PART TWO

27

D MINUS 14

NSA DATA CENTER

CAMP WILLIAMS, UTAH

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JUSTIN ARRIVED AT HIS work station and noticed the room was mostly empty.

The department had processed all the intel from Chapanee Valley, finally, and were back to a normal schedule and the old routine. Most everyone could now take time off to catch up on sleep and life, or blow some of the overtime pay they'd made.

Barnes was there, though, and saluted him with a coffee cup.

Justin waved back, then walked to the break table and poured himself some coffee. The pot was nearly empty, so he did the right thing and started a new batch before getting to work.

After he logged in and took a look at the cases still needing profiles built, Barnes peeked his head over the divider.

"I had four different Priority Threes from the Chapanee."

Priority Three was high up on the risk chart.

"There were a lot of high-risks to be at one location," Justin said. He would probably never be friends with the motormouth Barnes, but he tried to be friendly and conversational with him at least once a day.

"That's because of their behavior patterns," Barnes said. "If you're a consistent voter, then all the sudden quit cold-turkey—like these guys did after the 2012 election—well, that'll shoot you right up past Priority Five and Four, even if all you've ever owned is a BB gun."

"I had one of those," Justin said, sipping his coffee, eyes scanning The List.

"A BB gun?"

"No. A priority Three."

"Those guys are flagged dangerous, because they've given up on the electoral process," Barnes went on, as if Justin had asked him to elaborate. "They've put on their tinfoil hats because now they're sure that the alien lizard-people have rigged the elections so there's no point in voting."

"No. Ya think?" Justin was unable to hold back the sarcasm.

"They're more disposed to use violence," Barnes said, with a defensive tone as if Justin had challenged his premise. "That's where DomTers come from. One place, anyway."

"You ever seen a Priority Two or One?" Justin asked.

"I've built a profile for a Two," Barnes said, brightening. "Every indicator somebody can have, plus he was blacked out. I mean, no social media at all. Only used encrypted email. Minimal talk on the phone—and had a cellphone that can't be remotely activated. Didn't use credit or debit cards—cash only. When they saw upstairs what I was working on, I had like three guys in suits looking over my shoulder. I got emails from all over the Agency asking for the Google Earth files and whatever else I had on him. I'd bet money they took a closer look at his house within a matter of days."

"Ex-military, I guess," Justin said.

"Oh yeah; hardcorps. Had a Top Secret clearance, then went off his rocker. Got into that right-wing crap. Got out of the military short of retirement; quit talking to people. Probably got an arsenal and is hiding in a bunker somewhere with a gun in one hand, Bible in the other, waiting for the black helicopters."

"You ever seen a Priority One?" Justin asked.

"I've never worked on a profile for one," Barnes admitted. "But I've looked at some files."

"Really? Where?"

Justin was sure his co-worker's head tilted a little higher with pride. Presenting an opportunity to instruct had just made Barnes's day.

"You can access it from your desktop there," Barnes said, hanging his arm over the divider to point at the computer assigned to Justin. “When you back out of the dashboard, right-click that little icon on the lower right, that looks like a grayed-out triangle. Click 'database' on the drop-down menu, then 'archives.' You should see a list of P-One-through-Nine."

Justin followed these instructions on the desktop as Barnes spoke. "Jeez, I would have never even known this was here."

"You don't surf around the network?"

"No," Justin replied. "How do you have time to find all this stuff?"

Barnes shrugged. "Sometimes I get bored on my breaks. Plus, you're new here. You weren't around back when we were having all that trouble with the dashboard, and the aggregator. Had some down-time then."

"Thanks, Barnes," Justin said, absently, opening a completed file in the P-Two archive.

"Sure," Barnes said. "Have fun. It's kinda' cool seeing profiles you worked on mixed in there with the other ones from around the country."

An hour had been spent before Justin knew it. It was fascinating, reading the profiles of the higher level DomTer threats in the NSA database.

He knew he should get to work, but he opened the P-One archive instead, purely out of curiosity. He wanted to see if he could isolate what flags made the difference between Priority One and Two threats.

He noticed another hour had passed, and chastised himself for the butt-chewing he had probably earned goofing around. But the profile in front of him was just too fascinating to let go of. The DomTer was listed both as "white supremacist" and "Native American" for one thing. Justin was baffled by such an oxymoronic mistake, and wondered if the profile would still be considered Priority One if it was corrected. But the guy in question had plenty of other flags.

He was ex-Special Forces and a decorated veteran of Desert Storm. After that he served as "contractor-covert ops." He had dozens of other DomTer probables in his network, and, oddly enough, was now a county sheriff. Justin had never seen a profile quite like this one.

"Scarred Wolf, Tommy" was the name on the profile. That name sounded vaguely familiar.

It bothered Justin that anybody in this particular database should be familiar to him in any way.

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28

D MINUS 46

POTAWATTOMIE COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE

POTAWATTOMIE COUNTY, OKLAHOMA

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TOMMY HAD BORROWED a seasoned interrogation specialist from the metro force, who was used to dealing with young people. He questioned Zack at the county jail, and Dave, who was recovering from his gunshot wound, in the hospital.

Tommy, alone in his office, watched the recording of Dave's interrogation for the second time.

"Didn't you find it odd," the interrogation expert asked, "that Ms. Greeley needed to sacrifice animals, and a newborn baby?"

"It's all about energy," Dave said, in a groggy voice. "Patterns of energy. There's things you have to do to focus energy in the right time, at the right place."

"So Ms. Greeley did those things to the pigs, and the baby, because she needed energy?"

"Right," Dave said. "Exactly."

"Just to be clear," the interrogator said, "when you say 'energy,' you're not talking about electricity or something like that. Right?"

"Oh, no," Dave replied, and laughed drunkenly. "There are so many kinds of energy. Electricity is just one. Humans like electricity because they can harness it with machines, and circuitry...no. I mean mystical energy. Cosmic energy..."

"Dave, did you see how the baby was...what did you call it?"

"Released. But let me..."

"Focus, Dave. Did you see how the baby was released?"

"Wait. Wait. This is important. Because the whole universe is full of conflicting energy," Dave said. "It's everywhere. It's in this room with us, right now. This energy is dark, gloomy, because you're a simple man with an ugly job. But I've seen, you know, power, that...that's just, wonderful."

"The baby, Dave. I need you to focus on the baby."

"Oh the baby had very nice energy," Dave said. "It was clean and bright... I've seen mystical power that's just, you know, colors. Swirling colors. And then there's the energy when Ms. Greeley and I make love." He grinned and blinked his eyes. "Oh, it's so..."

"Dave, tell me who killed the baby. Start with the knife if you have to. Who had the knife?"

"Why do you want to focus on the one thing?" Dave asked, annoyed. "Simple man. Simple. I'm trying to describe the forest but you've got this hang-up for one tree."

The interrogator sighed and lit a cigarette. "If you'll just answer a few easy questions about the baby, Dave, I'll be glad to let you tell me about cosmic energy."

"You know that thing is poison, right?" Dave said, waving at the smoke. "And it's illegal to have in a hospital. I should call the nurse. Do you know I can see your energy get weaker, and dimmer, every time you inhale that poison?"

"I've got a deal with the nurses," the interrogator said with a perfect poker face. "But it's good that you can see and hear some of the things I can see and hear. You can see and smell the smoke, and you know you're in a hospital, and the hospital has rules. That means you could also see and smell the baby, and you knew you were in Ms. Greeley's basement, and that the police have rules. So let's talk about that, and leave the stuff about colored energy swirls for later."

"Energy doesn't all swirl," Dave said, laughing as if the cop was a dunce. "Like the gun. When that man shot me, the energy from the gun was sharp and straight and red. Then it burned white when it went into me. My body responded with blackness, to dull the sharp white pain. But the black energy almost drowned me. Then there was the sheriff. His deputies had, you know, nice auras. But his was blinding. It was, like, so bright..."

The interrogator exhaled a stream of smoke and wiped his face with his free hand. "Dave, I need you to tell me about the baby."

"It's connected to the blood," Dave said, in a confused voice. "Somehow, when you separate blood from a being, it releases the aura. And there's an intense energy surge, but it doesn't last long. Once the blood starts to cool and dry, the energy's gone."

"Alright, Dave. Blood's something I know about. Tell me about blood."

"There's going to be rivers of it!"

The boy's sudden passion took the interrogator by surprise. Tommy too, even though he'd watched the footage once already. Dave's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, His voice got huskier.

"There will be rivers of blood all through this renegade nation," Dave went on. "We're going to weed out the weak, and the naysayers, and the interlopers. You're worried about one worthless infant? We're going to release thousands! Millions! We're going to bring it all under control."

"Who's we?" the interrogator asked. "What are you talking about?"

"The black awakening," Dave said. "We're going to rise up and restore it all to the state of order it should have always been in." He turned his head to stare right into the camera. "You have no idea what's coming. You have no idea how to deal with it. You're too simple to ever imagine that it's true. And even if you did, you still couldn't stop us. I'm telling you the black awakening is coming, so you know beforehand, but there's nothing you can do about it!"

By that point the interrogator had completely lost control. Dave continued ranting until the recording was stopped.

Everyone who'd seen the interrogation wrote Dave off as insane. Dave did, in fact, have a prescription for some fairly serious bipolar and skitzo drugs. And yes, he was presently off his meds.

But Tommy didn't believe what he saw in that basement was the byproduct of insanity. Rose Greeley and the two teenage boys were no more crazy than Tommy was.

Tommy had never liked the knee-jerk tendency to classify horrific behavior as insane. Like Hitler, for instance: everyone assumed he was crazy. Tommy didn't. Hitler was egotistical, arrogant from his early successes, threw childish tantrums, made some self-defeating decisions...but underneath all of that, he was evil. Just pure evil.

