had completed the paperwork.
“My God, Child! You don’t look well. What’s the matter?” Emily Worth, their supervisor, was just being her typical, mothering self. Normally, Marisa would have muttered some evasive comment, already having one nosy mother, but this afternoon, she felt so poorly, she appreciated the concern.
“Sally and I stopped at a Susanville restaurant after the meeting this morning and I think we caught something from bad food. We became progressively worse on the drive back. She’s especially sick and already went home. I intend to see a Dr. myself as soon as I finish this report.”
“You never know what you might pick up in one of those homegrown places. Some employees are so casual in their sanitary practices they don’t even wash their hands! You have to be careful out there. That’s why I carry my lunch. Brown-bagging has its advantages. It’s always been a fetish with me. What did you have?”
“A meatloaf special with mashed potatoes and fried okra. Sally’s from the south and when she saw the menu, she insisted that I try it. It was my first time to eat meatloaf.”
“Being Black, she probably grew up on that diet, so it’s nostalgic to her.”
“Everyone in the south does. Even being from New Jersey, I have to admit, it was wonderful. I don’t know how food that tasted so good could be contaminated, but it must have been or we wouldn’t have gotten sick at the same time after eating. Every bone in my body is aching and it’s getting worse, so I’m anxious to finish up and go straight to the clinic.”
Emily touched Marissa’s forehead with her palm. “You poor dear, you’ve got a fever, a high fever! What was the name of that place?”
“I don’t remember exactly. I think it was Malone’s Café, or Malone’s Family Café, something similar. It was a friendly, quaint place, but I’d never eat there again.” Emily was busy jotting down the name of the culpable enterprise.
“How much do you lack completing your report, Marisa?”
“Just a few minutes, thank goodness. I don’t think I could last if it were going to be more than that.”
“Did Sally go to the clinic?”
“No, at least I don’t think so. She said she was going home right then. Of course, she could have changed her mind en route. I think I’ll call her just before I leave to see how she’s doing.”
“Don’t busy yourself with that,” Emily said, “I’ll call her. You just finish up, so you can go to the clinic, get a prescription, and lie down. You look bad. Your eyes are red and your cheeks are flushed. And you have a temperature.” She put her hand on Marissa’s forehead again.
“You’re hot! You should leave now.”
“Just another paragraph; I don’t want to leave it incomplete.”
“Don’t print it. I’ll follow through after you leave, okay?”
“Thanks, Emily, you’re a doll . . . as usual.”
Emily strode to her desk and began thumbing through her Rolodex looking for Sally’s number.
“Hello,” a weak voice answered.
“Sally, this is Emily. Marissa said you two were exposed to some bug and you went home sick. I was just wondering if you called the clinic, if you’ve gone in?”
“I can’t drive now. I took Nyquil, thought antihistamine might ease the symptoms. It didn’t help, so I took a second dose and now I’m just lying here, hurting.”
“Don’t lie there! And never take two doses of that stuff close together. You need to see a doctor.”
“Emily. I don’t feel like getting up now. It hurts to move.” She allowed her arm to drop.
“Sally . . .”
She heard a rustling sound as Sally straightened her arm, sliding the receiver across the top of the sheets.
“Sally, can you hear me?” There was only silence.
Emily hung up the phone and dialed 911. The operator, sensing her hysteria, assured her that she would have an ambulance and the police there shortly.
Emily returned to Marissa’s booth, finding her gone, her completed report on the computer. She saved, printed, and forwarded it, then checked the Lady’s Room just in case Marissa was still there. She wasn’t. Larry Washburn was at his desk adjacent to Marisa’s.
“Larry, did Marissa say anything to you before leaving?”
“Yeah, said she was really ill and was going to the clinic. Then she sort of stumbled out, leaving her computer file open . . . not her normal angst.”
“I told her to leave it on. God, how terrible! I think she and Sally both have a serious case of food poisoning.”
“Sounds bad.”
“It is. I’m going to Personnel and report this. Would you contact the Health Department in Susanville? Report a café by the name of, ‘Malone’s Family Café,’ or some name like that with Malone in it. There can’t be that many comparable listings. Marissa said they ate there. Ask the department to follow up. Tell them two of our agents are deathly ill and make certain you get a commitment.”
“Sure, I’ll do it right now.”
“Thanks.” Emily said, rushing out.
After informing personnel, she phoned the hospital to verify that Sally had been picked up before leaving for the day. Finally, she could relax.
The next morning when she arrived, Emily heard that several workers in the Motor Pool were either absent or working ill early in the shift. Three had left for the clinic. Fearing something very serious was afoot, she called the Emergency Room at Catholic Hospital and after being passed around a few times, was connected to a Dr. Davis.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Doctor. This is Emily Worth at the Internal Revenue Service. One of our agents, Marissa Taylor, was brought there last night and I’d appreciate an update on how she is.”
“I was with her a few moments ago.”
“Is she feeling better this morning?”
“During the night, her condition deteriorated.”
“You know she may have contracted food poisoning, don’t you? They told you that?”
“They told me, but this isn’t food poisoning. It’s something else.”
“What?”
“I hate to admit I can’t say, but to be frank, we’re uncertain. It’s strange. I know that both she and your other agent, Miss Williams over at Palmetto General, ate at the same restaurant. Let me ask you: Did they make any other stops between the time they ate and the time they arrived at your offices? It’s quite a drive from Susanville to Sacramento.”
“I have no idea except they didn’t mention it if they did. You could ask Marissa . . . or Sally.”
“Miss Taylor has been unconscious or heavily sedated due to complaints of severe pain since admission. I suppose I could contact Dr. Bryan at Palmetto and have him ask Miss Williams, if she’s alert. While we would normally suspect food poisoning, this seems to be something different, flu-like systems but more aggravated. Both here and at Palmetto, we’ve administered antibiotics. It’s too soon to know how effective they’ll be.”
“Our agents keep a log of their movements. I’ll check theirs if you’ll hold for a minute.”
“That would be helpful, but could you call back and ask for me? I have a conference call pending with Dr. Bryan in five minutes.”
“Very Well. You know about the other hospital?”
“Palmetto?”
“No. Other people are infected; We sent two men and a woman from the Motor Pool in this morning and two others failed to report for work today. Both supposedly went to the Emergency Room at Palmetto. You should make certain Dr. Bryan knows they’re there and that the cases are related, and we also received a call from County Hospital.”
“You think all of these are related?”
“Absolutely, doubtless, Doctor. These are very responsible individuals with excellent attendance records. I know certainly that they must all be related.”
“That negates food poisoning completely. Food poisoning isn’t passed by proximity. I’m glad you told me this. That makes it more important to know as much as possible where they were. They came into contact with something extremely contagious and virile. I’ll involve County Hospital. This is resembling a noxious virus. The men at the Motor Pool you mentioned must have been in contact with your agents.”
“The two that didn’t show this morning might have been. Any one of the three from the Pool might have.”
“Could you verify if they were? It would be helpful.” “Goodness, I was with Marissa longer than they would have been. I wonder if I’m going to get sick. I don’t feel sick right now.”
“Not necessarily. Listen, to eliminate as many possibilities as we’re able, when you talk to the Motor Pool, check if any articles were left in the vehicle, even in the trunk, that might be a continuing source.”
“Oh Dear, this is becoming complex. I’ll let you go for your conference call and find out as much as I can before calling you back.”
“Remember, it would be most useful if we could track their movements. The restaurant might not be the source of this ailment, at least not the food. I’ll know more when the lab results are sent up.” Emily dialed the Motor Pool.
“Alonzo here.”
“Alonzo, this is Mrs. Worth in the . . . ”
“Sure, Mrs. Worth, what can I do for you? You’re calling about Lily and the guys?”
“I know about them.”
“About Bill too?”
“Is he one of the five?”
“Not correct. I’m the only one here now. Bill’s gone sick too.”
“So there’s six now? Was Bill around the others?”
“Maybe . . . why?”
“Do you know if he was around the vehicle?”
“Sure; he prepped it for Hawkins.”
“The car is out, Hawkins has it?”
“I think that’s what I just said. What’s the big deal here? What about the unit?”
“We need to know who Marissa and Sally came in contact with yesterday. Oh, and also if they left any personal items or articles in the car.”
“You’re saying the docs think the car made people sick? If there was anything in the car, Bill would have removed it during prep before Hawkins left. Says here he took it for local use. He should be back by mid-afternoon. Think he’ll be sick?”
“If you don’t mind, have him call me so I’ll know and could you reach Bill and determine if he removed anything? I need to know as soon as possible to inform the doctor.”
“Will do. Talk to you later.”
Emily sat musing, then walked to Marissa’s desk to review her log. Flipping through, she found the date in question and read.
07:30 Left for meeting with Martha Hogan of Hogan’s Hardware.
10:15 Arrived Hogan’s Hardware. Attorney, Ralph Simpson waiting with Martha Hogan.
11:35 Left Hogan’s Hardware with signed agreement.
11:45 Stopped for lunch.
12:40 Left restaurant.
03:20 Arrived at Motor Pool feeling ill, both of us.
She copied the information, then went to Sally’s desk. Unable to locate her log, she added a note emphasizing that there was no mention of any stop other than for lunch and faxed the schedule to Dr. Davis’s urgent attention.
Concern about the virulence of the “flu” increased when several medical workers and Emily Worth became ill within the following 24-hours. Closing the Emergency Room temporarily for disinfection was being considered. Doctors Davis, Bryan, and Thomas from the three hospitals conferred again by conference call.
“It’s a virulent, highly resistant, flu strain,” Davis advanced. “Possibly a Super bug. The antibiotics we administered IV had no effect. I’ve augmented. Her condition continues to deteriorate rapidly: Elevated blood pressure; Bowel pain and edema; Adenitis, particularly Lymphadenitis; No pneumonia; Complaints of migraines. Incorrigible fever.”
“I disagree it’s flu,” Bryan said. “I hate to suggest this: Some of patient Williams’ symptoms already resemble hemorrhagic fever. I had . . . ”
“Hemorrhagic Fever!” Thomas asked, “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I witnessed numerous cases while on a medical mission in the early nineties. I’ve contacted the Special Pathogens Branch at CDC. They’d already been called from the Hospital in Susanville.”
“More cases there?”
“A serious outbreak, Doctors; and these cases do seem to have originated either directly or indirectly at the same restaurant. I told them we had determined it wasn’t food poisoning of any familiar type, that I thought the fact it was a restaurant was largely coincidental. They’re sending a team to examine these cases, although at the moment, they’re going on your assumption, Dr. Davis.”
“Influenza can do this. It could be a new strain. We have several medical personnel and patients now in isolation. Whatever it is, and I’m not ruling out an Influenza Super bug, it spreads easily and appears potentially lethal. Remember the Influenza pandemic of 1918? Twenty million dead worldwide, 548,000 in the United States! What’s the condition of the patients from the IRS Motor Pool, Dr. Thomas?”
“I haven’t been able to diagnose, but the symptoms are the same reported for your patients: Severe stomach and intestinal distress, high fever upon admission, migraine-intensity headaches, and elevated pressure.”
“It’s the same here; No gender-specific symptoms.” Bryan added.
“We have an Internist and three nurses in isolation. A legal wrinkle too, five patients here for other reasons, a liability situation for us. We’re buttoned down now, though. Frankly, I’m worried about myself. I’ve seen them three times, unprotected during the first two. I didn’t anticipate anything such as this.”
“None of us did.” Davis said.
“This is a likely epidemic requiring stringent procedures.”
“I agree, Dr. Thomas.” Bryan concurred.
Davis felt the assertion of possible hemorrhagic fever was unwarranted.
“I agree that if this situation isn’t controlled quickly, we could have an epidemic on our hands. I’m relieved CDC’s coming. But the course and progression of this disease is far too rapid in my opinion to be hemorrhagic fever. A few days to a few weeks generally pass before symptoms appear. These people were all affected within fewer than 24 hours, some within three or four hours. No hemorrhagic fever virus works that quickly. A virulent strain of flu can. Dr. Bryan, you said you’ve witnessed hemorrhagic fever. Do either of you remember the Marilyn Labana case?”
“When Ebola surfaced in October 1996,” Bryan said. “That was a real scare.”
“Refresh my memory,” Thomas said, “What occurred.”
“The episode revolved around a nurse, Marilyn Labana. She wiped blood from a Dr. Clement Mambana being treated by steroids for Ebola.”
“That was in South Africa?”
“Yes. I remember the details like yesterday. She contacted the virus on 29 October, but didn’t die until 24 November.”
“True,” Bryan admits, “but didn’t symptoms first appear within three or four days?”
“I think you’re correct.” Davis said.
“Well, then is it such a reach that symptoms could appear almost immediately? It’s the nature of the symptoms that intrigues me: The particularly debilitating character, fever, headache, falling platelet count, and other factors. But . . . I could be wrong.”
“Let’s keep one another informed, fax lab results, confer on symptomatic issues.”
“Does CDC know four hospitals are now involved?” Thomas inquired.
“Only the two in Sacramento, but I’ll call Atlanta.” Davis said.
The plane landed in Susanville shortly after 9:00 pm, for the CDC personnel to learn that the outbreak originating at the restaurant had spread. Thirty-four new cases had been reported. Additionally, a hospital in Redmond had several cases. In Susanville, the owner of the restaurant, who already suffered from emphysema, had been moved to intensive care. The hospital was struggling to handle 46 patients. During the afternoon, more employees from the Federal Building where Taylor and Williams worked fell ill. The Fire Marshall took the auspicious step of closing the entire building a few hours before CDC arrived under Hazmat authority until the toxic source could be isolated.
Team Leader Arthur Hasaki received the update with consternation.
“By morning, Perkins, Washington’s going to be all over us. Closing a Federal Building will spark public alarm.” he said.
Claude Perkins nodded. The two had worked together for years and jointly managed several crises.
“. . . and we’d better have some answers” he added.
“Mr. or Dr. Hasaki, I presume?” Dr. Griggs said with an expression Hasaki and Perkins had come to know well over the years: Hopeful but anxious relief.
“Doctor, but call me Lewis.”
“I’m Dr. Samuel Griggs. Call me Samuel.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr.. This is my associate, Dr. Perkins, also with Special Pathogens Branch. We’ve been updated somewhat. It sounds as though you’ve a real ringer.”
“I fear we do. Why don’t you ride to the Hospital with me and I’ll provide additional enlightenment on the way?”
“I was about to suggest that.” Hasaki said, instructing the other members of the team to follow them in the rented vehicles waiting upon their arrival. Griggs couldn’t bar his amazement when he saw the bulk of the CDC trappings being offloaded from the aircraft.
“One could set up an entire facility with so much equipment,” He thought to himself.
By the time they arrived, Hasaki and Perkins felt it was unlikely they would meet the new pathogen on a level playing field. A conference call to Griggs connected them with doctors Davis, Thomas, and Bryan, and disturbing news. They were anticipating an Influenza Super bug, although some aspects of the illness as described were asymptomatic of influenza. Knowing Super bugs were capable of such adaptations, they were now ready for anything.
Media picked up a rumor of possible Hemorrhagic Fever by the 10 O’clock News and created a state of general alarm. While eating a pastrami on rye, made with Cobblestone, his favorite Jewish Rye, California Governor, Shevat Roth became incensed he hadn’t heard a word about the epidemic before the entire public! He awoke Harvey Aimes, Captain of the State Police. Had he heard? What was he doing?
“Roadblocks are in place in as many places as we can identify, trying to establish a secure perimeter around infectious locations, and we’re just hoping the CDC will be able to help us be ready for anything. Every Hazmat team and unit in the state has already been placed on alert status., Governor.”
Ben Joyce, a Roth Aid, called the White House and had obtained the home number of the president’s chief aid, Hawkins.
“Just how serious is this? Should I be a little alarmed or very alarmed? The President doesn’t like ambiguous crisis information. How do you know it’s not hysterical bullshit? What’s your source?”
“What a fucking jerk-off,” Joyce thought, “ . . . an asshole.” But he didn’t say it aloud.
“Dr. Hasaki from CDC in Atlanta. He’s in charge of the Crisis Response Team. They’ve identified the culprit as a new kind of hemorrhagic fever. Is that enough clout for you? You know what Hemorrhagic fever is? Ebola, Hanta . . . ”
“Of course, of course I know! How much geography is impacted?”
“As of now? Susanville, Redmond, and Sacramento primarily, but a few scattered cases keep arising from new areas, supposedly still all within California. I wouldn’t bet on it; It’s highly contagious and has taken too long to identify. I expect it to infect public everywhere. Nationally. Perhaps Internationally. The really terrifying aspect is that it isn’t recognized as Hemorrhagic, so it’s unreported, mistaken for the flu at first. But that’s when it’s most infectious. The carriers don’t know they’re spreading it until they’ve already compromised hospital and clinic staffs, including admitted patients there for other reasons. They may succumb even more rapidly. That means a colossal liability crisis in the making, Hawkins and there’s no FDIC to bail out hospitals, no HDIC. We need a public national alert, not just notices to medical facilities. CDC has already begun the task of notifying every listed hospital in the country of the symptoms because they appear within hours. If you freeze all movement, stop all forms of transportation, close every government facility, basically shut the country down for a day–a total standstill–we can identify every case and isolate those affected before this thing fulminates into something you don’t want to see.”
“Do you have the slightest idea of the magnitude and difficulty of what you’re suggesting? I want to speak to this Dr. Hasaki and Governor Roth on a conference call in half an hour. Then, if I’m convinced, I’ll discuss it with the President. Make it happen!” He said.
“Make it happen? This arrogant prick’s sense of priority could fit in a damned, turtle fart.” And this time, he almost did say it, on the verge of a bout.
“Okay, but this isn’t a choice. You have to do it, so if I were you, I’d set the machinery in motion immediately, or your going have a shit storm on your hands, Hawkins. Minutes probably count, particularly since another round of travel is beginning this morning as we speak? You get it? You could effectively cost us a day if you sit with your thumb up your ass on this one!”
“I understand! Make it fifteen minutes.”
“The President will be online?”
“Yeah, yeah . . . ”
Hasaki’s eyes felt as crusty as the shores of Mono Lake. He’d adapted to all-night vigils in spite of their frequency, or the involuntary imperative of circumstance they devolved upon him. He shifted from one aching foot to the other in a self-conscious cadence in front of a two-dimensional blond flanked by a cameraman scalding his eyes with “Are they really Halogen beams? Great, just great! So on top of everything else, it’s a fight with the light.”
Good Morning America and every other network program was being interrupted momentarily by a Special Bulletin . . . an incoming live transmission from the White House Press Room, where reporters had lumbered straight from bed after being roused at 5:15 am. for an urgent press conference. During the conference, the feed from the Sacramento television station would feature Hasaki live peering out from those crusted, scalded eyes.
“Do we have to have those lights?” He asked. “I’m already light-skinned and I haven’t slept. They’ll make me look wan-faced!”
“Sorry, Dr. Hasaki; they’re necessary. They’ll brighten your eyes, make you look better.”
“Look better with the swollen capillaries, redolent of the Red River running through salt flats against the whites of my eyes? I doubt that!”
He hated being a Talking Head, hated the cliche. He ached to recuse himself, but it was out of the question. The single objective was stopping the Super bug before it stormed across the nation and around the world. What mattered was preventing the epidemic from progressing into a pandemic! His job was to dispense . . . calmly . . . critical, indeed strategic, technical information the public must grasp if they were expected to support the interruption of their lives for an entire day. If he succeeded, it just might work.
The president appeared first, live from the White House. After expressing concern and compassion for those affected, he explained the necessity of allowing the disease to run a complete cycle.
“If the entire population remains stationary for twenty-four hours, all cases can be identified and this horrible plague can be contained. I ask, I plead for your cooperation.”
Following his remarks, the two-dimensional blond became a Talking Head again, her single virtue being how good she looked on camera, in contrast to how Hasaki felt he would. The blistering lights ignited and the cameraman signaled it was now his turn to speak.
“Using electron microscopy, we have identified a virus similar to Hanta as the source of this disease. It is airborne, a worst-case scenario. It can spread to anyone in the presence of an infected individual. It can infect anyone who enters an area where an infected individual has recently been. It is extremely virulent and there is no cure. I repeat,” he said, heightening the sense of panic, “The prognosis following infection is hopeless. Presently, there is no antitoxin, no method of treatment and no cure. Seven people have died and many more are in critical condition. Please! Stay home. Don’t leave for twenty-four hours. If you think you may have flu-like symptoms, contact the nearest hospital by telephone and inform the Crisis Coordinator, but do not go to the hospital without calling first. They will monitor you by phone until your symptoms warrant entering the presence of those known to be infected. Presently, recognized cases are limited to California, but the virus could rapidly spread. Stay home.”
Someone next to those cursed lights was waving.
“Excuse me for a moment.” He covered the microphone with his hand as the man approached.
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
“We’ve just learned that several cases have been reported from Utah.”
“Infected by someone on a flight from California. That means it’s broken out,” said Hasaki, resuming position.
“I’ve just been informed that Utah has been added and it is highly probable that additional states may be involved. It is critical that you not ignore this warning on the presumption that you live at a safe distance. By the time it’s reported, you may already have inadvertently contracted the virus.” The glaring lights at last fell dark.
God, he was glad that was over. The networks had lined up an array of “experts” from academia to explain in excruciating if not boring detail everything of interest about Hemorrhagic fever, cutting in every old tape they could locate and swapping feeds back and forth via satellite. At least it would give most people pause and something to listen to while they stayed home . . . if they stayed home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Apocalypse

"I am a most unhappy man. I have unwittingly ruined my country. A great industrial nation is controlled by its system of credit. Our system of credit is concentrated. The growth of the nation, therefore, and all our activities are in the hands of a few men. We have come to be one of the worst ruled, one of the most completely controlled and dominated governments in the civilized world. No longer a government by free opinion, no longer a government by conviction and the vote of the majority, but a government by the opinion and duress of a small group of dominant men." - President Woodrow Wilson

Christof and Kicks Iron called me after returning from Yemen, full of enthusiasm, delighted with the success of Spritz’s Doomsday Bug. After seeing so many innocent dead, my previous enthusiasm had turned septic. It had almost gotten loose into the interior of the country. If it had, who knows what might have resulted.
They were enthused about the training, and with Beyrouti . . . especially with Beyrouti, though they omitted details over the phone. I asked about Carl and Spritz.
“Spritz headed for Susanville in a state of near shock at what he’d caused.”
“He should be in shock. What about Carl?”
“For some inexplicable reason,” Christof said, “Carl remained for an additional week.”
“He has family over there. There were several last minute changes then. Tiffany ended up leaving at the same time I did. Shiraz had first said I was coming back alone.”
“Did you get the package.”
“Before we talk about that, Christof, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
“About what?”
“About you!”
“Why would you say something like that, Eric?”
“I was in the room when a certain friend of ours was interviewing Spritz. A conversation that should have lasted a few minutes took an hour because he’s got a big mouth. You’d have thought he was in session with his therapist.”
“So, I’ll talk to him about it.”
“That’s not the main reason I’m pissed.”
“What is?”
“He told me you knew what he had planned. He thought I’d approved it. The first thing I want to discuss when you get here is why I didn’t know, why you didn’t talk to me first.”
There was a noticeable pause.
“We were preparing for the trip. There wasn’t a lot of time . . . “
”Bullshit! That’s pure Bull, Christof! It takes sixty seconds to call my cellular. It’s always on and it never leaves me. I want some answers that make sense. I’m tired of this crap: critical stuff going down without me even knowing? This was serious; damned serious, Christof.” Another pause.
“Okay, we’ll talk.”
“What about the package?” Kicks Iron pressed in the background.
“They called the day after I returned. After all the hulaballuh getting there, the return was quick and uneventful. Almost no layover time except a wonderful night in Aruba with Tiffany.”
“So you have it?” Kicks Iron was insistent.
“I do. I also have certain directions I’ll discuss. I’m leaving for Montana tonight. They said they’d visit me again . . . after. When will you be in Montana?”
“Tomorrow,” Kicks Iron replied, “Ready to get it on!” I took this as a half-veiled threat he didn’t want a drawn-out planning phase.
“Great!” I feigned, “I’m looking forward to seeing you. I can’t wait to exchange stories.”
“Hold on, Eric!,” Christof almost shouted to keep me from closing the cell.
“Something more?
“Yes, rewind.
“Rewind?”
“To the part about a wonderful night in Aruba with Tiffany.”
“Ït's kind of personal, Christof.”
”I gathered as much. Come on, I brought her in and we go too far back for withholds.”
“He finally fucked her,” Kicks Iron injected.
“Show some class, Kicks Iron,” Christof chided, “This is Eric and Tiffany is special.”
“More than you know,” I said.
“Well, you just made my year, Eric. I've been waiting, hoping for this since the night you two met. It's wonderful, and you both deserve each other. I'm so happy to hear that. I gave you the greatest gift a man can give another. Carl's going to be thrilled too. I can hardly wait to tell him.”
Üntil what we experienced in Yemen, I always thought she was perfect for him.
“Not at all. You need Tiffany, and she needs you. You're two sides of the same coin. God, I'm so happy it finally happened!”
“I'm sorry, Eric. I'm just so anxious to get it on.”
“I know, Kicks Iron. Don't worry about it.”
I already knew why Christof had shut me out, but I wanted to know if Kicks Iron and Carl had been involved in a deliberate, unified attempt to keep me in an after-the-fact status. The last thing I had the patience to tolerate was another challenge to my leadership and control. Heavy things were going down and I didn’t intend to put up with it.
You know from my previous narrative about Potts that on April twenty-third, we successfully implemented Operation Milk Truck. It was unquestionably an adventitious setback for the Feds and an ignominious humiliation for Homeland Security. Supposedly, military bases were impenetrable. The President at the time, termed by Tiffany, “another contemptible braggadocio drunken on his own political surfeit like Bush Cowboy,” was completely jaded. For years following 9/11, additional guards had been placed at the entrance to all bases and federal facilities, charged with the imperative to thoroughly inspect everyone and every vehicle that entered. So how Fort Benning had been penetrated with such apparent ease baffled them. It was the focus of a pending congressional investigation, talked to death on news programs and a cadre of talk shows, especially CSPAN, my morning companion, and boosted the sales of every magazine from New York to London. Up till then, my favorite was a syndicated cartoonist portraying John Ashcroft back in the early G. Bush days with his head stuck up his own ass. After 4/23, it was Cherkoff’s and everyone around and after him’s turn.
Those aspects were gratifying, but like Spritz’s Doomsday Bug, the incredible environmental carnage and the deaths of so many innocent civilians drove me into a shell of reserve about my true feelings. The off-handedness with which Christof and Kicks Iron referred to all of this as “collateral damage” and their insistence that it was justified as an inherent part of war offered little comfort to my jarred commitment. Yes, it made me feel that I was a hypocrite, because I had used the same justification with Fahad before returning from Yemen. But, if you live through something, see the fruits of your efforts, it's damned difficult to live with. Unless the result you are seeking comes to pass, which isn't a given, the interim can be damned consternating. Such euphemisms failed to restore my previous resolve. If our cause was just, why did I feel such revulsion? The question plagued almost my every waking moment.
I was also concerned that I hadn't heard again from Spritz. We knew he hadn’t been apprehended. If he had, with his loose tongue we would all have been rounded up. Even Carl didn’t know according to Christof. What made even less sense was that neither he, nor Kicks Iron, nor Christof seemed to be disturbed by the disappearance. Only Tiffany and I cared enough to try to locate him. Her opinion was that, learning of what his Doomsday Bug had done, he had decided it was in his best interest to disappear, not just from possible detection by the Feds, but period . . . including from the Muskets. I sent her to drop in on his mother, who was still waiting for the insurance settlement from his dad’s suicide. Tiffany found her and her kids living like trailer trash in a cramped mobile home, driving a ten-year-old car. Pretending to be Spritz’s girlfriend who hadn’t heard from him for almost a month, Tiffany said she was trying to reach him. Widow Hogan expressed concern, but claimed she hadn’t heard from him longer than that.
“Not so much as a phone call.” She said. Tiffany found his apartment vacant. The trail ended there. By then, I only hoped he’d stay vanished.
The aftermath of 4/23 exceeded anything the Muskets had envisioned. We were like children opening Pandora’s Box.