Evil existed. Tommy knew that long before this bizarre case. And it was confirmed when he watched Dave's transformation from a spaced-out flaky kid into...into what? Something else, for sure.

As soon as the interrogator encouraged him to talk about blood...

It was like watching a metamorphosis. Dave's voice even changed. And toward the end the horny, easily-manipulated New Age boy was gone. In his place was some homicidal megalomaniac just awaiting a green light. And victims.

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

When Tommy got home that night, he got in touch with Josh.

"Have you turned up anything?" Tommy asked.

"Oh yeah," Josh intoned. "Maybe more than you wanted."

"Well, go ahead. I got some time."

"Well first of all," Josh began, "there's a name for this kind of thing:'Satanic ritual abuse.' According to most of the Internet, it was never anything but hype, drummed up by Bible-thumping evangelicals using fear to increase church donations."

"If it says it on the Internet, then case closed," Tommy replied.

“Exactly,” Josh said, laughing. “You sounded like me there for a second.”

“I probably would have believed it was all hype too, once.”

"But there's a lot more of it going on than you'll ever hear of through official channels," Josh said. "There's a preacher in the Midwest, for example, who deals with this stuff on a regular basis. Could be a kook just perpetrating a hoax, but people from all over the country call this guy for help, including some police departments."

Tommy was tempted to call the guy himself, after what he'd seen happen to Dave.

"Anyway, I did some digging like you asked," Josh said. "I can't make blanket statements that cover all these cases everywhere, but I'm seeing a pattern for sure. Going back to the 1940s, there's a strong connection between these occultists and some government programs in the fringe sciences."

"Fringe sciences?" Tommy asked.

"Well...I shouldn't say government programs," Josh corrected himself. "There's been plenty of private sector work, too, at different universities. But the universities are subsidized...it all gets murky. Anyway, they experiment with weird, far-out stuff like remote viewing, automatic writing, astral projection..."

"There was a movie a few years ago," Tommy interjected, thoughtfully. "With George Clooney..."

"Men Who Stare at Goats," Josh said. "A comedy, I think. But what it was based on wasn't quite as ha-ha funny. That was about just one program among many, and famous mostly for its failure. Something else I found, though: It looks like there's been success in splitting personalities."

"Wait," Tommy said. "Are you saying somebody is creating psychological disorders?"

"Like I said, I can't tell you about every case there's ever been. But from what research I've done, Multiple Personality Disorder can be created in some of these experiments. And has been. I can send you links."

Tommy sighed. "No. My hands are full enough. This is looking like it's bigger than what I'm equipped to deal with, anyway."

"The evidence is mostly circumstantial," Josh said, "and I know it sounds far-fetched But it sure looks like there may be something to it."

"Thanks, Josh. But I might as well hand this off. It's over my pay grade."

"Hang on a minute, Tommy. You should hear this: The fringe science programs have changed their names a couple times, to sound more vague and innocuous. But some are still active. Technically, they're private sector, but the funding is from the Feds, laundered through various front companies. It's kind of surprising how easy it is to find some of the names associated with these pseudo-secret R&D programs. Some years ago a Professor Jade Simmons rose to the top of one of these labs. She got recruited into the Alphabets."

"The Alphabets" was what Josh called government agencies like the DHS, NSA, FBI, etc. He had his own paranoid conspiracy theory vernacular. Tommy was a little bothered that he himself now spoke it fluently from being around Josh so much.

"Guess who she works for now?" Josh asked.

"Who?"

"Your old friend, Lawrence Bertrand."

Tommy grew lightheaded for a moment. "Are you sure about that?"

"It sure looks that way, Chief."

Lawrence Bertrand had come under Tommy's sights back when Tommy himself was a Fed, unofficially investigating some major coverups he stumbled upon, ranging from sanctioned drug deals and gunwalking schemes, up to an infamous domestic terrorist incident.

"Guess what?" Josh continued. "He's not technically in the Justice Department anymore. He's pulling the strings in the DHS."

Tommy supposed it was only natural somebody like Bertrand would wind up in the Department of Homeland Security. With the so-called Patriot Act and the NDAA 2012, a mountain of Executive Orders and who-knew-what-else, a high-ranking criminal like him should now have even more latitude to obstruct and pervert justice, while receiving a princely salary to ostensibly preserve justice.

"I know you already think I'm half a lunatic," Josh said, "but can you think of any justification for having a mind control expert working for the DHS?"

"Her expertise is in mind control?"

"That was the subject of most of her experiments and papers," Josh said.

Tommy briefly hypothesized that maybe they wanted psychology experts so they could better interrogate terrorists, but nixed the idea quickly. It didn't take a high-level fringe science professor to get answers out of perps. That was something law enforcement could do well—and had for decades.

"There's different levels of mind control," Josh said. "The country's been subjected to the soft type for maybe 80 years."

"The 'soft' type is what," Tommy asked, "television?"

"Bingo—that's one for sure. There are different phases your brain goes through. Movies and television put the brain in the alpha phase. It's a trance state, no different from what a hypnotist tries to put you in. But TV can put some people there in seconds. Has to do with the flicker and stuff like that. So that's when your mind is most vulnerable to suggestion. Or 'optimal for programming,' in fringe science terms."

"And then they feed you subliminal messages?" Tommy suggested.

"They can. They've experimented with that. But they don't even need to be that sneaky. I mean, your defenses are already down when you watch a show. You want to suspend disbelief when you're looking to be entertained. And most everything you can watch on TV or see at the movies...or hear on the radio for that matter, or read in a book or a magazine...it's all just different angles from the same overall narrative. The most powerful computer is only as smart as the data you put into it. If everything the human brain receives through the eyes and ears reinforces the same worldview..."

"Which is why you guys wear tinfoil hats," Tommy said. "To protect you from brain waves."

"First time I heard that one," Josh replied, "I laughed so hard I fell off my duck-billed platypus. But that's just the soft stuff, for the unwashed masses. It explains why they vote the way they do—assuming elections are still legit, that is. The soft programming is based on 1930s vintage research on brain functions. Obviously the mind-benders have had a lot of time to get better at it. Imagine what they can do to somebody in an enclosed environment, with the use of drugs or some sort of direct electronic stimulus. I've heard they can embed complex messages in a simple high-pitched carrier frequency that your ears may or may not hear, but that your subconscious mind can decode."

"What are you suggesting?" Tommy asked. "Sleeper agents?"

"I'm not saying it's that," Josh said. "But it's got to make you wonder. The Pentagon has been interested in mind control and 'super soldiers' since the end of World War Two. Is it completely unreasonable to think the government might have made an effort...considering some of the other stuff they've wasted our tax dollars on?"

"You're wrong," Tommy said. "You're a full lunatic; not just half. Please don't start on that Internet theory about school shootings being staged."

"Okay," Josh said, with a tone of resigned dismissal in his voice. "Have you seen Jennifer since she got back?"

"No. Her and Linda went shopping yesterday, but I didn't get home until late. Want me to have her call you?"

"No, it's not that," Josh said. "She, um, kind of chewed me out for dropping the ball on your other investigation."

"She chewed you out?" Tommy asked, surprised. His niece was ultra-feminine and always gentle and respectful, even when she had reason to rock the boat.

"Well, by Jennifer standards it was chewing, I guess. Anyway, she's right. We really shouldn't let go of that deal. Especially if we're right, and there's another false flag in the hopper."

Tommy puffed his cheeks. "Yeah. I know. I got busy with all that's going on here...but I have no excuse. And now this new thing ties back to Bertrand. It's like fate is trying to tell me something."

"Not many degrees of separation, are there?" Josh remarked. "Well, I mean I haven't found a direct link between Simmons and what happened at your crime scene there, but..."

"No," Tommy said. "And we don't want to go chasing rabbits off the main trail. Who knows how much time we have."

"The Shadow knows!" Josh declared in a nasal voice, followed by an attempt at a sinister laugh.

Tommy ignored the interjection. Josh had a tendency to crack jokes when the situation was grim. Well, a lot of the Sneaky Petes Tommy once worked with tended to do that. "Get whatever you can on Simmons. And see if you can find others who might be working for Bertrand. I'll do the same and we'll exchange notes as we go."

"Wow. Does that make me one of your deputies?"

"Yeah. Your badge is in the mail. Let's see if we can get any leads about what these people are up to. Just take precautions, Josh. These are heavy hitters and you don't want them tracing your hacks back to you."

"I'll be quiet as a little mouse, Chief."

"Thanks. And...um, how is it going with you and Jenny?"

"I haven't scared her away yet," Josh replied. "I'm as shocked as anybody about that."

"Look, Josh: I don't want this to get awkward. And she's an adult who can make her own decisions. I get that."

"What?" Josh asked, his tone suddenly defensive.

Tommy sighed. "I'm not implying you're not good enough for her, or anything. But you know how...tender-hearted she is. And it seems to me she's getting really serious about you."

"Are you telling me to break it off?"

"If you're not as serious as she is, then yeah. That's what I'm saying."

"What if I am, though?"

"Are you?"

"The truth is," Josh said, hesitantly, "she scares the hell out of me. It kinda' seems like I'm a bull and she's the china shop. Like maybe she deserves some really graceful pussycat instead, who's willing to give her all of what she wants."