As the shock of the base bombing circled the globe, the reaction was markedly different from 9/11. The sympathies offered by our allies and other nations were hollow. United Nations condemnation was guarded. France and Germany released a joint statement, saying “9/11 and 4/23 were avoidable. Europe can avoid similar Muslim reprisals by insisting upon U.N. sanctions against Israel for its apartheid policies and by addressing the Palestinian problem even-handedly. Whatever religious or special interests control U.S. policy, nations who value their own security would be advised to keep a wide berth between themselves and the United States.”
Everyone knew they were referring to the Jewish power grip on Washington politics and U.S. Foreign policy. The one good thing was that someone was finally stating what everyone had already known for long time.
You can imagine the uproar that created in Washington. No one suspected any domestic involvement. In that sense, Milk Truck had been a complete success. Fahad was a fucking genius. More than that; he was a wizard in human form.
“The United States has been burned by Greek Fire,” al-Jazeera warned. “It has learned that military might and technology cannot prevail. It is like a great, wooden ship during the middle centuries, bloated in the belief its overpowering size gave it power over all others. They were astonished when Greek Fire, rather than a cannon ball, belched from the bronze cannons of the Greeks. A mixture of naphtha and pitch, no wooden ship could resist it, regardless of its size. The largest burned as readily as the smallest and were much easier to hit. Americans must rise up against the evil designs of their leaders, or greater woes will surely follow. The innumerable innocent Iraqis slaughtered by America have yet to be avenged. Those fatherless, motherless, or brotherless boys will soon be men with no purpose more justified in their eyes than avenging their dead. America will not see them coming. The population at large must take back control of their government. It has betrayed their nation''s constitution.”
The political isolation didn’t change Washington. An attack on the U.S. Dollar that began when the House of Saud was temporarily overthrown by a popular uprising in Saudi Arabia couldn’t be so easily dismissed. The new Islamic government announced it would no longer allow the United States to purchase oil with “its worthless paper money.” The Saudis first doubled, then tripled the price of oil in U.S. dollars. Oil prices had been unlinked from the dollar two years before. Countries whose currencies weren’t tied to the dollar were getting cheaper oil. They refused to support Washington’s irate claims that the price increases constituted “an attack upon the national interests of the United States.” The Carter Doctrine–that the U.S. would go to war if its oil supply was cut off–was effectively checkmated. The oil could be had. It just cost more. Did Carter intend to go to war if the U.S. couldn’t dictate the price for the resources of other nations?
“U.S. national interests are at the expense of oil-producing nations. We will not have our resources plundered with American Monopoly money!” So the Arab line went. When the US finally left Iraq, and left the Persian Gulf to the Persians, the inevitable happened; Iraq became the natural ally of Iran, although it jealously guarded its identity as a separate nation. Surprisingly, it still provided oil to the U.S. At a reasonable, though much higher, price/bbl. Kudos to Bush for that, I guess.
Exchange rates began to rise in spite of strenuous buying of dollars by foreign Central banks and the International Monetary Fund. Once the dollar fell below traditional resistance barriers, all hell broke loose. The Euro mushroomed to $5, raising the cost of a new Audi from $80,000 to $300,000. The Yen rose in value from 75 Yen per dollar to 25 Yen per dollar, even with vigorous buying of dollars by Japan. A $20,000 Toyota doubled in cost. It would have tripled were it not for Toyota’s U.S. plants. Everything imported doubled, trebled, quadrupled in cost unless it was manufactured in China, which had interestingly become one of America’s de facto economic allies. As interest rates rose on U.S. Bonds to induce continued buying of U.S. Debt, an increasing percentage of the federal budget went to interest. China not only had acquired a large percentage of U.S. jobs, practically our entire manufacturing base, now they were drawing from the jugular vein of the economy. . . interest on the debt, which they continued to buy. Chinese international corporate interests then took those dollars and purchased real estate, businesses, large chunks of airline, bus, train, and other transportation industries. Further, they had been given a significant number or toll road contracts, including the new North American Union Highway, an interstate grade international route that ran from Alaska to Yaviza, Panama, with plans for a suspension bridge to connect it to the South American continent. Unheard of changes in ownership, direction, and planning were occurring. The average American was bewildered by it all, and constant party line finger-pointing filled the media. The Federal Reserve emerged powerless to change or direct any trends, although they continued giving their abstract, unintelligible bullshit speeches Americans had come to expect over recent decades. I began to realize they needed to parole Blevins and put him in charge. Fat chance!
This is why I object to blaming the Muskets for American financial woes. Musket ideology opposed in principal printing mountains of worthless money. Remember, that was the reason Blevins became a member!
I admit that 4/23 was a catalyst to the crash that followed. The gold-backed Arabian Dinar shot up to $15, making oil $1,425/bbl. The British, Swiss, Chinese, and Japanese Central Banks and a few others made a last, futile attempt to stem the final collapse as they had done back in 2008, but had to abandon the effort this time, or see their own currencies collapse. There were just too many dollars being dumped. China first devalued the Yuan, then untied it from the dollar when a Yuan again approached the dollar in value. If someone had predicted that a decade before, they would have been hooted out of the room. Some on Wall Street were predicting that the dollar could soon go the way of the German Marc during WWII if some serious steps were not taken to shore up the economy. It had gotten so bad in Germany that it took a wheelbarrow full of marcs to buy a loaf of bread. “But how,” everyone was asking?
In spite of all efforts, within two months of 4/23, the British Pound rose to $4, the Euro rose to $6, and the Swiss Franc, which they had again solidly backed by gold, spiraled to almost $4. Only the nations of the Western Hemisphere stood with the U.S., though the value of their currencies rose against the dollar. Argentina’s Real had regained its 1:1 parity after becoming independent of foreign oil, and now saw the Real rise further, nearing one real for more than $2 against the dollar. The Canadian dollar, which had forever been worth about $0.70 rose to $1.20, and the Mexican Peso was once again at 3 Pesos per Dollar. American Baby boomer retirees stayed in a prosperous position in Mexico though, because inflation adjusted Social Security kept rising faster than the value of the peso. Their numbers were skyrocketing almost monthly because of Mexico's open door policy to pensioners. Smart guys, those Mexican government planners. No one dared touch benefits for those already on Social Security, although the retirement age had been increased to 69, ensuring fewer would reach it. Untying it from the floating semi-annual inflation adjustment O'bama had instituted was their lifeline, and no one dared touch it who wanted to remain in office. The senior voting block was just too powerful, and growing every month. The U.S. was leaking economic blood like a shotgun victim in every direction.
For the first time, average Americans like Joe Six-Pack began to grasp what it means for a country when its currency collapses and exchange rates fall. Even “official” unemployment hit 15% by July and prices for everything were spinning out of control so much that price freezes had to be seriously consedered for certain commodities. But that just generated shortages soon after, angering the public even more. The Bipartisans tried blaming each other, but they actually had nowhere to hide. The media were crushing the platitudes as quickly as they could be pandered up by Washington Spin doctors. Anyone apologizing for Washington appeared as corrupt as Enron executives following the Great Tech Crash. It fell out of vogue for the first time in memory. There was no one to blame, because everyone in the nation was to blame. They had allowed the Iraq war, the opening volley of U.S. economic ruin. 4/23 just pushed it over the top. The Muskets didn't stack the deck. We had just removed a card from a house of cards.
The foregoing comments were necessary to remind (or inform) you of how things already stood three months after 4/23 and brings me to the part of my story of greatest interest to us all.
I awoke the morning of July 29th missing Tiffany terribly who had gone to visit her family for a week. It left an empty place in my soul. She was the star in my sky ever since Aruba, and we were inseparable. Frankly, I had come to realize I couldn't live without her. We were in every sense head over heels in love. But that was only my first reaction to being awakened. The annoying squeal on my alarm-clock radio that I immediately recognized as the Emergency Broadcast System was the culprit. Prior to 4/23, its occasional tests had been little more than a nuisance. I’d returned to the belief that the flurry following the base bombings would never be repeated, that the network would be utilized for nothing more than weather occasionally knocking out normal communications. But that morning, we were being told that it was not a test.
With incredulity, I heard the stultifying news that less than an hour before, there had been a nuclear attack against Washington, D.C. by unknown bombers! All was confusion. No one knew the identity of the assailant(s) and no terrorist organization claimed responsibility. It was presumed that it was the work of suicide bombers vaporized along with everyone and everything else within the 5psi radius of the detonation. The announcer was saying it was unknown what nationality they represented or what country had sponsored them, but that all nuclear material had a specific identity and once it was known from which country’s reactors the material originated, the US would surely annihilate their entire infrastructure. I felt increasingly as though I’d awakened trapped within an episode of The Twilight Zone when I heard that the President and Vice-President, a majority of both houses of the congress and other federal officials as well as the buildings which housed the apparatus of the Federal government had been destroyed along with most of the Capitol.
I couldn’t believe it.
Everything in Washington, D.C. was gone? Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, were dead or dying. Medical personnel from across the nation were attempting to respond to a national call for assistance in handling the largest number of suffering Americans since the Civil War. Not since Hiroshima and Nagasaki had the world witnessed an event so horrendous, so utterly unthinkable, so devastating. It was definitely the event horizon many had warned of but had fallen on deaf ears ever since the Iraq war. The lurid reports of those dying of radiation sickness surpassed my tolerance. And there was no one to help them.
Then I thought of Carl and Hassan and their family living within that very area.
Öh, my God! Carl could be dead? Hassan? All of them? I began to desperately hope that Carl had been at the U.N. in New York. Hassan, I didn't have a clue. My heart sank.
Through a fog, I heard that House Majority Leader, Wilson McKay, on a speaking tour in California, had already been sworn in as President. It was completely surreal to me. His first action was a live broadcast to the entire nation.
“The Federal government will temporarily be directed from Texas and undisclosed locations in several other states . . . ” he said.
I was relieved that he, at least, was not dead, that someone had assumed the duties of the presidency. He was speaking from Air Force One. He urged the nation to be calm, to pray. He sounded reassuring.
“As a nation, we have been aware of this eventuality; It has been foreseen for many years. Rest assured that the machinery of the Federal government is still in place. Alternate locations were quietly set up in the past to conduct all critical functions. All of this will pass. Our challenge now is to continue functioning as a nation at all levels. Those receiving monthly payments from the Federal government will continue to receive them. We have passed through this before when the World Trade Center was destroyed. We have contained the impact of the Base bombing three months ago. As a people, we know what must be done. Please do your part by maintaining confidence and a spirit of peace in your own area. This atrocity will not go unpunished. We will continue to survive as the greatest nation on earth. History requires it of us.”
It was perforce incredulous. It had actually happened. I recalled learning of the national panic that ensued when the listening public thought Orson Well’s rendition of the earth being attacked by Martians was actually happening. If only this could be such a misunderstanding. If only it could be a perfunctory test by the Homeland Security people such as the vapid dirty bomb drills they conducted after 9/11 to test the preparedness of urban crisis-response staffs, or at least reassure the public. Operation Milk Truck hadn’t targeted cities and this wasn’t a drill. I tried to assure myself all would be well again . . . eventually.
Leaping out of bed, I ran to the den and turned on the Television News. CNN International was reporting–from California–that the Electromagnetic Pulse, called the EMP, released by the blast had electrified metal structures, sending currents throughout them. They explained that everything from power lines, train tracks, building steel infrastructure, telecommunications systems, computers, and everything else electronic had been severely damaged along the entire Atlantic Seaboard. Areas west of the Appalachians had been indirectly affected. The power grid was down from Virginia to Southern Maine, west to Detroit and north to Montreal. New York City was in a state of wild panic, without power, telecommunications, ablaze from fires caused by hundreds of aircraft downed by the EMP and no longer able to fly. New York feared that it might be the next target even today of a second detonation. A chopper camera viewing the Washington D.C. area from a safe distance offshore displayed a vapor of darkness surrounded by a forest of twisted steel and debris reminiscent of what I had seen in movies, but far greater in magnitude. Satellite photographs revealed a crater more than a mile wide of unknown depth midway between D.C. and Baltimore. The entire landscape for forty miles in all directions was either barren or ablaze from the firestorm created by the thermal heat wave which at ground zero had been many times hotter than the sun, they said. Even the asphalt highways were aflame. I never thought a highway could catch fire. Unknown millions were dead, and millions more were dying. People as far away as New York City had sustained permanent eye damage if they had looked at the blast. People in Philadelphia who had looked would be totally blind, a commentator was saying. Worse, a cigar-shaped cloud at least fifty miles wide was dropping fallout directly upon Philadelphia, and could pass over New York City, though it was expected to just miss it to the south. The entire populations of Philadelphia and Trenton were projected to die. The specialists estimated the yield of the weapon to be around two megatons. They would know more after a few more hours when visibility improved sufficiently. The firestorm was still continuing. What was known was that the directly affected areas would be uninhabitable for at least a decade, and fallout was spreading death with every passing minute.
Medical personnel from outlying areas were unable to reach the emergency treatment centers previously established in anticipation of this very event. Helicopters attempting to take them near the area were hampered by the rain–black rain. All roads leading from the area were jammed with debris and rock thrown up and outward from the center of the explosion. I saw the tangled, melted remains of automobiles intermingled with concrete masses that were formerly parts of buildings that became airborne, crashing happen chance wherever they came to rest atop trucks, houses, people, and in the near coastal waters. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the helicopter camera focused on what was left of the city through the rain. It looked very much like a scene from Planet of the Apes. But this was no Hollywood production. This was happening now, in my lifetime.
Beginning within a hundred miles to the north, south and west, they reported, both sides of all roads and highways were jammed with vehicles as the surviving population attempted to flee, towing boats, trailers, and everything else imaginable. Hundreds, probably thousands, of motor homes and semi trucks were sitting in an endless ribbon of abject-looking trepidation on my wide screen T.V. All traffic was hopelessly stalled. To the northeast, the fallout overtook them. It looked like the shade from thick rain clouds, but the commentators explained that everyone in the path of the fallout as far as 90 miles downwind would suffer genetic damage or death. At a minimum, their hair would fall out.
The stalled traffic and gnarled roads extended all the way across the surrounding states as the specter of more nuclear blasts spawned a demographic tidal wave with human ripples as visible as those moving away from a stone thrown into a puddle. I was so thankful I wasn’t near that area. Yet the plight of those who were was so terrible that my heart was beating fearfully within my chest and I had difficulty drawing a full breath.
The question of what might be expected to occur within the first hours, days . . . weeks . . . months, or years after this apocalyptic strike was forming in my mind as scene after scene of pogrom flashed before my eyes; Scenes of shop windows being smashed by crazed crowds trapped within the cities without power, water, and no ability to escape except on foot. Fire and riots had broken out in dozens of northeastern cities, something I failed to comprehend. Why? Those cities hadn’t been attacked. A cacophony of sirens blared from the set, echoing from the walls of the den and also within the walls of my head. Had everyone gone mad? According to one commentator, hundreds of thousands had experienced mental trauma ranging from shell shock to complete insanity, especially the hundreds of thousands partially or completely blinded, roaming aimlessly about screaming for help that didn't come. As I considered the questions and the scenes of anarchy which had sprouted across the region, a mild panic began to seize me.
“Just what should I do right now?” I wondered.
Remembering the lines of the last gasoline shortage, I decided to move quickly to the car and go fill the tank, then go by the bank and draw out a few hundred dollars, just in case I needed it. Who knew? Maybe my debit or credit cards might not work with the Capitol destroyed the way everything is tied together these days. Then I’d run by the supermarket and stock up on some basics.
“There will be more and worse shortages,” I was thinking. After driving hurriedly to the station, a line of vehicles was already wound around the block and off into the distance. Annoyed at such a senseless panic by so many people, I drove to another . . . then another. I encountered the same situation at every station I approached.
“Food!” I thought next, “I’ll stock up at the supermarket, and get gas later.”
But there too, throngs of others filled with apprehension were arriving bumper-to-bumper, and I had to park almost a block away and walk. This was irritating enough, but my irritation evolved into astonishment when I actually entered the market. There was a crowd ahead of me. I expected that given the traffic, but they were in a state of hysteria. I had to literally shove my way just to get in. Then I discovered that many of the clerks had left and the management was unsuccessfully attempting to handle the check-out registers. I could hardly swallow the way people were acting right there where I had shopped so many times in my own community. Many were fighting their way out the door, buggies brimming, without paying. Police were arriving on the scene, but they were hopelessly outnumbered and seemed uncertain how to stem the developing bedlam. They began arresting some, but were overrun by an increasingly panicking crowd pushing buggies at a run toward their vehicles or down the street where they’d parked. A deep sense of nausea welled up in my stomach. I recognized some of these people! How could they act so rashly, so uncivilized? Not wanting to become involved, especially with more law enforcement arriving and an interminable line ahead of me, I more ran than walked back to the car and drove much farther out of town, encountering the same crowds at every automatic teller machine–and all were out of cash. Although it was a weekday, the banks had closed upon hearing the news. Afraid of being caught in the growing tension, I drove for more than an hour before I found a small grocery open that was still fairly well stocked. I bought enough perishables to complement my food storage and was relieved when my card went through and the old woman was kind enough to allow a rather large cash back by adding food not purchased at my begging insistence. I waited another hour in a line for gasoline, but was finally able to fill up, including a few 5-gallon plastic containers, albeit with a lower grade than I normally use. We had a 5,000 gallon tank of high-octane fuel at our Montana headquarters, and now, combined with what I had in the garage, I had sufficient fuel to get me a good chunk of the distance, if I was wary and bought along the way at every opportunity. We also had staples: Flour, rice, cornmeal and the like and crates of freeze-dried field rations, but I had never relished the idea of relying upon it. Only when I had food and fuel did my panic begin to subside. It was panic of a type I had never experienced, panic that interferes with your ability to think rationally. I decided to visit my brother in Kalispell–an ardent Musket himself–then spend a few days at headquarters until things settled down. I left a message on Tiffany's cell, relieved the system wasn't down, telling her briefly what was happening locally, and told her to meet me in Kalispell, not to come here, but that it would be a few hours before I hit the road north if she got this message.
I struggled increasingly to negotiate the traffic as I neared home. I unloaded everything only after parking in the garage and pulling the door down, locking it from the inside. Then I went straight to the TV with a six-pack of Coors as my only companion. It promised to soften the tightness within my chest. I had bought ten cases! There were dozens more at our headquarters.
The carnage occurring in the northeast made the Los Angeles riots of 1992 seem like a kindergarten dress rehearsal. The flaming buildings, people colliding with other vehicles, fighting in the streets, storefronts being smashed, a crazed public stealing all it could carry away in both arms was like things CNN had broadcast from Third World countries, as if American civilization was but the thinnest of veneers overlying a seething, raging cauldron of envy, anger, and desperation. There were police everywhere, mostly standing and watching helplessly, probably fearing for their own safety!
In astonished delirium, the phone rang twice before it caught my attention.
“God, Eric! Tell me that wasn’t us!” Tiffany cried.
“What?”
“Was it a Musket operation, taking out Baltimore and D.C.?”
“Are you insane? You think I’d be part of this chamber of horrors? Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Horrible, yes, though it will save the country in the end. The Washington machine is gone! Think of it, Eric!”
“The new president . . . “
”That’s the upset of the century,” she said, “An Independent President! McKay hates Federalism. He hates over-regulation. He hates NADNARA, Laser Net, and all the evils that hive was fomenting.”
“He said on the radio that critical government functions have been dispersed to scattered locations over the past few years, all essential services,” I said.
“That’s great. I wouldn’t want the government gone. The anarchy out there now would spread over the entire continent. It’s the machine that’s gone. The players and their power base were concentrated in the Capitol. All gone. The lobbyists; gone. Thousands of corrupt law firms and lawyers, gone. The punctilious aristocrats and their Think Tanks. The entire, insipid caravansary is gone.”
“That was our Capitol, Tiffany, our heritage!”
“It's grievous Eric, and I can't hold the back the tears. It's awful, yet I think in the end, we'll be thankful it occurred!”
“Yeah, the Smithsonian was a real bore, wasn’t it?”
“You’re being hostile.”
“It doesn’t trouble you that much of our history and most precious monuments are gone too.”
“Of course it does, and you know it. But I regret to say it’s the price we had to pay. You're not keeping anything from me are you, Love? If it was a Musket operation, I really need to know.”
“Absolutely not. I'm worried sick about Carl and Hassan.“
“Me also; it's the first thing that came to mind. That's why I doubted it could be our operation. All of Carl's family and Hassan's right there. It just couldn't be.”
“No matter how you look at it, a terrible price is being paid by millions of innocent people as we speek. They died in that Armageddon of radioactive rubble and ash, and it's hardly begun. No, it wasn't us. God, I hope not. They say a million more will die like flies, and it’s impossible to get to them. Every road is jammed–all lanes in both directions–with one-way traffic. It’s the biggest mess I ever saw. I almost got caught in it here at home!”
“You know I’m not happy about that, but we can’t consider this in prosaic terms; it’s the most profound event since the American Revolution. It constitutes a second revolution, and Eric, it will lead to a revival of all things good about our nation, the very things D.C. has been eating away for so long. The states will have the upper hand over the feds again. I want to be with you, Eric, not alone. Like you say, things are going to be confused for awhile. What’s your plan?”
“Didn't you get my message, Hon?”
“I didn't check. The same bedlam is going on here, but not as bad in this rural area. The first thing I did was call you. I wish I had stayed with you. I need your arms around me.”
“You can join me. I’m going to our national headquarters in Montana and sit this out for a time. I was about to go to Robert and Becky's, but I’d rather be together when we do. Can you make it to the headquarters okay?”
”Yes, I'll leave within the hour and be waiting when you arrive. Are you certain you'll be able to cover the distance?”
“Fairly. How are your parents taking this.”
“Mom is hysterical, but she'll recover.”
“How about your father?”
“You want the exact words?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God, it's about time!”
“I know how you think, Tiffany. Maybe you’re right. Maybe in time I might even come to agree with you, but not now. The anguish and anarchy I’m watching can’t be rationalized away. We lost Baltimore too, places like Johns Hopkins. I can’t see any evil greater than that.”
“The anarchy is a reflection of the desperation and anger Washington has sown in this republic. It will end. Reason will prevail.”
“I don’t see any reason on the tscreen. I see chaos. They say there are indications a race war is about to develop in some urban cores. It's like our civilization was already about to explode, and this was the fuse that set it off.”
“We knew that was the case. We've talked about it endlessly. But it will end when the worst elements either kill each other off or come to their senses. The Feds have lost their power base. They’re just guests in the states now, imprisoned within Federal Buildings. Homeland Security has been forever disgraced. The public won’t open a vein to build it up again. The ATF, FBI, EPA; all of them are just three-letter has-beens, cut down to a fragment of their former size and power. NADNARA won’t grow with McKay in the new White House or whatever they’ll call where he governs from, NADNARA will disappear.”
And so on and so forth.
“Have you been drinking, Tiffany?”
“A rum punch in hand like Dad, and I'll probably have a few more to calm my senses before I leave. Why?”
“I’m just drinking beer, but I’m on my third to relax my nerves and it isn't helping much.”
“That's because what's actually occurred is a cause for celebration, but psychologically, we aren't equipped to deal with it in proper context, yet. That's why I'm worried so about you, Eric. What do Christof and Kicks Iron think? I’ll bet they’re on the same page as me.”
“Don’t you mean, the same hyperbole? They haven’t called; they’re probably glued to the screen like I am.”
“I don't think so. I haven’t been able to reach either of them. I haven’t even been able to reach Carl, and he always returns my calls. That's why I'm so concerned about all three of them. I thought they might be with you.”
“No, I assume Christof’s home in Kalispell or at his marine repair shop. Carl’s probably in New York. I hope to God he is. Who knows where Kicks Iron might be? I haven’t spoken to any of them for weeks.”
“I’ve tried every number I have. Cellular phones are working everywhere west of the Mississippi, but not one of them answers. It’s as though they’ve vanished from the earth.”
I didn't like the sound of that.
“I’m surprised everything seems to be functioning, but I think the banks should have stayed open. No ATM’s, no cash.”
“I’ll keep trying and get back to you. If they call you first, let me know, okay? I’ll be so relieved when you join me, Love. We’ll have some great relief in Montana.”
“Maybe by the time I arrive, I can get this in perspective.”
“Are you all right, Eric? You don’t sound like yourself. Shall I get you laughing?”
“I think I finally am myself, and I don’t think I can laugh; not today.”
“I know how you hate lobbyists and I know you hated Lawyer Row in D.C., all of those scum bags vying for lucrative Homeland Security contracts for their cronies.”
“So?”
“Let me ask you this: What do you get when you cross a Lawyer with a pig?”
“Tiffany . . . “
”Try, Eric. Relax!”
“You know I have no idea.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. There are some things pigs just won’t do!”
I did laugh. “Okay, I get the point.”
“Don’t dwell on the negative, Eric. Soon, you’ll realize this country has just been blessed with an Independent president who could never have won a popular election, and we’ve been delivered from the Thing. All in one day!”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what Hassan said when he saw the mushroom cloud one second before he was vaporized. Bethesda adjoins D.C. It was destroyed along with it. This wasn’t a briefcase weapon! That was part of Homeland Security’s propaganda to keep the public in places like New York from recognizing the apocalypse they could become involved in. They slipped in the real thing. Homeland Security was about corruption and setting up a police state, something like Switzerland, maybe. They were so inept they couldn’t even prevent a full-fledged, nuclear bomb from being slipped into the Capitol! D.C. and Baltimore and everything else in the area. Gone . . . gone forever! I can’t fathom it!”
“Hassan did say he lived in Bethesda. Poor man.“
”Millions died or will die today. We just didn’t know but a few of them. I’ll talk to you when I'm on the road. If the system goes down, I'll see you when I get there.”
“Please don’t stew . . . Think of positive things. You need me, I can tell and I desperately need you. That’s what life’s about. It isn’t about national monuments or even corrupt politicians.”
“I’ll try, Tiffany.”
I tried unsuccessfully to reach my partners until late in the evening. Not one of them phoned me. That seemed very mysterious. I began to wonder if somehow we really were responsible for this. Carl had stayed an extra week in Yemen with Beyrouti and Fahad after everyone had left. I wondered if . . .
The remarkable nature of the events that followed proved that America was wounded, but not overwhelmed, by the Capitol strike. As I write now, the economy is lunging ahead, the very opposite of what some hoped. Tiffany proved correct, and is the greatest wife any man ever had. The kudos for our miraculous recovery go to one man and one man only: President McKay.
This aside, a reexamination of my motives for forming the Muskets plagued my thoughts throughout the Dog Days. After it mysteriously appeared on the web that NewJoe@blogspot.com was actually the founder of the Muskets, I received email from hundreds of Musket members. The prevailing opinion running through the comments like a golden thread in hindsight was that the terrorists had actually befriended us. Not one had considered the possibility that the organization to which they belonged and had helped build up might have been responsivle. It astonished me how many people thought like Tiffany. For my part, I was just happy that NewJoe’s account had been innocuously set up from Calgary, Alberta so the Feds couldn’t trace it to me. I couldn’t be identified if the Feds got interested. It still made me paranoid. Only Carl knew who NewJoe was, and Tiffany of course, and he swore he would never divulge it, not even to Kicks Iron or Christof.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Simmons

“He’s remained continuously unconscious since they brought him in.” said the nurse. “His wife, Kaye, has been with him constantly. She sleeps in the room. I see her leave only to visit the cafeteria.”
“I must speak with her,” Agent Tibbits replied, “to ask her a few questions. We’re at a loss for leads and it’s possible she may know something that would be helpful.”
“She’s with him now. Room 143R.”
Tibbits wanted desperately to debrief Colonel Simmons when and if he regained consciousness. As far as anyone knew, Simmons was the only living person who might be able to provide extensive information pertaining to the actual series of events leading up to 4/23 and the historic nuclear obliteration of the national Capitol on 7/29 that had to have been connected. The two had been too closely spaced for it to have been otherwise. The media, national and international, now referred to 9/11, 4/23, and 7/29 as the Triad of Terror.