Tommy chewed on his lip for a moment. He knew Josh had some issues because of what his first wife put him through. And Tommy wasn't comfortable even talking about relationships, so he was hesitant to offer advice. Nevertheless, he cleared his voice and said, "Look, Josh: women don't really want all the things they say that they want. It's not like you need to 'change your ways' or anything. She obviously likes you as you are. If you change, I can almost guarantee she'll start cooling down...regardless of whatever comes out of her mouth. I know you're a good man; she knows you're a good man. And you know she's a good woman. Just make up your mind if you want her. If you do, then it's simple. Go mostly by your instincts: protect her; provide for her; make babies with her...but some other stuff you need to go against your instincts: stay faithful to her; be patient with her; listen to her when she babbles about stuff that doesn't seem important; spend time with her; open doors for her; leave the toilet seat down."

"That last one would be really tough," Josh quipped, but he was too solemn to really pull off the humor.

"Forgive me if I'm not welcome up in your business," Tommy said. "But she's my niece. Jenny is family."

"Roger that, Chief. You gave me some stuff to think about. Thanks."

When they said their goodbyes and broke the connection, Tommy marveled at how, even with the world falling apart around them, the old mating game just couldn't be curtailed.

He needed to dig out his old notes on Bertrand, but put it off for the night. He was going to spend what time he had left today with Linda; listen to her babble about things that didn't seem important; and open a door for her if he got the chance.

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29

D MINUS 45

NORMAN, OKLAHOMA

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RACHEL WHITE BIRD NORMALLY did her shopping in town, where prices were cheaper. On her way from the super Wal-Mart back toward the rez, she navigated the traffic on the business route, where the highway resembled a four-lane urban street.

She stopped at a light behind other traffic. When the light turned green she noticed, in between the cars, a young man on a dirt bike as he pulled a wheelie. He darted between traffic until he had clear lanes ahead, and sped away until stopped at the next light.

The dirt bike was not legal on public roads, and had no license plate. The young man wore no helmet. Plus he was speeding and driving unsafe. But not only was Rachel off-duty, she was outside her jurisdiction.

The light turned green and the rider popped another wheelie, his unbuttoned flannel shirt flapping behind him like a cape. His shock of black hair streamered behind him from the wind. When his front wheel came down he accelerated forward, leaving everyone behind. In between changing gears the loud high-pitched two-cycle engine screamed like a huge chainsaw echoing off the asphalt.

Rachel wove through traffic to get closer to the mad biker. Thanks to a couple more traffic lights, she was able to get close enough for a better look. He was dark and athletically built, with Shawnee features. He looked like the youngest Scarred Wolf boy: Carl.

Her assignment with the Scarred Wolf family hadn't panned out in the last two years. Rachel had thought, after the scene at the party, Susan Pyrch would be vulnerable enough to welcome a new friend, and Rachel could get inside that way. Rachel presented herself as that friend, but Susan already had a support network and was on the snobby side to begin with. That effort went nowhere.

Rachel then tried to befriend Gunther, who no doubt must have been vulnerable himself, after finding out his girlfriend cheated on him with his brother. But Gunther was suspicious from the start, and never showed an interest in her friendship.

His cousin Jennifer was friendly. But then, she was friendly with everyone. And Rachel wasn't able to get close enough to be in her confidence.

Takoda was just a bad seed, who apparently needed nobody at any time. But it was Takoda who inspired her to change her strategy and work it from another angle. She might not be able to win their confidence, but if she could get legal leverage on them somehow, maybe her boss could use that to squeeze information from one of them.

The potential for leverage was right in front of her face with the Scarred Wolf boys: their habitual unsafe driving. If she could bring one of them in and threaten them with jail time...well, it was a start, maybe. But Gunther was too cautious to be observed breaking the law. Takoda was observed on several occasions—at least, she felt certain it was him—but nobody could catch him.

As she followed the dirt bike toward the rez, it occurred to her that Carl might be the best entry point. Younger people were less guarded or jaded, and usually more open to new friendships as well. Or, from the other angle, they were more likely to get themselves into trouble and be desperate to get out of it.

She called the dispatcher and reported the Scarred Wolf boy, so they could send someone to intercept him.

Before crossing into the rez, Carl took the bike off road, the terrain features serving as ramps for him to take the bike bounding into the air, jump after jump. Rachel cursed and watched him disappear behind his own dust trail. They'd never catch him out on the plains. In fact, riding a dirt bike off road was not against the law either, so they couldn't do much even if they did catch him.

She would have to do her homework on Carl, and figure out where their paths could cross.

30

D MINUS 42

LAS ANIMAS COUNTY, COLORADO

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JOSH WRAPPED UP THE latest I.T. consulting gig over the phone that morning. He spent some time working with the dogs, then rode up the mountain to check his traps.

Also, Jennifer had given him a book on edible plants of North America. He thought he recognized a couple types from the area, and took a detour to gather some. Snow covered the top half of the mountain, which made tracking animals easy, but identifying plants difficult.

He arrived back at the house in the afternoon. After taking care of chores, he did some online legwork for Tommy. In researching all he could find about Lawrence Bertrand, he came across another name: Jason Macmillan

Like Jade Simmons before him, Macmillan left his job to join the DHS...then effectively disappeared off the face of the Earth. His background was not in fringe science, but more traditional law enforcement—first state, then federal. As a Fed he'd been involved in some very shady operations.

The dogs began barking outside, then he heard a droning noise—an engine straining to pull a vehicle uphill on his private drive from the highway below. He changed seats and cued up his security camera feed. He toggled between the cameras and saw a subcompact creeping up his drive. There appeared to be only one person inside but he couldn't tell who it was.

He strapped on the shoulder rig for his sidearm, pulled his jacket over it, and yanked his Mini-14 off the rack before heading outside. He drifted into the woods to the back of his parking area, and took position at a hide which gave him a good view of the drive and parking area, while concealing him fairly well.

When the subcompact pulled up and stopped, he recognized Paul Tareen's daughter, Terry. She remained inside her car, though, staring warily at the two large pit bulls standing stiff-legged on either side of the car, watching her.

Josh broke from cover and strode toward the car, telling the dogs to stand down. Ragnarok and Valkyrie ran back to join him, then matched his pace, one on each flank. He had really hit the jackpot with these dogs. They responded to command very well with minimal training.

Seeing Josh, Terry got out of the car with a dimpled smile and a casserole pot. "Howdy, neighbor!" she called.

Josh slung the rifle around his back and said, "Hey, Terry. Never seen anyone in your family drive a car before. Thought you did everything on horseback."

She laughed and lifted up the ceramic casserole pot. "I couldn't figure out how to carry this on a horse."

When he reached her, he extended his hand to shake. She hugged him instead. It was a brief contact, but the message was received: she was interested in being more than a handshake kind of neighbor.

"What's that?" he asked, gesturing toward the dish.

"I made apple cobbler," she said, cheerily. "We couldn't finish all of it, so I thought you might like to, before it goes bad."

"Well thanks," he said. "That's real nice of you."

"You're welcome," she said, beaming. He felt guilty that this young, possibly innocent girl was so sprung for him.

"Well, come on inside," he said, waving toward his house. "Might as well visit a spell, since you took the trouble to drive over."

He led her inside. She asked polite questions and made polite comments about his dome home while looking around like a bumpkin in New York City.

Josh retrieved bowls and spoons from the kitchen. "Why don't you have some with me?"

"I guess I'll have a little bit," Terry said, grinning again.

She was a pretty girl, with a natural willowy figure, and more feminine than most of her generation. Her rustic upbringing by a gruff father and no-nonsense mother had gifted her with manners and a degree of humility despite her youthful confidence.

Maybe marriage could live up to the hype with a woman like this. He hoped she would find a man who appreciated what she brought to the table, and not some abusive jerk, alcoholic, or deadbeat.

They chatted as they ate the cobbler at his small table, and he again felt a pang of guilt about her attraction to him.

"Just out of curiosity," he asked, "does your family know you came over here?"

She nodded. "Yeah, why?"

"And they're okay with it?"

She laughed. "They're pretty sure you're not a serial killer, or we wouldn't have had you over for Independence Day."

"How do I know you're not a serial killer?" he asked.

She laughed some more. "Don't ever make me mad, or you might find out."

After a couple glances into his eyes, she said "Y'know, it's going to be dark soon. Do you think you can show me how to navigate by the stars?"

By country girl standards, Terry was coming at him with all guns blazing.

He had given her family a copy of the Ranger's Handbook, from which they could learn as much about using the stars as he could teach her. On the 4th of July at their house he had shown her family the basics of land navigation with a compass. He also answered a lot of questions about communications and military tactics, and discussed with Paul teaching them some more skills in the future. They ate a big meal cooked by Terry and her mother, and watched American Sniper on the flat screen, too.

"There's not all that much to it," he said, "but that's fine."

What cobbler they didn't finish went into a plastic container, which he stored in the fridge. Terry asked if she could wash the casserole pot and lid in his sink, and volunteered to wash the other dishes, too. He gladly consented, and they continued to chat as she did.

She slyly worked in a few probing questions about Jennifer. Josh answered honestly that he wasn't sure whether they would stay together, or even if they were still officially together right then. He wasn't seeing anyone else, and didn't think Jennifer was, but who could tell, regarding such things?

By the time Terry finished the dishes it was getting dark. They went outside and played with the dogs until it was dark enough to see the constellations clearly. He pointed out what she should be able to see on any clear night in the northern hemisphere, and how to judge direction by their position. The most important object to find was Polaris, the North Star, which was easily done after locating the Big Dipper.

As he pointed things out, she closed the distance until she was backed up against him. Her body language suggested that he should wrap her in his own body heat to fend off the cool evening air. Josh hadn't always been a hermit, so he knew what was going on. And the pleasure of her proximity was overcoming the guilt he'd felt earlier. She was only a few years younger than Jennifer, after all...

Their age difference didn't seem like such a big deal anymore. It was only thoughts of Jennifer that allowed him to keep his hands off Terry.

He said he had work to do, and sent her home. She bid goodbye with a smile that promised she would test his resolve again soon.

Despite himself, it was hard to concentrate on work that night. He went to bed with the idea that it really sucked being alone sometimes, and only then realized that Terry had been the victor in their friendly hormonal struggle.

The next night Josh finished the cobbler, and Jennifer called as he did. When she asked what he was doing he naively answered honestly, and the conversation quickly became an interrogation. Before it was finished, Jennifer found out where the cobbler came from, who delivered it, what happened afterwards and how long Terry visited that night. Having shown what he thought was respectable restraint, Josh answered her questions honestly, but was on the verge of telling her to mind her own business more than once.

Instead, he went the playful route and took every opportunity to crack jokes and poke fun.

He was tired of being in sexual limbo. He had been content with going Galt before meeting Jennifer, including the whole celibacy aspect. But she had awakened hungers in him which went unresolved for an extended period, and it was kind of satisfying making her squirm for a change.

Instead of getting pissy and hanging up in a huff, though, Jennifer said, "I'd like to come visit again this weekend."

Jennifer drove up Friday. She had an interview at a law office in town before coming to his house. He avoided obvious questions like, "Why do you want a job here when you live in Oklahoma?"

He suspected any such question would trigger an ambush she had planned, to instigate the Talk.

But he knew the Talk was inevitable, and probably this weekend, so he instigated it himself when they put Denver and Indy back in the stables after a ride.

It was time to let the other shoe drop. Maybe she would take the deal he was willing to offer. If so, great. More likely, she wouldn't. She could get on with her life and find the perfect supplicating church boy to marry, if that's what she wanted. Josh could go back to being a hermit, or have some fun with Terry once he got over Jennifer...or whatever. He just wanted to know, and cut his losses if it wasn't going to work out.

The Talk took them through the evening chores, back into the house, and finished on the couch.

"You've got expectations, right?" he asked, after they'd gone over the love motive extensively. She'd been claiming to be in love with him ever since Indonesia.

"Expectations?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"

He sighed, uncomfortable with these touchy-feely conversations about relationships and other daytime TV fodder. "I mean you want to get married. You've made that pretty obvious. So you must have certain expectations about how it's going to be. What do you expect a husband to bring to the table?"

"You make me sound so demanding," she said.

"I've got expectations," he said, shrugging.

"Like what?"

"Fine, Jennifer: I'll go first: Outside of war, nuclear attack, or natural disaster, I'm not moving anywhere."

She almost smiled. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to leave this place."

Jennifer didn't like the cold, but she loved snow. When she visited he would often wake up to find her drinking a cup of coffee just staring out the window at the scenery, bundled up in blankets like an Eskimo even though it was warm in his house.

"Okay, good," he said. "But I'm the king of this castle. I have the last say and the bottom line on decisions, and I expect you to back me up, even if you disagree with me."

She flinched. "You expect me to just keep my mouth shut and do as I'm told?"

"I said king; not tyrant," he replied. "We can talk about stuff. You can tell me what you think. If I see you're right about something, then fine—we'll go with that. But if I listen to all your reasons and still decide on something else, you need to let it drop and not pitch a fit."

"That's not really fair," she said. “You could refuse to admit I'm right, and stick with your decision just to be stubborn."

He shrugged again. "If you can't trust me, then you got no business marrying me."

She mulled this over for a while. "I guess I'm not really against you being king of the castle. But I would expect to be queen."

"I have no problem with that," he said. "Just don't start thinking we're on a chess board."

"What else?" she asked, warily.

He hadn't expected to get past that one. He had been sure she would storm out calling him a sexist pig and plenty other names. Still, she hadn't explicitly agreed to the term, either. He decided not to press her on it right now, because he had plenty more he was sure would bring her claws out.

"I'm not gonna tolerate disrespect from you," he said. "I don't care how mad at me you are, or if you've had a bad day, or if I've done something really stupid. If you're my wife, then you give me respect, period. You can disagree with me or whatever without disrespecting me."

She nodded. Well, that was easier than expected, too.

"You have to put up with my lunacy, " he said. "Because I'll probably never change. My worldview isn't going to change; I'm not giving up my guns; I'm not going to get a national I.D. if it becomes mandatory; I'm not getting kitchen appliances with microchips for the smart grid; I'm not going to register or get permits for anything I already have a right to."

"I've never called you a lunatic, Joshua. I just get scared sometimes because you dwell on gloom and doom stuff so much. I think I ought to get a gun of my own. Something like what Uncle Tommy has, but maybe doesn't kick as hard."

At that point Josh's goal began to transform from scaring Jennifer away as fast and decisively as possible, to seeing if there was actually a glimmer of hope they could be together long-term.

"My rule about cellphones stands," he added. "And anything else that can be used to spy on me. That's a deal-breaker."

This was it. No woman on Earth, once aware of cellular technology and social networks, would ever give them up. They would die first.

She sighed. "I know. What else?"

His jaw dropped. "Do you mean you agree?"

She nodded, frowning. "I'll go along with that. But there's got to be some kind of compromise we can both live with. For now: okay. Anything else?"

"W-well," he stammered, still off balance, "you're not allowed to kick me when I'm down."

"Okay."

He scratched his head. This had gone completely different than he had imagined. Normally he would suspect she was lying just to trap him, but she had proven honest to a fault so far. "I want sex," he said.

"That's part of marriage," she said, with a reserved laugh.

"Well," he licked dry lips, feeling awkward about all this, "I want it often, and I want...you know, passion. You can't just lay there like you're bored or being traumatized."

"I don't think I would be like that," she said.

"You can't be claiming headaches all the time, or you don't 'feel sexy,' or other excuses."

"What if I'm sick?" she asked, with an indignant sharpening of tone. "I'm still expected to...?"

"No, no," he interrupted, shaking his head. "Legitimate reasons are one thing. But you can't use sex as a weapon. It's not a training tool for you to withhold as punishment or give as a reward. It's just something we do. And if you're not gonna enjoy it...if you're not gonna give it a good ol' college try, then I really don't want to go through the trouble. What's the point of us sharing a bed?"

Jennifer chewed on her lip for a moment, then said, "I've got some expectations, if you're done."

"I think those are the big ones," he said, feeling dazed. "If we can agree on those, we can work out the rest."

"Okay," she said. "If I'm going to be your wife, then we have to find a good church somewhere around here, and I expect you to go with me."

This was no surprise. "I can do that. Sundays and Wednesdays?"

"Probably," she said. "We can take a day off now and then. But we might get invited to extra things I want to go to."

"I'd be willing to do that," he said.

She looked relieved. "Also, I'd like you to keep an open mind about it."

"About Christianity?" he asked.

She nodded. "Just give it the benefit of honest consideration, the way you've done with other things you believe."

He shrugged. It seemed like a fair compromise.

"And I would raise our kids to believe in God," she added quickly. "To read the Bible, and believe what's in it."

"You can't force people to believe something, Jennifer. I'm living proof of that."

"That's not what I'm saying," she said, putting her hand on his. "I'm saying I'm going to teach my kids the truth as I see it. When they get old enough, they'll make up their own minds just like we do. But they'll at least have the benefit of the option."

"I'll go along with that," he said.

"You won't try to contradict what I teach them?"

"No, but while we're on the subject of kids..."

"Hold that thought, please," she said, pointing an index finger in the air. "We'll get to that in a minute."

"Okay," he said. "Go for it."

"I won't tolerate abuse," she said. "That's a deal breaker for me."

"That's no prob...wait a minute. Define 'abuse.' Does it include when you don't get your way, or you don't like something I say?"

"You can't hit me," she clarified. "Ever. Or choke me or...manhandle me..."

He waved his hands and shook his head. "Physical rough stuff. I wouldn't ever do that to you."

"But just like you don't want to be disrespected," she added, "you can't be verbally abusive, either."

"What's verbal abuse? Define that."

"I'm not talking about arguments..."

"You mean sarcasm?" he asked. "Because I use sarcasm all the time, even when I'm not upset."

"Sometimes," she said, twisting her lips as if searching for the right words. "Any kind of character assassination directed at me. Anything meant to demean or defame or belittle me."

"Okay."

"I expect faithfulness," she said. "If you're my husband, there can't be any other woman."

"Give me sex on a regular basis and I won't want any other women," he said, a bit defensive.

"Joshua, I'm serious. I can't tell you how serious I am about this."

He squeezed her hand. "Same thing on the flip side, though. You have to be faithful, too. No exceptions, no excuses."

"You don't have to worry about that," she said. "Believe me: I've had opportunities."

"I'm on board. But it's a two-way street."

"And just for the record," she said. "Once I'm married, I plan to give my husband all the sex he can handle."

Josh said nothing, but his mind sure was noisy right then.

"I'd like to have three children," she continued. "Maybe more."

"Hmm. Who decides if more and how many more?" Josh asked.

"Something we'd have to agree on. Would you give me at least three?"

Josh thought about it. "Yeah. But what if I decided no more, and you still wanted more?"

She took a deep breath. "If I couldn't convince you, then I guess I'd have to respect your wishes."

He couldn't believe how this was going.

"But we can't argue in front of the kids," she said. "We have to work out disagreements in private, and present a united front to the family."

"Fair enough," Josh said. "And you can teach them Bible stuff, but I'm gonna teach them to shoot, hunt, trap and prep."

She seemed to look a little less worried the further along the conversation went.

"I know you love your privacy," she said, "but I want to be able to have family over."

"Tommy and Linda are welcome here any time," Josh said, with a magnanimous gesture. "Same with Gunther and Carl. And Uncle Jay for that matter. I'm just not so sure about Takoda, though."