The only thing certain was that Simmons had Afghans with him, and he had actually facilitated their entry onto Fort Benning. But America had occupied Afghanistan since the first operations to destroy Al Qaeda following 9/11 back when Bush was president. The United States couldn’t attack an unidentified target hidden somewhere within a country it occupied, even if it was an ally if in name only, and yet who’s involvement couldn’t be denied. The Joker in the deck was that the plutonium radiation signature was definitely that of Israel, America’s most prozaic and faithful ally. This fact had been kept from the public and the international community officially, yet every country in the region, all European nations, and just about everyone else knew. It had gotten out, been deliberately leaked by the same someone or someones in Israel who had provided the nuclear material to whoever was responsible for the attack. Americans were demanding a response, but against who? Clearly, something horrible was amiss and the country was desperate for answers. Afghanistan, whose president had publicly proclaimed it had to have been stolen and smuggled from Israel, perhaps with the collaboration of disenchanted Israeli scientists, was outraged that Afghanistan had been accused of complicity in 7/29. Members of Al Queda hiding in the mountain crannies and caves seemed incapable of such an attack. Too much complex preparation had been involved and it had been a two megaton bomb, far too complex for al Queda to have engineered.
The new administration had been checkmated from the day McKay was sworn in. There was no one to attack, the ultimate humiliation for the most powerful nation militarily on earth. Tibbits knew that as Simmons had taught others intelligence techniques, he would have noted everything significant surrounding his near-death experience if he recovered consciousness.
After first chatting with the MP’s and Marine guards stationed outside the door of 143R, he stepped inside Simmons’ room. Under president McKay’s direct orders, the Army was taking no chance of someone eliminating the Colonel. He was the only present hope for discovering who was behind the horrific events of the last few months. The hospital had the look of a military facility. He found Kaye reading to her husband.
“Do you think he hears?” he asked, extending his hand, “I’m agent Tibbits with the FBI.” He presented his credentials.
“I’m certain of it,” she said, letting him take hers in a half-shake. “I’m Kaye Simmons.”
“Has he shown signs of regaining consciousness?“
“I think he wants to. He’s uttered unintelligible things a few times during his stay. Once, I was certain he was coming out of it. He muttered a few words, including ‘Chief,’ or something like that. It was confused and he dropped back into unconsciousness.”
“Sounds like Cowboys and Indians.” Tibbits smiled.
“I think the Cowboys were losing! At least he’s dreaming, so his mind is active, and he hasn’t lost the ability to speak.”
“The doctors say he’s remained stable and has shown considerable improvement.”
“I’m just thankful he’s alive, but I so miss talking with him.”
“I need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Simmons, if you don’t mind,” he said, taking a seat in one of the two sitting chairs beside Simmons’ bed.
“I don’t know how helpful I can be, but go ahead, Agent.”
Tibbits removed a small notebook from his inside coat pocket, exposing the holstered weapon beneath.
“I guess you’ve tried to remember if he said anything during the period prior to his kidnapping that might have given an indication he anticipated the possibility or if he acted as though something might be wrong?”
“Exhaustively, but he didn’t! That’s what eats at me every day, Agent. Nothing unusual happened; he mentioned nothing; he suggested no unusual precautions. Had he suspected trouble, he’d have warned me. I know it. He’s always been so protective. I don’t think he was worried about anything in particular that day. He enjoys his work and we enjoy our life together. They surprised him, or they couldn’t have overpowered him. He’s a strong man, and he wouldn’t submit to kidnapping unless they had a weapon pointed at him. It amazes me, these dreadful things happening all at once right here in the United States. One of his friends, a Master Sargent Mabrey, stopped by with downright spooking information. He says not one shred of information pertaining to the attacks has been found, but reports are coming in from all over the world that the nuclear signature was from Israeli reactors. Is that true, because if so, it’s just terrible. I hope they find the monsters that did it, the specific individuals. I’d like to see them shot!”
“We all would; that’s why I’m here, but until he regains consciousness, there isn’t much for any of us to work with. We’ve examined the clothing he wore when he was pulled from the water and of course, the explosive belt. His wallet was soaked and contained nothing that might provide a clue. His pockets contained change and his lighter. Cigarettes were in his shirt pocket. There was nothing else.”
“I watched him drive away. They seized him somewhere between the house and the base.” Tibbits rose to leave.
“Just one more question: Did he ever mention anyone with the last name, ‘Bethurem?’”
“No, not to my recollection.”
“How about ‘Williams?’”
“That’s a common name, but no.”
“Just one more: How about, ‘Blevins?’”
“That one doesn’t ring any bells either. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more helpful. Wait, isn't Blevins that professor that was caught destroying Laser Net arrays that they put in prison.”
“Yes, but he has two sons.”
“I see where you're heading. But, no, he didn't.”
“Do me a favor: Here’s my card. I know you’re praying he’ll awaken. If he should, please call immediately. It’s vitally important. The president wants to know if he does.”
“I will. He’ll be anxious to reveal what he knows if he can just find his way back to consciousness. Various other military personnel have been by; many of our civilian friends have visited. He’s received so many cards and letters. I’ve read them all to him several times. Everyone has been so caring, so wonderful.”
THE INDEPENDENT

“In time of war, the law falls silent.”
- Cicero

The stroke occurred at midnight, following a high blood pressure attack with readings as high as 215/144, requiring a week of hospitalization to stabilize him. The medications worked, but Congressman Wilson McKay of North Dakota hated the dry mouth they gave him. He walked around sipping something wet constantly these days.
“You can’t function without rest, Congressman.” The doctors told him. “You can’t survive on three or four hours of sleep night after night, week after week. It will kill you. This stroke was a warning.”
“Alas,” he responded, “there aren’t enough hours in the day stealing from the night.”
“He can’t sleep,” the congressman’s wife insisted. “He drops off, but within an hour or two, he’s awake again. If he wakes up near 4:00 am or after, there’s no going back to sleep for Wilson. He can’t!”
“We’ve put together a sleep regimen that will work,” they assured her, following one of their huddles. “He’ll sleep if you follow it.”
“I’m ready to try anything. Antihistamine sometimes helps, sometimes doesn’t. But it’s not a long-term solution.”
The miracle-worker turned out to be Ambien.
“Have him take one half an hour before retiring and another just prior.” They told her. “If he wants to last his term, he must get his rest.”
Ambien, they discovered, was a dreadfully mischievous friend. He normally read after retiring until he fell asleep. Taking Ambien, she’d find him face-down, glasses on, with his nose pressed flat against the open book. It was so effective, he’d awaken on the toilet, having just fallen to the side and smacked his head against the wall. The most embarrassing incident was when Clara found him pissing against the hall wall at 3:30 am, thinking he was in the bathroom, with no recollection of how or why he’d gone out in the hall in the first place! At her less than abstemious insistence, the doctors reduced the dosage by half. For the civil engineer elected congressman, the experiences reinforced an already forcible sense of humility.
As his strength improved, McKay felt ready to take on the world again. He expected to be busy during his career, working for repeal of NADNARA and promoting his dream of an Interstate Aqueduct System. He had first advocated it as the subject of his Master’s Thesis in Civil Engineering. As an exercise in engineering theory, he found it well-received. Over the following years, in his spare time he added flesh to what began as a skeletal idea. To generate interest, he wrote articles for industry publications, spoke to industry and citizen groups, discussed it over drinks with dozens of other congressmen and met with key government figures whose influence would be helpful. As a Master’s thesis topic, an Interstate Aqueduct Authority (IAA) was visionary. The enormous undertaking for the real thing to happen was something else entirely. Rather than excited interest, those holding the government purse strings considered an IAA if not technically implausible, at least financially so. He knew half the problem was that Bipartisans resented Independents, but he remained undaunted. He just hadn’t anticipated his body letting him down. The doctors assured him he could enjoy good health if he took reasonable care of himself.
Mrs. McKay didn’t relish the loss of her husband while yet in his fifties. She pressed him to withdraw from politics, to retire early.
“We don’t need the money, Wilson, and I know that’s not why you became a congressman, but we need our health. The house is paid off, we’ve got enough in treasuries to last us, and we’ve done well in the market. Consider how nice it would be to travel, to enjoy ourselves, be carefree for a few years. You haven’t stopped to smell the roses. Your body is telling you I’m right!”
“I can’t do that, Clara.” He responded, “Yes, we have done well. My experience though has permitted me to view the nation from a higher mountain. When success and privilege come upon a man, he owes something back. I can make a difference, not only in working for the repeal of NADNARA from a position of strength, rather than weakness, but also in resolving two of the most serious problems our nation faces: Flooding in the east and drought in the west. Eisenhower had the vision to foresee an Interstate Highway system. An Interstate Aqueduct system can impact our nation just as dramatically, improve the use and conservation of our nation’s water resources, save lives, and it could provide a half-million jobs during the two decades required to complete the bulk of the system. If I could leave such a legacy, I would feel I had done my part.”
McKay wasn’t swept into office because he advocated an IAA. Rather, like so many others that election year, it was because he was an Independent vocal against NADNARA. Nevertheless, he hoped his influence in the House would facilitate realization of his dream. “If you push yourself that hard, you could die, Wilson. The doctors said as much. You can’t leave a noble legacy from the grave. I think it’s too great a reach in your physical condition. The Bipartisans have already made it clear they won’t support your drive for an IAA. They think it’s for the birds. Perhaps you should concentrate on the repeal of NADNARA, and plan on retiring when your term is up. I want to enjoy our last years together, not have to worry every day if you’ll be alive the next. We haven’t had a vacation in three years.”
At length, he promised Clara adventurous weekends at least monthly to abate her complaints of loneliness and agreed to take better care of himself.
“You know I’ll support you no matter what you decide, Wilson. I always have. I’m proud of you and I want you to be happy, I just don’t want to lose you. Seeing you laid out like that alarmed me. I couldn’t stand it.”
“If my health hasn’t improved by then, I’ll retire at the end of my term.” he promised with a sanguine attitude.
As Air Force One circled for the landing in Las Vegas, McKay sat in deep reflection, remembering his promises to Clara, and reeling from an unnerving reality: He was the president of the United States. What an incredible trek for the McKay name, and how far it had come!
The McKays had arrived in America from England in 1798 aboard a ship bound for Boston harbor. The night land was sighted, a violent storm drove her upon the rocks. The family patriarch, Doctor Wilson McKay, urged his sons John and Wilson to swim ashore. Enfeebled, he had remained aboard and gone down with the ship.
Wilson and John prospered in Massachusetts, but took different routes. Both continued the family tradition, becoming doctors. John’s family was among the first settlers in Wayne County, Ohio after General “Mad” Anthony Wayne drove the Indians out. Wilson moved into the Dakota Territory following expulsion of the Sioux, and his descendants had helped build the states of North and South Dakota.
As his ancestor’s namesake, Wilson felt an obligation to add to the family’s legacy of leaving a better world than they had found.
It had happened so quickly: The knock on the door of their hotel room in San Francisco before dawn, a contingent of Marines and agents of the Secret Service barging into the room and taking up positions in the hall outside, alarming both Wilson and Clara. Then, Federal Judge, Arthur Framingham explaining through a stupor of incredulity the purpose of the intrusion: that he was present to swear him in as President of the United States. Then, the swiftness with which they and their belongings were taken from the hotel by military escort to the airport where they boarded an Army-green C-130, and were told it was Air Force One while he was aboard. The disorienting, dreamlike, swearing-in ceremony conducted during the flight, after which he was handed the text of a message to be read verbatim for all of America to hear. He was informed afterward that it had aired live on the Emergency Broadcast Network. It was an emotional typhoon no man could have relished.
Now, less than an hour later, they were looking down on Las Vegas, America’s wonderland.
Wilson wondered what awaited them. He knew for certain only that he felt completely overwhelmed by his ignorance of how the Federal apparatus truly worked at the nuts and bolts level. He was convinced he was beneath the tasks.
“How did I get here?” He asked the new First Lady, the former Clara Benson. “How did we get here?”
“I’m in shock, Wilson. I can’t even think straight. All morning, I’ve felt as though I was falling from a great height without a parachute.”
They marveled as Air Force One lined up with the runway. The Constitution had elevated McKay from a compromise choice for House Majority Leader to President of the United States. He had been dazed as much as flattered when his colleagues propelled him to Speaker of the House. Although it increased his influence, it had seemed an incredible responsibility and given him considerable pause. The Bipartisans controlled the Senate and were still a force to be reckoned with in the House. Progress would be difficult. It would be impossible without tri-partisan politics, and he hated politics. This morning, as his campaign tour was interrupted by news he was to be sworn in as president according to provisions of the Constitution, had been the most surreal of his life.
Nor could the condition of the nation have been less opportune even for a more seasoned politician. The unutterable apocalypse of the destruction of Washington, D.C. and Baltimore by a two-megaton, nuclear explosion, appalling human suffering and alarm, regional anarchy and horror were rampaging on the networks, suspended only by news of his having been sworn in and his remarks to the nation. The Potomac was polluted by nuclear rubble, carrying it into the Chesapeake Bay increasingly by the hour, along with innumerable bodies of the dead. Towns and cities downstream were in chaos. A radioactive cloud was spreading fallout to the northeast. Thousands of dead bodies floated down river as they were thrown in by the locals. Some had jumped in of their own accord and drowned. McKay was told that even a hundred miles distant, residents were fleeing. The surviving populations in a huge circle with a radius of 100 miles were either in flight or attempting to flee. Traffic was already so congested across several states and into Canada that the nightmare scenario was in full effect. In a single instant of historic irony, the explosion vaporized the Federal stratum of the American republic. The imposing infrastructure of the nation’s Capitol was gone. Millions had perished or would soon perish in horrible agony. The soil and water were saturated with radiation, rendering the area uninhabitable for the foreseeable future. The environmental damage was incalculable.
The first events of his presidency would not be in a secret, sequestered location, but in the city below. Judge Framingham informed him that by midday, the twenty-three surviving members of the House and eleven surviving members of the Senate, a paltry residue of only thirty-four men and women, would be in attendance. As he scanned the list, he noted that twelve of them were Independents, including his close friends, Samuel Wolfson, the senator from Illinois, and Senator Andrews from New Mexico. Wolfson had been a moderate Democrat, but had embarrassed his Democratic colleagues by switching to the Independent party a month prior to the last election.
“Mr. President.”
It was Framingham, the Federal judge contacted by Secret Service agents shortly after 8:00 am. The nuclear strike had occurred at 7:00 am Eastern Standard Time and the Chief judge and other nine justices of the Supreme Court had all been killed.
“Sorry, Judge. I was preoccupied.”
“May I sit?”
“Of course. It was rude of me not to offer. Who else will be present at this meeting? It will help me address the urgent issues we’re confronting if I know with whom I’ll be speaking.”