"Me neither, right now," Jennifer said. "But what about my mother?"

"If she minds her manners, we can do that."

“And we should go there to visit them sometimes, too," Jennifer said. "And you'll have to be sociable."

"Life of the party—that's me."

"And I'll work as a legal assistant; or at whatever job I can find, if you want me to," she continued. "But when we have our first baby, I'm done. I stay home and raise our children after that."

"You mean you don't want to build a career first, and wait until your 30s to start popping them out?"

She shook her head.

He was stunned. He knew Jennifer marched to a different drum, but had no idea she was this divergent from the feminist norm. "Well...how soon do you want to start popping them out?"

"We can spend a year or two just enjoying each other," she said. "But I don't want to wait any longer than that."

"Done. And you don't have to get a job at all if you don't want, baby or not. I make enough consulting to keep the bills paid here."

She cracked a smile. "Done? Does that mean my terms sound acceptable?"

They did. In fact, he was getting excited. Truth be told, she had him at "all the sex you can handle."

With the big concerns dealt with, they moved on to smaller stuff. He felt even better about the whole thing when he found out she didn't want some huge dog-and-pony show of a ceremony. It seemed she understood that the marriage would be more important than the wedding.

As the exchange of terms lightened up and wound down, she snickered a little and said, "You know, I guess you could say what we're both insisting on is an old pre-war, maybe even Puritan, marriage."

"Welcome to the new frontier," he quipped, kissing her hand. "The new counter-culture."

"Well, except for your doomsday prepping, anyway," she said.

Josh snapped his fingers. "Hey, wait right there. I got something for you."

He left her on the couch, went back into his workshop, found what he wanted on the bench next to the soldering iron, and returned to the living room with the customized phone.

"I was saving this for your birthday, but it's ready now." He handed it to her and she stared curiously at it. "I modified it. It's safe to use here at the house or wherever. And you don't need a warranty plan from the carrier. If it breaks, I'll fix it."

She turned it on, eyes lighting up before the screen did. "Does it have Internet?"

"Of course," he said, laughing. "It's rooted. You get not only wi-fi but 4G, free. Texting. A few apps. But you can't trust all the apps out there, so you have to check with me before you download anything."

She threw her arms around him and squeezed with surprising strength for her size.

He slapped her on the thigh and stood. "Go get dressed up."

"What?" she asked, tearing her gaze away from the phone to look at him. "Why?"

"I'm taking you to a restaurant in town," he replied. "There's a question I want to ask you there."

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31

D MINUS 37

AMARILLO, TEXAS

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JOE TASPER EKED OUT a living hauling scrap for a couple years. After the Feds raided his brother's house, and during the subsequent fruitless lawsuit, his brother offered him a job at his sporting goods store in the 'hood. It was a good opportunity for a steady paycheck, some benefits and even paid vacation, and Joe jumped on it.

Usually Joe's brother relied on a delivery service to bring his stock, but with taxes strangling his profits a little more every year, he was cutting corners wherever he could. That's why Joe was driving a box truck packed with free weights, stair-steppers and other heavy stuff that day.

The speed limit was 65, but two cars, one in each lane, traveled at about 60. Joe couldn't get around them because they were side-by-side. Joe changed to the fast lane and crowded the driver in front of him. After a minute or so, that car sped up and passed the other. Joe pushed on the gas to pass both of them.

The timing stunk, because now he was traveling uphill and the truck labored to pull its heavy load. And for whatever reason, now that she was no longer blocking traffic, the other driver found her own accelerator, matching Joe's speed.

Joe sighed and gave it more gas to get around her. The car sped up to remain abreast of him. Joe mashed the pedal to the floor and the burdened motor strained to pull the truck faster. Finally he began to make headway. The car lost pace gradually, but Joe had lost patience to get around it. As the hill crested, the box truck finally found its stride.

Joe widened the gap by a few car lengths and let off the gas. Rolling downhill now, there was no longer a problem. He signaled and switched back to the right lane, letting the truck coast. Once the road leveled out again, gravity would bleed off his momentum and he would just hold it steady when it slowed to the speed limit.

He just wanted to do the speed limit.

Colored lights flashed, nearly scaring the piss out of him. He checked his mirrors and cussed.

Just a couple months ago he'd been pulled over and ticketed for not wearing a seatbelt. That was it: no other reason; just a seatbelt. He hadn't been speeding; hadn't failed to stop at a sign; run a red light; used his cellphone; nothing. Just didn't have a seatbelt on. Over $200 for that.

He made the mistake of asking the cop (who had "To Serve and Protect" written on his prowl car doors) who exactly was being protected and from what. The cop came back with some rehearsed line about a "click-it or ticket" policy."

Joe pointed out he was driving safely; not endangering anyone.

You were endangering yourself, the cop informed him.

I choose not to press charges, Joe had replied.

The cop turned nasty and threatened him at that point. No surprise there. Why should they have to justify their extortion when they could just hide behind a badge?

The raid on his brother's house came to mind. The Feds were hoping to bust John on some sort of weapons charge, evidently, because they stormed the house at three a.m. when everyone was sound asleep, on a no-knock warrant, and broke into the gun safe before tearing the place apart looking for anything else they could bust him for. Carrie, Joe's seven year old niece, was in her bedroom when one of the masked, armed agents stormed in, tossed the room and stomped Carrie's baby kitten dead right in front of her.

They found nothing illegal. They also made no apology or paid for any of the damage they had caused. The damage done to Carrie's young mind might never be undone.

Cops were the enemy, whether federal, state or local. They had proven as much time and again.

Joe pulled over and got his papers ready. The two cars that had been blocking the lanes a few minutes ago whizzed by, and he cussed them as they went off on their merry ignorant way.

This cop went through the usual bullshit about how he was so concerned for people's safety; what you were doing was dangerous; if I really wanted to be a jerk I could blah blah blah.

Joe just sat there and said nothing. He handed his papers over mechanically and only answered with "yes" and "no." It was no use reasoning with these revenue men. Their whole purpose was to interfere with honest people's livelihood, confiscate their hard-earned wages and work with the insurance companies to make living even more expensive.

After the self-important prick bid goodbye in that practiced phony polite way, Joe grumbled under his breath, "Every dog has his day, pig. One day I might just have mine."

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32

D MINUS 33

DALLAS, TEXAS

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BRIGADIER GENERAL CLAYTON P. Vine, USMC (retired), spent most of his free time reading through his personal library of military history. He'd been too busy to read the books he collected when on active duty, but after life came to a screeching halt, his biggest challenge was finding distractions to keep him occupied.

He went for a run every morning and went bicycling with his wife most afternoons. He played golf ever so often, but wasn't a fanatic about the game. What he found most interesting was studying US Marine deployments in Vietnam, Korea, and the Pacific during WWII. It seemed there was a limitless supply of books about the Second World War, which filled his schedule nicely.

It took effort, day after day, to avoid becoming bitter about how he'd been sacked.

Vine routinely went online to research something specific mentioned in a book. A couple times he tried searching for information on other officers who were forced into retirement for the same reason he had been. As a side effect of these searches, he met other retired commanders online.

One officer he got to know through email had resigned his commission way back in 2009 over Obama's illegitimacy. “Birthers” had always made Vine uncomfortable, but the man buried Vine with information about the self-declared “foreign student” status, the multiple fake social security numbers, the obviously fraudulent birth certificate, and the ongoing coverups. Vine still believed that what a man did was more important than where he came from. For Vine, the birther arguments simply added evidence of a consistent hostility toward the law by the highest officials in the land.

Of course, that was all old news, now. Maybe it mattered, but few people could be convinced it mattered. And really, it was too late anyway. If the Bill Clinton legacy was any indication, Obama's record would be completely whitewashed by those who wrote the history. And succeeding presidents would get worse and worse until...

Another former officer Vine met online had been sacked as he had, and for the same reason.

In Vine's dialog with these men, both mentioned something called "Oathkeepers." Vine grew curious, and did some research on the organization.

Before his career ended, Vine would have dismissed the Oathkeepers as a group of malcontents with nothing better to do. But when it came right down to it, Vine had been purged from the Corps for the very reason that he refused to violate his oath.

His curiosity got the better of him, so one evening he attended a meeting.

The group met in a rented storefront at a strip mall. Less than a dozen people showed up. When the meeting came to order, first time attendees were asked to stand up and introduce themselves. Vine and a couple others did.

The meeting was dull and Vine regretted coming. They talked about petitions and delegates and calling Congressmen and getting out the word about this and that.

The one good thing about civilian life was that Vine no longer had to sit through tedious meetings if he didn't want to. So he wouldn't be coming back.

But out of politeness, Vine remained seated until the meeting broke up.

On his way to the door, two men intercepted him. They were both maybe 10-15 years younger than Vine. One had a high-and-tight haircut like his, and popped bubblegum. The other had a more lax civilian haircut and a cocky sneer carved permanently into his face. Both wore huge wristwatches.

The gum chewing man extended his hand first. "Semper Fi, sir. Glad you came out tonight. My name's Wade Haugen." He tapped the arm of the other man. "This here's Gordo Puttcamp."

Vine grinned and shook Haugen's hand. "Semper Fi. Pilots, right? And you're obviously in the Corps."

"Was, sir," Haugen replied. "But you're right. I flew Harriers. This clown here was Air Force. I don't even know what kind of garbage they call aircraft in that outfit."

They exchanged bona fides, and a few more friendly wisecracks.

Puttcamp extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir. Even if you served in the wrong branch."

Vine shook his hand and chuckled. He could relate to these men.