“Two of my colleagues, also Federal judges, will be present. I chose them because you’ll need a Three-judge panel for reasons I’ll explain momentarily. The Joint Chiefs were elsewhere and survived. They’ll be present as will other high-ranking members of the Armed Forces and Coast Guard. Additional Secret Service personnel have been notified. Delegations from most Federal agencies, and all State governors were alerted only minutes after you were sworn in. Their presence has been requested. There will be others, but those are the central groups I’m told the Secret Service is attempting to gather as quickly as possible.”
“An intimidating audience.”
“Somewhat helter-skelter, but everything is knee-jerk at the moment. Mr. President, may I speak freely?”
“Please do, I need advice.”
“Initially, everyone knows their efforts as well as yours will be devoted to relief within the affected area of the blast. After that’s underway, you’ve been involved in politics long enough to understand that each of those present will be intent upon swaying your actions according to their particular interests.”
“I can handle that. What concerns me is that many of them may question my authority to act in more than caretaker fashion becoming president under these circumstances.”
“They may make insinuations to that effect, even attempt to imply as much . . . ”
“Is there any truth to it?”
“Any assertions of that sort are groundless. You’re the president as much as any elected man ever was. Constitutional provisions clearly establish the chain of command. In the event both the President and Vice-President are lost, the Speaker of the House is next in line. It’s no different than the Vice-Presidents we’ve sworn when Presidents have been assassinated. What transpired this morning was a massive assassination. The terrorists chose a moment when almost everyone was in Washington or the general area.”
“A Bipartisan struggle unlike anything we’ve ever seen is about to get underway, don’t you think?”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if the lot of them preferred to send you upriver, or down. You are the President. Remember that! There’s something else you should know. I was called this morning because Secret Service agent, Hayes is a personal friend. We talk often. You don’t know this, but we both share your political views and find the economic programs you’ve discussed publicly intriguing.”
“They led to my being labeled an Iconoclast.”
“Not everyone thinks so, nor that you’ll likely be another Hoover. The economy will collapse after this morning. Aggressive measures will be required to maintain national stability and deal with the terrible effects of the blast. So much has been lost. It must be obvious to all that things will get much worse. You can consider me and the two other judges on the panel I’ve formed friendly. I tell you this because without a sitting congress, it will be necessary for you to rely upon Executive orders more than any president in history. Some of your forebears have been assertive, so there is ample precedent. Given the circumstances, there’s no other way to run the country. There’s much to be done, a formidable agenda. There are two eventualities which can tie your hands which my panel will prevent: Rulings by a federal judge that a given executive order is unconstitutional, or your making the mistake of treating the Governor’s Assembly arriving today as a de facto congress. I caution you against the latter. First, it’s unnecessary, and secondly, it would be ill-advised to restrict your ability to act quickly.”
“I’ll need their cooperation.”
“You do of course, but I suggest you not surrender your executive authority, and that you take steps to decentralize the potential opposition that could spread among a large group.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Today; the group assembling today. I suggest that as they arrive, they be directed to separate meeting rooms by group.”
“The governors need to be together in one body to act effectively and efficiently.”
“I don’t mean break up the Governor’s assembly, Mr. President, and to some extent it may prove practical to acquiesce on a variety of issues . . . as long as you remain in control. While you spoke with the First Lady earlier, Hayes has arranged for several floors at the top of the MGM Grand which will serve temporarily as a Federal Complex. This is being done according to plans previously established by Homeland Security. Similarly, numerous meeting rooms are being designated for use by subgroups.”
“Subgroups according to what criterion or criteria?”
“This has been planned out previously. There are matters each group must confront just as the federal agencies they represent, whether or not they were largely destroyed. As this location will serve as the heart of the Federal government temporarily, more will be accomplished and input be more succinct if everyone is put to work. The power centers will be separated: All Federal employees will be grouped by floor as the Executive, Legislative, and Judicial. State governors were foreseen as a potential Legislative assembly, but at your discretion. All those with judicial responsibilities will operate under the authority of the Three-judge panel within the Judicial group. The Armed Forces have their own floor once the present guests can be relocated to reestablish centralized control under you as Commander in Chief.
“So the issue of a new–and more secure–national Capitol location was never envisioned?”
“In hindsight, it seems foolhardy, even arrogant, but no, it was set aside. The many vital issues affecting that choice would have been difficult to predict. Actually, this approach eases the temporary challenges of government. They are addressed. Federal agencies will continue to function from the Federal Buildings, directed and supported from this new central point. All eyes will be focused upon you. They need to see strength, confidence, assertiveness.”
“I wish there was more time to prepare. I have no agenda for anything such as this.”
“Yes, you do, Mr. President. The agenda is apparent. You must deal with the appalling regional crisis, you must establish confidence, maintain a sense of stability, and restore order. Rioting will spread across the entire country if it isn’t stopped, first in the powder-keg areas, later becoming general. Those dependent upon Social Security and government benefits must be assured that their livelihood has not been cut off by the nuclear strike. Checks will continue to go out from locations that have been responsible for that process for years uninterrupted. You’ll need to assure them they won’t be left without a means of support. The economy will be impacted in unknown ways by this crisis.”
“And that’s just for starters. At the top of the list are the insurmountable problems stemming from the nuclear blast itself: Health and environmental issues in the near term. The loss of critical and symbolic infrastructure will generate myriad psychological and technical problems. As an Engineer, I know. The Electromagnetic Pulse knocked out everything in the northeast. With no services, no water, no power, no law enforcement, death everywhere, tens of thousands blinded because they looked at the blast, fear and terror will spawn a breakdown of society.”
“It’s already underway, Mr. President. Reports are going directly to the Joint Chiefs. They’re aboard a special aircraft en route to here. They were scattered and had to be gathered first. Hayes is getting reports for your review on the hour. Before I came to speak to you, they related that violence is spreading into the Midwest. Ten states are under Marshall Law as of an hour ago. The banking sector it seems could be in danger without immediate actions only you can take. It was ordered closed for the day.”
“There’s so much to address.”
“You understand my point that the country must be run by Executive order, Mr. President. I felt if I could impress that single point upon you, it would be the most valuable thing I could do. Let me state it again very directly. You must hit the ground running with executive orders; not one weekly, not one daily, but several hourly. There is no time for any other approach. Millions are dying as we speak and everyone in the largest cities wonders if theirs might be next. There is a human demographic tidal wave in the making fleeing the Northeast. It must be dealt with.”
McKay was in a stupor as Framingham continued to emphasize the issues. He knew he had to find the strength necessary to confront the situation the nation faced. As incomprehensible as it seemed, no one knew if there would only be one blast. They knew it wasn’t a missile, but had been trucked in, somehow gotten past border security, and no one except the terrorists responsible knew if there was more than one. The entire northeast was in panic, without communications, in the midst of hell itself.
“The only way to address the human situation is to involve the armed forces.” McKay said. “They can draw from their normal resource bases and move troops and supplies into the affected areas as quickly as possible. There’s just so much to do!”
“Whatever personal doubts you may have, put them aside. Surround yourself with those you trust and start governing. Start now! The reins of power are in your hands.”
“You stop my breath, Framingham. This situation is thoroughly besetting and just the tip of the iceberg.”
Mr. President. I seriously doubt we have any idea how far-reaching this catastrophe will be. There aren’t any gurus or savants waiting to tell us. 9/11 practically decimated the national economy and it was tiny compared to 4/23. Loss of the Capitol, Baltimore, and so many other towns and jurisdictions have elevated every consideration to hysteria. But you must shut it out, not permit panic to pervade your thinking. Your timbre will define the national response.”
“Thank you, Judge. The script Hayes gave me to read . . . Did you compose it?”
“No. I wasn’t aware they’d planned a broadcast while airborne, but it was well-written and precisely what the country needed to hear. There are a lot of crazies out there today proclaiming that it’s the end of the world!”
“It was for a great many . . . the clause about the existence of remote Federal facilities? I never heard of them if there are.”
“Strictly speaking, Hayes told me it was based upon the fact the employees of most Federal agencies are distributed among the Federal Buildings throughout the country, the one’s closest to the people. In that sense, it’s true. Government checks have been printed remotely and mailed by zip code for years, so there should be no interruption. There can’t be, or we’ll quickly descend into a state of national paralysis and anarchy. Many other functions were distributed during the past decade or so. The men who can advise you where and how resources are distributed will be here soon. Hayes will escort you and the First Lady to the Presidential Suite in the Casino as soon as we arrive. He can advise you on a great many issues.“
”A casino!”
“It’s not as strange as it sounds. No one is better equipped or better staffed to handle every aspect of a large, diverse group than Las Vegas. Four hundred Passenger jets arrive daily on average. They can absorb, feed, and entertain any group of any size. It’s what they do, and LA was out of the question, because if there is more than one nuke, nothing would be more crippling than to hit LA on the opposite coast. They’ve tried before. As I explained, the Secret Service has commandeered the upper floors of the MGM Grand by previous arrangement. Your arrival is clandestine, though it will soon become public knowledge. They’ll be glad you’re here. Secret Service will control access to your time and person. It’s not a bad approach. This area is safe, far from the rioting and panic. In any case, it’s temporary until the most critical decisions are made and the decision can be made where to relocate the new Capitol for the long-term. Presently, that’s the least of our problems.”
“I appreciate you, Judge. Your insight has been valuable to me.”
“It’s Art to you, Mr. President.”
“Will do me one more favor?”
“Name it.” Framingham smiled.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d remain available. I’ll need constant legal input. I also think you can safely presume my nomination for Chief Judge of the new Supreme Court.”
“That wasn’t my objective, Mr. President.”
“I never suspected it was, Art, but you have my trust. And you may as well be thinking about eight others to recommend and get together files on them I can review. There will have to be ideological balance for the public to have confidence. Tri-partisan politics is the only way we’re going to be able to make this work, so the court should reflect that, but be men unwilling to shred the constitution or the Bill of Rights. We’ve already gone too far in that direction and probably need to abruptly halt the trend, if not roll it back. In fact, here’s my first Executive order: Shut down NADNARA and inform the public.”
“I’ll have it drawn up in minutes. See, you’re going to do fine.”
Simmons heard muffled sounds as he fought his way up to consciousness. He tried opening his eyes to discover the source, but his eyelids felt as though they’d been glued or sewn shut. It was music. Slowly he recognized the voice of Sarah Brightman, one of her songs from her CD with the tenors. His arms quaked as he raised them to rub his eyes. Using his fingers to pull the lids apart, he felt a sharp pain like prematurely tearing a crusty scab loose from the skin. Able to see, his surroundings were at first a dim blur. He tried to focus on the individual sitting beside the bed. Kaye!
He couldn’t speak without inhaling. A deep, extended breath generated a dull pain on the left side of his chest. Where was he? He started as he remembered his last thought and instinctively felt for the explosive belt around his waist. It was gone.
“Son-of-a-bitch, I made it! Ahmed and Caliph! I wonder if they did,” he exclaimed hoarsely.
“Horace! You’re awake!”
Her voice never sounded sweeter. He turned his head as she jumped from the chair, switched off the CD player, and cradled his head in her arms, kissing him as though there were no tomorrow. That had almost been the case. He felt as though he had returned from the dead.
“Give me water!” He croaked. “My throat . . . I can hardly speak.”
Kaye held her bottled water to his lips. He kept drinking until it was empty.
“I heard the music.” He said.
“Did you hear me reading to you, Dear? Do you remember?” She kissed him on the forehead.
“The last thing I remember is frantically swimming, kicking wildly to gain distance, choking, trying to keep underwater in case Skinhead and his cohorts drove down to the edge of the pond and started firing at us. Where’s the explosive belt . . . it didn’t blow.”
“They removed it from your waist after passing motorists pulled you from the water.”
“That was this morning, right?”
“Horrace . . . “ She broke into tears.
“Kaye, I’ve been in the thick of it with bursts dropping men around me on all sides; I’ve been in dozens of operations where we knew any one of us might not make it back. I thought I knew fear, but I’ve never confronted anything as intense as the mortal terror of an explosive belt around my waist after discovering that it was impossible to remove or disable it. I couldn’t maintain rational thought. The panic. We all felt it. How about my buddies, Ahmed and Caliph? Were they rescued as well? Are they here?”
Kaye thought it gratuitous that he referred to his kidnappers as “buddies,” but she reveled at the sound of her husband’s voice.
“They were killed when the car exploded. You survived with a concussion and three fractured ribs. You were saved, Horace. God intervened. You’re a good man and he blessed us.”
“It wasn’t God, Kaye. No one involved in Intelligence work for very long has seen much evidence of God in the world. You become acquainted with the Devil. If things work out in your favor, you’re just lucky.”
“You’re alive, Sweetheart. That’s proof of God to me . . . “
”It was a chance-medley. If that pond hadn’t been there; if it hadn’t crossed my mind that submerging the device might short it out; if I hadn’t been able to get the vehicle to the water in time. It wasn’t God. Ahmed and Caliph called upon God just before we hit the water, but it didn’t help them, did it?”
“We don’t always understand why things happen, Dear. God works in mysterious . . . “
”That’s a little too convenient for me. I wouldn’t give you ten cents for an arbitrary, impotent God. I never had much respect for egomaniacs or losers.” He coughed, trying to clear his throat. It hurt to speak.
“Don’t blaspheme, Horrace. I know you’re angry about what happened, but if you could see from the outside how fortunate you are, how you’ve beaten the odds and survived.”
“That’s what a chance-medley is, Kaye: An inconceivable roll of the dice, a stupefying intersection of unlikely odds. But if it makes you feel better to think there’s an all-powerful, loving, merciful parent out there, go ahead.”
“The last months have been the loneliest of my life, wondering if you’d ever wake up again. If I hadn’t had God to call upon, I couldn’t have made it. I prayed, and my prayers have been answered. You’re back!”
Horace’s head was spinning, his thoughts raging in a wild torrent. A concussion? The last months?
“How long have I been unconscious, Kaye?”
“Since April twenty-third.”
“Well I guess I quit smoking!”
“Yes, you have.” Kaye smiled at the levity.
“I feel nauseated, limp as a noodle.”
“Your body has been wasting away, Dear. When they brought you here, the doctors said it would be eight weeks before your ribs healed sufficiently to move around.”
“They should healed by now, then.”