"See," Haugen said, elbowing Puttcamp. "Why do you say 'served'? That's like a dead giveaway you weren't in the Corps."

"You say that as if it's not a compliment," Puttcamp said.

"Anyway, sir," Haugen said, "what brings you by?"

"Curiosity," Vine said. "And I'm sure you men are accomplishing good things here. I just don't think it's for me."

The two pilots exchanged a look, as if something they'd previously speculated on had just been confirmed.

"We were gonna go grab a beer," Haugen said. "If you don't have somewhere else to be, sir, how 'bout you knock one back with us?"

That sounded great to Vine. He didn't normally hang out in bars, but these two kind of reminded him of his marines. And he really missed his marines.

They took over a table at a sports bar a few stores down the strip mall, and had some generic conversation before Haugen asked about Vine's retirement.

Vine thought about the mealy-mouthed civilian errand boy and his threat, and almost immediately decided, "Screw him and the dog he rode in on." He told the former jet jocks plainly about his sacking, and why it happened.

The pilots exchanged another look, frowning this time.

"I've been hearing that's going on," Haugen said, "but took it with a grain of salt, because there's a whole lot of cockeyed scuttlebutt getting mixed into what's happening."

"Aliens," Puttcamp said, bugging his eyes out. "Lizard people. Fake moon landings. Elvis lives!"

Haugen ignored his friend and said, "I wondered if it was a coincidence. The timing of your retirement, I mean. What exactly was the acid test, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The little civilian pogue beat all around the bush," Vine said. "Getting him to just come out and say it was like pulling teeth. So I asked him myself: 'You want to make sure I'm willing to have my boys open fire on American citizens, right?' He finally said yes, that was the $64,000 Question."

Haugen whistled, then turned to Puttcamp. "Here it is, man. Straight from a reliable source."

Vine didn't mention the blackmail, because he was more ashamed than ever of what happened in Japan.

"To be honest, sir," Puttcamp said, solemnly, "we don't care much for the activist stuff at the Oathkeeper meetings either. What makes it worthwhile; the reason we go; is networking."

Vine squinted at him. "Networking?"

"Making contacts," Haugen said. "Like we did with you, tonight. You got skills. We got skills. There might come a day when we need to pool our skills. I don't know much about infantry tactics like you do. But I do know something about close air support. See what I'm saying?"

Vine wasn't sure he understood. Maybe he didn't want to understand. "We're civilians now," he said. "Our skill-pooling days are over."

Haugen contorted his face into a pained expression and popped another bubble in his gum.

"Humor us for a minute, General," Puttcamp said. "You're right—we're civilians. Now think back to when they retired you. The condition they gave you for your continued service was your willingness to wage war on who?"

"Civilians," Vine said, quietly. "American civilians."

"We're all Americans, right?" Puttcamp asked, exchanging glances with the other two men. "Right? Next question: do you like the idea of, say, a regiment of US Marines coming after you with guns blazing?"

Vine took a swig of beer but said nothing.

"Or U.S. Army troops, for that matter," Puttcamp said.

"Bring 'em on," Haugen cracked, making a muscle.

"Or an armored division," Puttcamp suggested.

Haugen shrugged. "Well, I guess if they ran over me with a few tanks, it might slow me down."

"Here's the point, General Vine," Puttcamp went on. "If they're firing senior field commanders who refuse to make war on American citizens, might it be within the realm of possibility that somebody is planning to make war against American citizens?"

Vine was silent for a while.

What other answer could there be?

Vine feared that answer from the day of the errand boy's visit. He didn't want to deal with it. So he ignored it. But now there it was, staring him right in the face.

The pilots nodded at each other again. "We've been where you're at, sir," Haugen said. "We didn't want to believe what's happened to our country, either. I still wish it was all a bad dream or a crackpot theory."

"The Oathkeepers are mostly on the fence, too," Puttcamp said. "They don't want to believe the signs all around them. They're clutching at straws. They're hoping all this paper-shuffling they do is going to turn everything around and make it right again. God bless 'em. It's too little and probably at least 40 years too late, but you gotta admire them for their optimism."

Puttcamp knocked back some more beer before continuing. "But see, their hearts are in the right place. And when they've got no more straws to clutch at anymore and their brains acknowledge reality...we're gonna need them. They have skills, too. They're veterans and cops with the integrity to honor the oath they took."

"You're talking revolution," Vine said, in a gruff voice many senior military men used to mask their own fear.

"Technically, no," Haugen said. "The revolutionaries are in Washington, and the State Capitol, and City Hall. The revolution's been going on for a century, waged from the other side. Quietly, while we've been asleep. But there's no way to pull off the final stage of it without making a whole lot of noise. That's why they've been positioning their forces so quietly for so long, to make it happen sudden and all across the front, with minimal resistance."

The last time Vine had heard talk anything like this, it was from his father. It all sounded more crazy than he wanted to believe it could be; yet the evidence was all over the place. "Then you're talking civil war," he said.

"Maybe," Haugen said. "I guess it depends if enough people like us can pull ourselves away from our big screen TVs long enough to fight."

"Technically," Puttcamp interjected, "everybody's probably gonna lose their TV reception for a while. And other luxuries. And plenty of necessities, come to think of it."

Haugen rolled his eyes. "My point was, there may be no significant resistance if we're all too busy with bread and circuses. In our case, beer and videogames; or porn and social networks. Whatever." He now directed his attention back to Vine. "I hate to admit it, but Air Farce here is probably right: when the dollar collapses, there'll be chaos for a while, and they'll let us learn what discomfort is really like before they come in with the solution they've wanted to give us all along. We'll be starving, freezing, killing each other over a scrap of food, until the brain-dead survivors, who've been raised by the idiot box and government schools, beg for martial law, regulated distribution of resources, civilian disarmament...the whole nine yards."

"Conspiracy theory," Vine said, thoughtfully. "That's what you're talking about."

"You can believe it's all happening by accident and coincidence if it helps you sleep better," Puttcamp said with a shrug. "But it's happening, for whatever reason."

"I read on the Internet about FEMA internment camps," Vine said. "It just sounds like fearmongering to me."

"A lot of the rumors floating around are, sir," Haugen said, with a nod toward Puttcamp. "Mix in enough silly garbage about space aliens and the Elders of Zion, and it discredits everybody who doubts this is all coincidence, doesn't it? Almost like somebody wants to discredit whistleblowers, maybe?"

"I don't know if all the stories about FEMA are true," Puttcamp said. "But I know some stuff happened after Hurricane Katrina that wasn't legal, and those involved still aren't allowed to talk about it. And I've flown over some facilities that sure look a lot like internment camps...that weren't charted on any map I've seen."

Vine stared at the label on his beer bottle. "Men, I've read history, so I know about what happened in Russia, and Germany, and China. But this is America."

"What you're saying is that it can't happen here, right?" Puttcamp challenged.

Vine set the bottle down a little too forcefully, so that it made a loud thud. "Damn right."

"You'd be right, if this was 50 years ago," Haugen said. "Even 30 years ago. But hell sir, it's no longer a question of if it can happen here. It's happening."

"We've got checks and balances against centralized power," Vine said. "We've got rights protected in the Constitution, that every public servant has to swear an oath to uphold..."

His words trailed off, and he never finished the thought.

Neither pilot stated the obvious. They didn't have to. Vine wasn't stupid; just...willfully ignorant.

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33

D MINUS 30

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND

POTAWATTOMIE COUNTY, OKLAHOMA

––––––––

JOSHUA SPENT A WEEK with the Scarred Wolf family, partly so he could be there to give them the news personally, a week before he and Jennifer tied the knot.

Jennifer's friends and relatives had mixed reactions about her engagement to Josh. It surprised most of them, who assumed Josh wasn't right for her.

Michael Fastwater wasn't surprised. He also seemed to be the most pleased by the news. Gunther was happy for both of them, while Takoda only shook his head and made a scoffing noise.

A natural, accomplished multitasker, Jennifer set about planning the wedding without letting it distract her from enjoying family. At Josh's insistence they wouldn't acquire a marriage license from the state. They would have a small ceremony in the church Jennifer had been attending for years, and would make sure the local paper printed it in the announcement section. Of course there would be pictures and videos posted online, too. Since it was a simple affair, not much notice was required. The preacher scheduled their nuptials for later in the week, after he'd counseled them. Most of Jennifer's planning involved her change of residence.

Tommy found it hard to take much time off, with one of his deputies still on medical leave. another one on vacation, and a heavy workload. Josh joined him at the office for a few days in a row, and they pooled their efforts to fill in the gaps on Lawrence Bertrand, the people working under him, and what he might be planning.

Josh had the ninja hacking skills and Tommy had the official channels and investigative experience. They were careful to avoid the official channels as much as possible, in order not to be compromised, but the detective brain came in handy.

There was too much information, and not enough. There were multiple possibilities for false flag operations but little specific poop to narrow it down to any helpful degree.

"Maybe they're not even planning something," Tommy said, yawning, after a frustrating number of hours fishing around for a clue. "I'm stumped. How could they have ever been truly afraid of me finding out their plans? We haven't uncovered anything better than what's already on the World Wide Web."

"Depends what part of the World Wide Web," Josh replied, standing to stretch. "Most of what's out there is disinformation."

"Well, it sure looks like they've overestimated me," Tommy said. "If they're even..." He exhaled a big breath and stood to stretch, himself. He wanted to believe there were no malevolent efforts to do harm to him or the country. But there was that little matter of the assassination attempt; and being framed for a cop-killing overseas; and the murder of his brother. There was no choice but to believe it. Tommy didn't aspire to self-delusion.

"I appreciate all the work you've been doing on this, Josh," Tommy said. "We might as well call it a day. How 'bout I buy you a burger before we head home?"

"Sounds good to me," Josh replied, hands against his stomach. "You're a slave-driver."

Tommy shut down his work computers, touched base with the dispatcher, and checked on a few other matters. Then they walked out to the parking lot together.

Tommy playfully body-checked his old friend as they walked. "Big day for you coming up, huh?"

"Yeah. Uh-oh. Is this the speech where you threaten me?"

"I wouldn't be much of an uncle if I didn't, right?"

"Well," Josh said, with a slight grin, "if I ever did hurt Jennifer, I'd hope you would kill me. Or scalp me, or something."

Tommy shook his head and simply said, "I know you'll take care of her, nijenina. Even Michael Fastwater is in your corner. He thinks you're just what she needs. That you'll protect her and give her children and all that stuff."

"And keep her in line?" Josh quipped.

Tommy, only half-joking, said, "I think it's her that'll keep you in line."

"Good one, Chief."

Instead of getting in his Blazer, Tommy leaned against it. "How long have you believed this conspiracy stuff?"

Josh stopped and faced his friend. "Since before my tour in Iraq was over. Why?"

"It's just that most conspiracy nuts can't shut up about it," Tommy said.

"I was that way for a while," Josh said.

"I'd call you 'high-functioning' if I was a shrink. You don't even talk about it much."

"Thanks," Josh said, sarcastically. "I only talk about it if I have to. You're used to the idealists, right? Who think they can save the world if only they can wake people up?"

"You don't want to wake people up?" Tommy asked.

"Sure. I'd love to wake them up. I'd also like to ride a flying unicorn to the land of Oz and have a weekend pass in the Emerald City. People don't want to be woken up, Tommy. They consider you the enemy when you try."

"So, because they call you crazy, you just give up?"

"That's not the gist of it, by a long shot," Josh replied. "They call you crazy or stupid or whatever. You show them the patterns of history. Just coincidence, they say. You show them the consistent patterns of foreign and domestic policy, and who is responsible for it. They either think it's ushering us toward utopia, or it's all coincidence, accidentally brought about by misguided, well-intentioned dummies. So you show them evidence of what those 'dummies' are doing behind the scenes to make it all happen; they call you crazy and dismiss it as just silly harmless games played by the rich and powerful. And you're stupid and crazy for assuming it's more than just coincidence when what those people want to happen actually happens, consistently. So you show them quotes from the insiders, revealing their motives, their intentions, and sometimes their methods. They laugh you off and call you stupid and crazy for taking it seriously. You point out that stuff you warned them about years ago has happened, or is happening. They get mad at you for believing it happened for the reasons you said it would. Then, the ultimate smack-down: you find that rare person, who's not deranged, but has opened their eyes and sees what's going on...and they tell you it's wrong to prepare for what's coming, or to take action against it."

Tommy studied his friend's eyes for a moment. They didn't have the youthful light in them they used to, though he still looked very young, otherwise.

"What's the point?" Josh asked. "I don't particularly enjoy beating my head against a rock. It's easier to deceive someone than to convince them they've been deceived."

"Mark Twain," Tommy said, with a half-hearted grin.

"You like that one? Here's another one: 'repeat a lie often and loud enough, and it becomes the truth.' I can't compete with years, decades of programming."

"See, when you say stuff like that, you sound like the typical tinfoil hat type."

Josh shrugged. "I know. Trigger warnings and all that, right? From my perspective, though, when I see otherwise reasonably intelligent people cling so desperately to irrational assumptions in order to dismiss evidence right in front of their face...to me it smacks of conditioning."

"I can't deny what happened to me and Vince," Tommy said. "I just don't believe in this big, overarching plot to take over the world, by the Bilderbergers or whoever."

"I rest my case."

"No, hang on," Tommy said. "I don't buy the official story that Oswald acted alone. The official story about Benghazi is ludicrous. I get that."

"No, Tommy. The official story is right. Just ask the people responsible—they'll tell ya. Ask the people in bed with those responsible—they'll tell ya, too. You tinfoil asshat."

"Politicians don't think past the next election," Tommy said, ignoring Josh's sarcasm. "Conspiracies, by their very nature, have to be very short-lived. Most criminals can't even keep a secret, when their freedom depends on them keeping their mouths shut. The more people involved, and the longer it goes on, the more likely it is that somebody will talk, or slip up."

"Somebody like David Rockefeller?" Josh suggested. "Or Carroll Quigley? Edward Mandell House? Walter Cronkite? Hillary Clinton? Want me to keep going? You mean people who talked or slipped up like that?"

Tommy almost, instinctively, dismissed anything those people might have said as grandiose posing and braggadocio by blue bloods in exclusive country clubs or sophomoric secret fraternities. In other words: a silly, harmless game being acted out by the rich and powerful.

"I'm not gonna call you crazy or stupid," Tommy said. "I just don't buy this James Bond SPECTRE business."

"And why is that?"

"You believe this conspiracy really got underway in 1913, right? When the Federal Reserve Act and Income Tax got pushed through while most of Congress was gone on Christmas leave."

"That was the big turning point in America," Josh said. "But it goes back much farther. To before the French Revolution."

"It's just far-fetched that so many people would invest themselves in this plan, and try to keep it secret, for so long," Tommy said, shrugging.

"I have an even more far-fetched scenario," Josh said. "Let's say that generations of adults, all around the world, of different nationalities, religions, or tribal affiliations, who speak different languages, and who mostly have never even met or heard of each other, all carry out an unspoken agreement with fanatic uniformity to perpetuate some kind of deception. Let's make it something really ridiculous. Let's say the lie they all commit to spreading and maintaining is that a magical fat man from the North Pole uses flying reindeer to deliver presents to good little children all over the planet at the stroke of Midnight once a year; and that all those toys are contained in one sack that he slings over his shoulder."

Tommy frowned and didn't answer right away. "You can't compare a harmless children's fable to a plot to enslave the entire world."

"I'm not comparing the fable itself," Josh said. "Just the conspiracy to hoodwink a whole class of people gullible enough to fall for it."

"Whatever. You know what I mean."

"So the capacity for generations of insiders to maintain a lie doesn't bother you," Josh said. "The part you can't believe is that people would ever use that capacity for something that might harm others. Because people are basically good. They never act out of contempt, arrogance or self-interest. And they certainly wouldn't dream of doing harm to someone else. Especially powerful people. The more powerful they get, the more sterling their character. And they wouldn't be allowed to become rich or powerful in the first place if they weren't nice, honest, transparent people to begin with, who indulge only in 'harmless' behavior. Is that consistent with what you've learned about human nature as a cop?"

Tommy sighed. "I forgot what a sarcastic prick you are. Feel better? Let's go eat."

Josh turned to his own car. "Hey, you got me started. You asked for it."

"Yeah," Tommy said, climbing in his car. "I did."

––––––––

DESPITE THE SEEMINGLY fruitless investigative work, Josh enjoyed himself during the vacation more than he had since farther back than he could remember.

Then the Big Day arrived.

The wedding was a mixture of Christian teaching and Shawnee customs. Jennifer had enlisted the help of her mother and Linda, and had sewn costumes of bleached doeskin for herself, Josh and some of the witnesses. Tommy and Linda still had theirs from long ago, and Tommy still fit in his. Linda's needed some alteration around the hips.

During the ceremony the grinning bridal party danced for the blank-faced groomsmen, each woman singling out her male counterpart for a flirtatious retro-twerk.

Josh had always been attracted to Jennifer's mind and disposition. And she was attractive enough physically, too. He sometimes thought of her as a short, Native American Princess Leia...only she would politely suggest that Luke Skywalker blow a hole in the garbage chute so they could jump in and escape the Death Star's garrison of Storm Troopers, instead of yanking the blaster out of his hands to do it herself.

But that day, with her hair down and fixed just right, her curves showing through the beaded doeskin shift, and wearing a radiant smile, her beauty was stunning. He was crazy about her, and supposed it was safe now to admit it to Jennifer...and himself.

The reception was small and quick, but everyone seemed to have a good time—even Takoda, though his relationship to his family was still strained. Jennifer's mother cried, and got her daughter crying for a while, too; but overall it was a happy send-off.

The honeymoon was one of many odd compromises that the couple made to get things done quickly and efficiently. They drove separately in order to haul all of Jennifer's belongings to Colorado in one trip. But they stopped at a hotel along the way and spent a couple nights there.

The first day back on the mountain was spent getting Jennifer settled in the house. Right away she began to implement a redecoration scheme. But Josh didn't mind, because she jumped in with both feet on tasks like cleaning, cooking, and food rotation. For the first time he understood that old saying he'd heard somewhere: "A man can build a house; but it takes a woman to make it a home."

She seemed to be happy, and was making him happy. He hoped it lasted.

MIAMI, FLORIDA

Lawrence Bertrand had his choice of who to play golf with, right up to the President's handlers. It was important that he made such appearances now and then, but he preferred playing with those of a lower rank. It let him concentrate more on the game, and the lower castes did all the sweating.

There were other factors, too. The press was always hanging around the President, for instance. It's not that Bertrand was worried about them reporting anything he might say, but it just made sense not to have certain conversations with them around. One of them might tip some cool ones at a local watering hole, and tell tales out of school. There were too many leaks already.

Also, he didn't like kowtowing to the trained, polished little Crack Addict in Chief. They got their marching orders from the same source, through most of the same channels, and the pathetic creep could never hack it anywhere true leadership was more important than image and speech-giving.

Bertrand scored a birdie on the third hole and removed his gloves, sitting in the cart to admire the blue sky. There was a nasty winter coming and for some people it was already here. But in Florida the birds were singing, the sun was warm, the grass was green and golf was never interrupted.