“They also said that the longer you remained in a coma, the more your body would waste away. You still look good, but you’re much trimmer than before.”
“My head hurts. I feel like shit! The car exploded. One or both of their belts didn’t get underwater before Skinhead detonated them.”
“Who’s Skinhead?”
“I intend to find out and I intend to kill him, and the other two on his crew! Potts!
Kaye left to notify the staff and an MP stepped into the room.
“Potts . . . the Milk Truck! Sargent!”
“Sir?”
“What happened on base, to Potts?”
“Potts, Sir?”
“Was there an explosion on the base in Ft. Benning, Georgia? Christ!” He fell back after a jabbing pain shot through his chest.
“A Dirty Bomb spoiled Fort Benning, Sir. We lost the base, and some adjacent areas on 4/23. Much worse than 9/11.”
“Damn them!” Simmons cried out.
A Major entered, his chief medical officer.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s angry about what happened at Fort Benning, Sir.” the Sargent replied.”
“That’s natural. Colonel, how do you feel this morning?”
“Angry.”
“Aren’t we all? How do you feel physically?”
“Like shit, weak. I got a jabbing pain when I tried to sit up.”
“That will pass–Nurse, raise the bed so he’s upright. Colonel, you’ve been imprisoned in your head for some time.”
The nurse raised the bed to near a sitting position.
“Does that position cause pain?” The Major asked.
“No.”
“Muscle tissue wastes if unexercised. The cramps will disappear with physical therapy. You’ll be walking around before you know it, but do me a favor: Not today, okay?”
“I have to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
After poking around and manipulating his limbs, the Major left. Simmons was glad to be alone with Kaye again.
“Kaye. What’s the perception of the base bombing? I need to know.”
“They know you were kidnapped, your kidnappers made some mistake and the car left the road and exploded. They were both killed.”
“They weren’t the kidnappers. They were kidnapped like me!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Go on. What else do they think they know?”
“Shortly afterward, they announced that they were Afghans who entered the base with you. The explosion occurred shortly after you left. Thousands were killed on Ft. Benning and downwind. Many more died afterward, most of plutonium poisoning. It’s extremely toxic.”
“Do they know about the Milk Truck, about the driver, named Potts”
The Sentry reported that you entered with the two Afghans shortly before the explosion and left the base again almost immediately. They didn’t say anything about a Milk Truck.”
“They put the Dirty bomb inside a Milk Truck, then forced the driver, a man named . . . Washington, I think, went by the nickname, Potts. They forced him to drive onto the base behind me. The bomb was in the Milk Truck.”
“I don’t think they know that. They assumed the Afghans were connected to Al Qaeda and that the Dirty Bomb was a prelude to the nuclear bomb that destroyed Washington July 29th. They think al Qaeda was responsible for both.”
“Nuclear bomb! Washington was destroyed by a nuclear weapon? That’s what you’re telling me?”
“I’m sorry I have to be the one, Horrace. It’s the worst thing that ever happened in America. A two-megaton bomb was set off by terrorists. The entire population of Baltimore and Washington, D.C. was destroyed. Millions of people died instantly and at least another million died within a few days to a few weeks after, some from radiation burns and some from the fallout. The president ordered 50,000 troops to Afghanistan and the Air Force has been bombing al Qaeda camps there and in Pakistan.”
“When did you say this was?”
“July 29th.”
“What’s the date today?”
“September twentieth. In the Northeast, there’s still rioting and the bloodshed, some say a race war is going on. The violence has spread as far west as Detroit. The military has been trying to contain and abate it. The population is still in a huge migration. It started the same day as the blast. They feared nuclear attacks on other northeastern cities and tried to flee. Almost immediately, everything bogged down. The roads were hopelessly jammed. There’s still no fuel in the area. All the fighting and murder, people with disease from weeks without garbage being collected, dead bodies everywhere, children and people blinded by the blast wandering around, starving. I’ve been about to lose my mind with all of this going on.”
She laid her head on his chest. Simmons was stunned, his thoughts shrouded in a fog of unbelief. The dark circles surrounding Kaye’s deep-set eyes bore witness of great personal suffering.
“You poor thing,” he said. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to endure this alone. Not any longer, though . . . Not any longer.”
Kaye’s summary of events contained terrible misconceptions that gnawed at him. Afghanistan and Al Qaeda under siege again? A dismaying prospect loomed, of the biggest political ruse in modern history. He knew the ruin of Ft. Benning wasn’t al Qaeda, not directly. The nuclear obliteration of Washington, D.C., maybe, probably. But were the two connected? So close in time, the conclusion seemed inescapable. But if so, it could only mean that the scheme was much larger than Skinhead’s crew. They had craftily made a Straw Man and shifted blame for the Dirty Bomb to Afghanistan, a foreign scapegoat. His kidnapping was part and parcel of setting up the Straw Man. He knew they were domestic, maybe part of a domestic militia.
But the Capitol was a different story! The nuclear device came from without the country.
If he revealed to Kaye–or to anyone else–that the base bombing was the work of Americans, the consequences might not bode well for the country internationally. They could be unpredictable. He could only reveal the ruse to someone next to the president or to the president himself.
The President!
“Kaye, was the president in Washington when it was nuked?”
“He and the Vice-President, most of both houses of the Congress, the Supreme Court, Homeland Security, and so many other agencies and Federal activities were destroyed. There’s not much left, Horrace.”
“Unthinkable! Who’s in charge. Who’s running the country?”
“President McKay.”
“Wilson McKay, House Majority leader?”
Simmons reflected. Yes, that was right. If the President and Vice-President are both killed, the House Majority Leader is next in line for the presidency.
“McKay was in California, campaigning for Independent candidates. He was sworn in the morning of the explosion.”
“What time was the explosion?”
“Seven in the morning, after everyone in Washington was either at work or on their way. They meant to get them all. They waited until the Capitol was packed; maximum loss of life. Maximum damage from the electromagnetic pulse.
“They just blew them all into atoms, blew them into space! So, it’s President McKay, now?”
“Yes.” She began to cry. He suspected she had cried a lot during the past five months.
He had to think. It was too much to absorb, too unnerving all at once. Skinhead and whoever sponsored them had manipulated the United States government into believing Afghans were responsible. They were the tail wagging the dog. The ease with which they accomplished their mission was appalling. What was their cause?
“Several from Military Intelligence have been by, and agent Tibbits with the FBI. They asked me to call them if you regained consciousness.”
“Who took credit for the Base Bombing?”
“One of the Atlanta newspapers printed an anonymous letter they received. The letter said it was a reprisal for the Trail of Tears.”
“Trail of Tears?”
“Back when President Jackson ignored the Supreme Court ruling and dispossessed the Cherokee Tribe from their homes in Georgia. It said White men took their property and most of their belongings before and after the Army made them march out west. About a fourth of the people died along the trail . . . of Tears.”
“Yeah, I know about the Trail of Tears. It was a tough deal, but that was so long ago. Hell, why blow up Fort Benning today for that? Did they take credit for nuking the Capitol too?”
“No. The Cherokee nation issued a disclaimer the next day, saying it had no knowledge of the bombing, and wasn’t responsible. No one believed they had anything to do with the Cherokee. They said the Afghans probably sent the letter to draw attention away from al Qaeda. No one has come forward and taken credit for the Capitol.”
She laid her head back upon his arm, weeping softly. He felt her tears moving across his skin. She was a wonderful companion, still young and tight-skinned at forty-eight. But her eyes were full of sorrow.
He was troubled. As he thought about the Chief, he felt it likely that the letter about a Cherokee reprisal was, in fact, true. That was the whole idea, wasn’t it? Send the letter, knowing that the two Afghans having been seen, no one would believe it! Clever.
“You received so many cards, Horrace, from friends and others.” She sat up, wiping her eyes. “I made a list of everyone who sent them. I’ll read the names to you. You should try to rest. Get your mind off all this, relax as I read.”
He listened as she read names from the list. He wondered how many times she had read that list while he was in a coma, hoping he could hear.
“Kaye. On the subject of cards, Potts . . . “
”The Dairy driver?”
“Yes. Get hold of the dairy–Farmer’s Dairy near the base in Georgia–and ask the address and phone of “Potts” wife. Her name was . . . May or Mae Washington. Oh, I remember. Potts first name was Charles, or Charlie. Then send her our condolences. Tell her, I’ll speak to her and tell her more later, but wanted her to know that Potts was thinking of her when he died. He was concerned about her welfare.”
“I will. That’s so sweet, Horrace.”
She went back to reading the list of names.
“Here’s a card, very nice, but very strange, from someone I couldn’t place.”
“Strange?”
“There were two pictures of me inside, both taken after 4/23.”
“Who’s it from?”
“It’s just signed, Your Indian Friend.”
The Chief!
Simmons tried not to show his shock. The crew knew that he alone could expose their plan for what it actually was. He was the only eye witness, the only one who could identify them. They had killed everyone else.
“I’m not sure who that is.” he said, struggling to sound casual. “Let me see it.”
After rummaging through the drawer of the bedside table and locating it, Kaye didn’t notice how pale he had grown.
“I don’t understand where whoever it is got these pictures of me.”
“Do me a favor and call the FBI agent, Kaye. What was his name?”
“Agent Tibbits, a fine man.”
Call and tell him I’m awake, that I’d like to chat with him today or tomorrow.
“You’re panting, Horace. You need to rest.”
“Sweet Kaye,” he thought, his love for her tilting against the windmills of chaos and fear buffeting his mind. “I can’t tell her how confused the situation really is, or that both our lives are in danger as soon as it becomes known I came out of the coma.”
The nurse returned, giving him an injection and removing the IV from his hand.
“He’ll have to drink sufficient fluids. Be certain you follow the dietician’s instructions when she comes by later.” She told Kaye.
“The injection should help you relax, Colonel. Your heartbeat is too rapid.”
“Thank you, Nurse,” Kaye said as she left.
“Here’s the card from your friend. Why don’t you read it while I run to the Powder room and call Agent Tibbits for you?”
He opened it. A nice card, mushy. A small envelope had been tucked inside. Two photographs of Kaye, both taken since 4/23. One had been taken as she entered a supermarket, the other as she sat in the den in their home after dark. Clearly, it had been taken through the window. There were no written comments. There didn’t need to be. The message was unmistakable. They could have shot her with a gun instead of a camera. He could hear Skinhead’s voice inside his head:
“If you wake up, keep your mouth shut. Tell anyone and Kaye dies!”
He slipped the photos back into the envelope. He wanted to reflect upon this new dilemma, but the narcotic in the injection was taking effect. His mind fled into nothingness. When Kaye returned, she held his hand and slept with him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dilemma

It wasn’t fair. Normally, a new president was occupied primarily with the composition of his cabinet. If that had been his greatest concern, McKay would have been making lists. But Art had made it clear he would have to direct the day-to-day operation of government by executive order and slowly put together the cabinet as time and circumstance permitted.
As he and the First Lady were hustled through the back entrance of the MGM Grand casino by Hayes and his men, the sound of slot machines and the hustle-bustle of the gaming enterprise continued uninterrupted. Here at least, people were going on with their lives almost as if nothing had happened. Had the news not reached them since this morning? The elevator indicator lights blinked each passing floor in turn. Slowly, a deep calm descended upon him. He was glad they were here, out west, far from the death and terror. He was the president. He did hold the reins of power, and it would be some time before another congress could be elected. Absent a legislative branch, his Executive Orders would we the power running the country. There would be opposition to some of them, perhaps many of them. But even political and ideological rivals would be glad someone was at the helm. The nation faced an indefinable crisis of unknown depth. Much would be required of everyone and it was time to come to grips with the looming challenges.
“Mr. President, there are a number of individuals waiting to see you who arrived before us,” Hayes said. “How do you want to utilize your time? It’s a mess.”
“Give us half an hour to settle in, Hayes. Construct a list of those present. Update it on the half-hour and I’d like you, personally, to remain outside the suite to control who comes and goes.”
“We’ll have a contingent doing just that. I’ll move my things to a desk in the hall and we’ll establish a waiting area outside your suite.”
McKay was astonished by the number of Marines lining the halls like a British Castle Guard as they stepped off the elevator.
“It’s beginning.” He thought, “How strange that the heart of American government is lodged in such a place as this!”
After entering, their baggage was placed inside and Hayes closed the door to the suite.
“This is enormous,” Sarah said, “and so plush.”
“The new White House for the moment.”
“You have so much on your mind, Wilson, I know. Just do what you have to and I’ll try to stay out of your way. It probably doesn’t do any good to say it, but don’t feel overwhelmed. You’re a wonderful man. I believe in you and I believe you can save this country.” She kissed him on the cheek and they embraced desperately.
“It’s not about me, not about us; it’s about the country.”
“You’re just what this country needs right now,” she said as they released their arms. “A man of vision.”
There were three phones on the enormous, ornate oak desk that had been brought in, appropriate for a presidential suite. No lights were blinking. McKay knew that would soon change. He sat down, picked up a pen and pulled a lined tablet from the stack someone had thoughtfully provided. He remembered Art’s statement that Vegas was uniquely capable of receiving and supporting large groups. Yes, despite the irony, Homeland Security had made a sensible choice. Vegas did make sense. Momentarily resting his head in his hands, he tried to think of how best to proceed, how best to set his priorities.
“Thank god for Executive orders.” He thought, “And thank God for Hayes’ choice of Framingham.
Public concern would be approaching hysteria about now, the normal looking casino notwithstanding. Many wouldn’t want or be capable of acknowledging the true destructive potential of the Capitol’s obliteration. The public would be solidly behind his administration, not for ideological reasons, but for the sense of security the president–any president–confers, especially on the weak and disadvantaged segments of the population. Most Americans wouldn’t understand how dangerous the nation’s problems were, or the overwhelming nature of the challenges they now faced. But all would want a return to stability, to employment if not prosperity, and to a perceived state of safety. The first flurry of action could deplete his energy if he worked nonstop from early morning until late into the evening, continuing through the night. He would have to take care of himself, get adequate rest, trust others to follow through, distribute and thereby free himself of burdens and issues quickly.
The knock on the suite door would be Hayes.
“Here’s the list, Mr. President.” McKay scanned the names.
“Send in Wolfson.” He said, “And I want to thank you for calling Art Framingham. I owe you.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“In fact, summon Justice Framingham as well. I need to clarify a point with him.”
Momentarily, Wolfson arrived.
“God, can you believe this, Wilson . . . Mr. President?”
“No, Samuel, I can’t, but I’m glad you’re here. We have to move quickly.”
“How’s the family?” Sarah asked entering the large front room of the suite.
“Like most other families right now: Scared as hell, in a Zombie state of disbelief and horror. The kids are holding together better than Marjorie and me. This is like one of their video games. They don’t grasp the real significance.”
“It’s just so horrible, so unimaginable.”
“I guess we all knew this was a possibility. Maybe we even knew it was coming . . . someday. But it was too much to acknowledge, too much to think about. How do you plan for a hypothesis so apocalyptic that your mind can’t confront it? We were remiss; we should have moved the capitol before this could happen, at least have seen how idiotic it was to let the congress convene there after 9/11. And to think we added that White Elephant Visitor’s Center. Hindsight!”
“I’ll leave you two alone,” She said. “I have to call Darlene and let her know where we are. She must have heard the broadcast and be pulling her hair out wondering where her parents are.”
Hayes opened the door, allowing Justice Framingham to enter.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Art, can I issue an Executive Order appointing Samuel Secretary of the Treasury?”
“Yes.”
“Will it be constitutional?”
“Enough. Once there’s a new senate, we can worry about details such as confirmations, or if and when you have sufficient support among the governors, you can ask them to confirm your appointees, let them act as a Senate pro tem as long as a majority of two-thirds of the governors is present for such confirmations. In any case, you need a functioning cabinet and no reasonable man could argue you should delay.”
“There will be many more appointments over the next few days and I just wanted to be certain of the legalities.”
“Remember what Cicero said: ‘In time of war, the law falls silent.’ The Federal government must continue to function. Do what you think is best and most appropriate. If I think something might be problematic, we’ll discuss it.”
“Will you assign a judicial clerk to keep minutes and record my Executive Orders? There needs to be a record.”
“Absolutely and immediately. Hayes is setting up a station for my use in the hall. I’ll put someone there I’m confident can handle the load and she and I will be available on an ongoing basis.”
“Thanks, Art.”
As the door closed behind him, Wolfson stared at McKay.
“Secretary of the Treasury? That’s where you’re beginning?”
“We need to establish a tight grip on the nation’s purse strings. We can’t function without knowing what resources are at our disposal, where they are, and how to get to them and disperse funds quickly, especially the latter. Find out. I’m giving you whatever authority you need.”
“The purse is empty. The dollar’s about to take a terminal nosedive. The market closed immediately after the strike. No one plans to be in New York when the fallout cloud reaches there, and they say it might. New Yorkers are in full-fledged flight. Chicago didn’t open either. When it does, it will almost certainly crash. I recommend you issue an Executive order setting up a more stringent stop-loss. As Treasury Secretary, I’ll see it’s implemented to prevent a free fall.”
“Absolutely. We don’t want the Chinese or some other country buying the entire market while the stocks are at rock bottom. And it could happen. Then, open Chicago to test the measures you implement.”
“The first thing I intend to do is order the banks to open and to make depositor funds available. We’ll back them if they get into trouble. We don’t want another Argentina scenario here. We need stability. Closing the banks just makes matters worse.”
“And panic, like the fear of starvation. Draw up the order and I’ll sign it. Find out how to make certain they don’t run out of cash. That brings up another point, a media link, a way of getting information to the public quickly.”
“Hayes can arrange that.”
“Do we still have a Federal Reserve?”
“I doubt we have a Chairman. For reasons we can discuss later, I think we should leave that issue unaddressed for now. I’ve put my cell number on the back of my card so you can contact me if you require anything else before I work through these initial issues.”
“Your cell’s working?”
“It seems most communications are in place except in the northeast and parts of the Great Lakes area. I saw on CNN that there’s a ten-state blackout extending into Canada.”
“Are the Dakotas affected?”
“No, but everything east of Wisconsin is. I’m glad my family’s not in that part of the country.”
“Whatever arises that you can handle, deal with it. Get back to me as soon as you have a handle on what we’ve discussed. You might also be entertaining any inspirational flashes that come to mind regarding how we’re going to handle the economy. Be creative. Bring me your ideas to discuss.”
“I think they finally blew the economy to hell along with the Capitol. If they didn’t and it continues, the rioting will.”
“I know I’ve given you a lot of general tasks. Get a staff together. Some of it can probably be drawn from the crowd assembling here today. You’ll be able to move quickly. It’s a tall order. Use your imagination. I need fertile minds around me. Don’t hesitate to mention any idea or hesitate to act on a matter that demands your immediate attention. We’re in a hell of a situation. Oh, and find out how government checks are sent out so you can make certain they’re routed some way to points along the spreading circumference of the population wave that will be working its way radially outward from the detonation zone. We can’t allow the checks to be interrupted more than is just unavoidable.”
“I’ll follow through. I’ll have all checks in the principal zip codes affected held in a special sort so they can be sent upon request and get that word out to every post office in the nation.”
As Wolfson left, Hayes stepped in.
“Mr. President, the Governors will all be here by 8:00 pm. Do you want speak to them tonight?”
“No, but arrange for an announcement that I’ll speak with them at 10:00 am. tomorrow. I need time to prepare my thoughts and think through a few things. I need you to set up a station in the hall to maintain continuous contact with the media. Put someone in charge and keep them at that station. How do I get announcements out now?”
“Give me anything you want put out and I’ll release it immediately. Do you have something?”
“Yes. What about the judicial recorder, someone to record minutes?”
“Framingham just sent a clerk: Miss Spires. She’s his secretary, came on the plane with us; the short, auburn-haired woman?”
“I was so upset, I recall almost no one on that flight. Don’t tell her that, but send her in. I’ll pass items to her and she can release them to you and the Media Desk you set up.”
“Do you want her in here now?”
“I’m declaring a ten-day market holiday so the DOW and NASDAQ don’t open and bottom out before we can establish calm and regain some semblance of order in the northeast. Oh, and speak with Samuel Wolfson. He has questions you can answer. We need the information.”
“I have Admiral Yost, the Coast Guard, outside. He’s insistent that he speak with you. Security issues. He just arrived and says he needs guidance on a number of pending or possible decisions that must be made.”
“Okay, but don’t send him in until Miss . . . Spires, is it?”
“Correct.”
“After she leaves, and get anything she gives you out as quickly as you can. Are the subgroups coming together?”
“It’s all underway. We’re taking care of all that. Don’t worry about it. People are pouring in. The casino staff is handling everything smoothly under Secret Service guidance.”
“You’re not up to your ass in alligators.”
“No, more like up to our asses in crocodiles! Some of these people are used to being treated as royalty everywhere they go, and they’re pretty insistent. They don’t like the back burner. They can be rude.”
“These are humbling times for us all. Keep up the good work. If they don’t like it, it’s their problem.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll send in Miss Spires.”
“And send in Admiral Yost as soon as she leaves.”
McKay released several Executive orders: The appointment of Samuel Wolfson as Treasury Secretary and Justice Framingham as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, an order for all banks with power to open and remain open during normal hours, and the order for a stock market holiday. The orders were aired immediately, accompanied with a further message of reassurance and plea for calm. As Spires left to take up her post outside the Presidential Suite, Hayes thrust in his head.
“Are you ready for the Admiral, Mr. President?”
“Yes, and Hayes, the Media Desk you’re setting up; I need a succinct list on the half-hour updating me on what’s occurring. I don’t want to be thronged by the Media. It’s too big a diversion from the tasks at hand. Announce that we will give press releases every four hours, or something like that. They'll have plenty of press fodder just reacting to Executive Orders.
“I understand, Mr. President.”
McKay wondered if the military had any idea at all who was responsible for the nuclear attack. Marine guards were everywhere, but Admiral Yost was the first high-ranking officer to arrive. There would be national outrage, a cry for vengeance, for justice. But there could be no justice without an identifiable enemy. It was incumbent upon them to discover who was responsible. The public would demand it. There were also the issues of what efforts were underway, if any, to prevent or somehow prepare for further strikes that might be planned against U.S. cities. That was Yost’s area of expertise, but his expression offered no relief. Drawn and pained, he looked like a man rudely awakened from a deep sleep.
“Mr. President.” Admiral Yost extended his hand.
“Admiral. Hayes told me you were insistent about speaking with me. Let me begin by asking if you have any information pertinent to who did this?”
“No, Sir. It must have been al Qaeda, such as the base bombing.”
“How do we know that?”
“We don’t, but we occupy Afghanistan. The terrorists involved in 4/23 were Afghans and the nuclear attack came on the heels, so it’s a reasonable surmise it was al Qaeda. I don’t know who else we can suspect at the moment. There is no one else. It wasn’t destroyed by incoming. The nuke was smuggled in. It makes us appear inept, another Homeland Security bungle. The American public expected more and Homeland Security failed them. Worse yet, the nuclear signature is Israeli. Someone inside the Israeli science and nuclear power apparatus used material generated in one of their reactors. We're trying to keep that on the down low, but it won't last. Too many scientists are involved and have access to the area. The fallout is being studied at a number of universities and nuclear physics labs, and we didn't authorize it. Everyone wants to know, and it's the biggest clue.”
“That's a can of worms. In fact, it was shrewd. It's checkmate. Damn! Who in hell is really behind this? What about Homeland Security? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“The heart of Homeland Security disappeared with D.C., Mr. President. What I need to discuss with you is border security. As far as proving the enemy, I wouldn’t expect too much at the outset. We can’t very well make one up.”
“The public needs an enemy or they’ll create a scapegoat.”
“The fact we never apprehended Bin laden just exacerbates our dilemma. The only one who might know something more is Colonel Horrace Simmons with Army Intelligence. He was the hostage . . . we assume he was a hostage . . . connected with the Ft. Benning Dirty Bombing. He might be able to enlighten us if he was conscious.”
“What’s his name?”
“Colonel Horrace Simmons. He’s been in a coma for three months and might never come out of it.”
“Admiral, what about the Joint Chiefs? They’re en route in a special aircraft I was told.”
“They are, with an advisory contingent. They’ll arrive today.”
“What’s their take on all of this?”
“They haven’t arrived at a consensus as of our last conversation. But we’re all holding our breath, hoping more nukes won’t be exploding. That dwarfs all other concerns at the moment. If they could get one in and pull off a capitol strike, spacing them out strategically would essentially destroy the nation, without a clue who did! It makes me nervous as hell.”
“What specifically did you need to discuss with me?”
“We have options; We can close the borders. Additional troops are being deployed.”
“The troops seem like a good idea, but not closing them. A move that severe will stall the economy for sure. If the economy collapses totally, we face a greater potential for destruction from within than from without. The reports coming from the northeast are a good example of that.”
“My concern is more nuclear devices getting into the country.”
McKay thought for a moment.
“They must know that would be a knee-jerk response. They already had the nuclear weapon that destroyed the Capitol inside. If they planned a coordinated attack, certainly they would have waited until the additional weapons were smuggled in. At this point, I doubt the border is an issue. I suppose you could increase patrols on the waterways and along the coast, but let’s not interfere with commerce. What’s the situation like at the Canadian and Mexican border crossings? Do you have that information?”
“Essentially, we’ve shut them down until a decision could be made whether or not to close them, Mr. President.”
“Open them, then. Open them immediately. That’s the worst possible thing we can do.”
“It will take a while to get it moving again, Mr. President.”
“Just a moment.” McKay rose and went into the hall.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Hayes, get me Border Patrol on the phone, whoever’s in charge, whoever’s the top person.”
“That could take a few minutes.”
“Make it quick. As soon as you get him, identify yourself, tell him the president wants to give him a vital executive order.”
“Okay. I’m on it.”
“Admiral, maintain increased security on the coast. There might indeed be an increase in attempts to get drugs in. But under no circumstances should you interfere with commerce or give the impression that we’re intending to intimidate those involved in normal legal trade. If you can grasp that shutting down trade will bring the country to its knees, you’ll understand my insistence.”
Hayes entered the suite, passing a cell phone to McKay.
“The Border Patrol is on the line?”
“One better, I had the operator get all the border stations along the Mexican and Canadian boundaries conferenced.”
“How did you pull that off?”
“I didn’t. I just located the directory numbers and the phone company did the rest.”
“This is your President,” McKay said into the phone, “This is a trying time and the natural response would seem to be to close our borders. However, I believe it would result in an economic crisis with which we might be unable to cope. It also sends the wrong message to the world at large and to our own citizenry. It says, ‘Be afraid, fear the worst!’ We must take a different approach, one that will instill a degree of confidence in the future, one of reassurance, insistence that life must go on. If we close our borders, life will not go on as we know it. For that reason, I choose to move in the opposite direction and to that end am issuing an Executive Order to maintain open borders. How badly are you backed up from the earlier decision to hold all traffic?”
The reports were discouraging.
“Until normal traffic flow is restored, open the gates and wave everyone through. Detain no one except under egregious circumstances. Keep the troops in view, but don’t interfere with movement. Speed things up. Can you do that? Can you do it now?”
“The chorus of Yes, Mr. President was reassuring.
“And one other thing: Close all of your checkpoints inside. No hassles. I mean no hassles!Keep up the good work, people.” McKay returned the phone to Hayes.
“Keep me posted–the half-hour report–on how traffic progresses. Take Admiral Yost and give him responsibility for coordinating the Armed Forces Group.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Since you arrived first, Admiral, I’d appreciate it if you’d work with Hayes to get something together we can review later with the Joint Chiefs. Thank God they weren’t in Washington. What are the recommendations? That kind of thing.”
“I’ll be honored, Sir.”
“Oh, and Admiral.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’m issuing an Executive Order to suspend operation of the NADNARA network for thirty days. The people need every weight possible lifted. Work with Hayes to implement the suspension.”
“Mr. President, are you sure that’s a good idea? What about Homeland Security?”
“What about it? Look at what’s happened. When was NADNARA ever really about Homeland Security?”
Yost searched McKay’s eyes.
“You’ve got a lot on your shoulders. Stay strong, Mr. President. I’ll follow through on your orders.”
“Hayes,” McKay asked, “Do you have the first half-hour update for me?”
“I’ve instructed Miss Spires to provide it as you requested.”
“Excellent. I need her to record another Executive Order as well.”
After recording of the border matters and the suspension of NADNARA, Miss Spires left to advise the Media Desk.