His cellphone rang and he checked the caller I.D. It was from his shop at the Data Center. "This is Director Bertrand. What is it?"

The underling introduced himself and said, "Sorry to bother you, sir, but just thought you'd want to know this. There's been some concentrated activity directed toward sensitive information over the last couple days. No breaches into our secure sites...unless they're good enough to do it without detection. But there've been a lot of searches related to subjects that concern unlisted assets, as well as yourself."

That was not surprising by itself. Bloggers were always snooping around. It was routine to identify them and build a profile; but the only immediate action to be taken was by the Nerd Squad...it wasn't his problem.

"And?"

"And we're not going to be able to build a profile on the surfer I'm telling you about, sir. He's managed to send us on a wild goose chase. Whatever I.P. he actually searched from has been effectively cloaked."

"Hmm. That is noteworthy," Bertrand said.

"I hope you know, sir, that there are several hackers out there who can mask their I.P., and we don't disturb you about them. But this one is trolling for information that's close to home. I'm not sure what I can do about it, if anything, so I thought at least you ought to know about it."

"You did the right thing," Bertrand said. "That's good initiative on your part. Don't be afraid to call me on things like this."

He asked to be read a list of the search terms used, and sites visited. He thanked his subordinate again and hung up.

On the cart ride to the next hole, Bertrand mulled this over. He couldn't be sure who was poking around through his back yard, but he couldn't help thinking of that damned elusive Indian from Oklahoma. He probably should have done what it takes to finish him, blowback or not.

It was a little harder to blunt public sympathy when the target wasn't white. But only a little. He could still be implicated in something. Or maybe an accident could be arranged. The bigger problem was that the redskin nuisance had run for sheriff, and won. Now Chief Fly-in-the-Ointment was higher profile, and any corrective action would invite too much scrutiny from the rogue elements out there.

More and more were listening to the rogue elements. It made business tricky and sticky.

Plus, the Indian had seemingly settled down, content to mind his own business. Maybe he still was, and somebody else was snooping. The Indian hadn't been asking questions or otherwise investigating through official channels. He'd been very careful in that regard, in fact.

Bertrand had reasoned that, so long as the Indian behaved himself, he wouldn't need to be dealt with until the gloves came off for everybody. But news like what he heard from the Data Center made loose ends bother Bertrand even more than normal.

And quiet and well-behaved or not, the Indian was a loose end.

Bertrand had never completely let go of Tommy Scarred Wolf. He had people who talked to people, who had the Chief of the Tribal Police working an angle on him. But absolutely nothing had come of that, so far. It was time to be a little more diligent.

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34

D MINUS 21

RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

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DEANGELO JEFFRIES MAINTAINED a steady connection with Jake McCallum since meeting him in the hospital overseas. He stopped by to visit when possible, called every couple weeks and emailed in between. From what he heard, McCallum was doing a great job and the shooters on his team liked him. He served no-knock warrant after no-knock warrant, making several collars and confiscating some nice hardware.

Today DeAngelo had to put on a different face. He couldn't come at this like a buddy. And he couldn't do it in their usual casual venue over chicken wings and beer, either. He had McCallum meet him at an office in the local substation.

"What's up?" Mac asked when he got there and folded his massive frame into the chair beside DeAngelo's desk.

"We got problems," DeAngelo said. He didn't affect the Ebonics or 'hood slouch this time. That didn't fit the frame he built for this meeting.

"I didn't squeeze you for information when we first met. I was easy on you; accepted the song you sang after getting your story straight with the white girl. That's coming back to bite me, now."

Mac scratched his cheek. "How so?"

"Your war buddy, Scarred Wolf, is involved in something we can't ignore."

Mac looked skeptical. DeAngelo had to work this carefully.

The girls had been questioned about everything that happened in Indonesia and on the boat ride back. They were confused about the whole deal and their memories jumbled—normal for a traumatic experience when you've been drugged and raped. So they couldn't provide much detail and they weren't even sure about the names of all Scarred Wolf's accomplices. Questioning the son, Gunther, and the niece, Jenny, had been futile. They acted like they didn't remember much, either. But it was just an act.

The interrogations went nowhere. But the other girls remembered just enough of the interactions between accomplices to give DeAngelo an angle.

He had to play it just right or Mac would clam up, too.

"How long has he been affiliated with hate groups?" DeAngelo asked.

"Hate groups?"

"Like white supremacists. That kind of thing."

Mac grimaced at him. "I don't know where you're getting that. First of all, Tommy's not white. Kind of disqualifies him, don't you think?"

"You don't understand, Mac. He hangs out with those kind of people."

Mac's eyebrows furrowed, and DeAngelo saw the flicker of doubt he hoped for.

"And at least one of those kind of people were with you and him in Indonesia," DeAngelo went on. "Weren't they?"

"Tell me what's going on, DeAngelo."

DeAngelo leaned back in his chair and waited for a moment, so that he'd appear to be considering whether or not to share what he said next. "One of Scarred Wolf's gun nut buddies is active in an Aryan Nation cell. They've been collecting explosives. Enough to kill a lot of people. There's reason to suspect they're going to do just that if we don't get a handle on them quick."

Mac looked part skeptical, part horrified. "Are you sure about this?"

DeAngelo feigned anger. "Look, man, I'd expect that kind of shit from a white man. Don't go there, Mac. This is brother-to-brother. I don't snow you; you don't snow me."

Mac sighed. "There is one guy. Right-wing whack-job. I never did figure out how a redneck like that could be friends with Tommy."

"I doubt if he's really a friend," DeAngelo said. "Who can say how these sick minds work. What's his name?"

Mac sighed again. "Rennenkampf. First name Josh or John or something like that."

DeAngelo jotted something down in his notepad. "What's his connection to Scarred Wolf?"

"They were in Fifth Group together. Same A-Team."

"That's Fifth Special Forces Group?"

Mac nodded.

Still writing, DeAngelo asked, "Got anything else on him? Address? Phone number? Email?"

Mac shook his head. "I think he lives in the mountains somewhere, but don't know for sure. If he ever said more, I don't remember."

"Why in the mountains, do you think?"

"Well, his call sign was 'Mountain Man.' On the radio. Doesn't mean anything, I guess."

"Who else went with you?" DeAngelo knew six men touched ground inside Indonesia, including Scarred Wolf's son and brother who was killed. He had a good idea who the rest of them were, but his superiors needed confirmation and they needed whatever other information they could get.

Mac shook his head. "Rennenkampf is the one. If anybody is involved in DomTer stuff, it would be him."

"We need to know everything," DeAngelo said. "You might be right. That's fine. If so, that's great. But that's not your call, Mac. You were in Delta—you know intelligence gathering doesn't work like that. Don't strain our friendship just because you want to avoid looking like a snitch."

Threatening their relationship was a gamble. He needed Mac a lot more than Mac needed him. But big gambles were sometimes necessary on the road to change.

Mac thought it over and DeAngelo let him have a few seconds. He would browbeat a man of lesser intelligence and not give him time to think. But Mac might balk at a hard sell. DeAngelo would just give him a nudge or two, let Mac ponder the guy he already didn't trust, and basically let him talk himself into giving the others up.

"Suppose Scarred Wolf is clean, Mac. In that case, do you really want him at risk from this psycho? Or the others might get blindsided, if they're clean."

Mac continued to mull it over.

"With what's happening out there to our people," DeAngelo said, with an expansive gesture meant to include the entire country, "and what's about to happen in Amarillo when that verdict comes in...you know they're gonna let those white bastards walk. With all that, and worse, building up every day, you really want to let the White Man get away with another one?"

After a few cycles of nudge-and-wait, Mac talked. When he finished, DeAngelo was confident he had spilled all he knew.

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35

D MINUS 20

LAS ANIMAS COUNTY, COLORADO

––––––––

JOSHUA DID HIS BEST to be sociable at the little church down the road Jennifer had found. When visitors were asked to stand up, he did so. Jennifer teased him for blushing, afterwards.

Josh sat through the singing, and the announcements, and the praying, and was able to pay attention to the sermon. Then toward the end, the preacher said something so stupid it was shocking. Josh turned right and left to observe the reactions of the people in the congregation.

After the service was over and they were driving home, Jennifer asked him, “So, what did you think?”

“Next,” Josh replied, simply.

“What does that mean?” she asked, frowning.

“It means let's try a different one next week.”

She studied him for a moment, then asked, “What was it you didn't like?”

“That preacher's dirty,” he said.

“Dirty? Why do you say that?”

“He's either dirty or stupid. And he seems to be fairly intelligent.”

She stared at him, awaiting further explanation.

“You didn't catch his little plug for government control of the Internet?”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, Joshua...”

“Well, nothing. You see how he appealed to emotion there, saying how he didn't like the idea of teenagers being able to look at porn? Oh sure, that's what it's really about. And who would dare challenge him after framing it that way? Who wants to be accused of supporting pornography for teenagers?”

“Pornography is a huge problem,” Jennifer said. “Have you seen the statistics?”

“Give me a break,” Josh said. “You guys really believe that giving the government control over who can say what means that it's gonna be Christian-friendly censorship? The government's got control over plenty of other stuff already—how's that working out for you? Pornography's the last thing they're worried about.”

“I guess that was a little manipulative,” Jennifer admitted, “framing it that way.”

“The Internet is the one leak they just haven't been able to plug,” Josh said. “Too many whistles are getting blown in alternative media, so they have to shut it down. That's what it's about, period. And you're either really stupid if you fall for this smokescreen about porn, or you approve of what they're trying to do, so you're regurgitating their lies.”

“Still, calling him 'dirty' is kind of harsh,” Jennifer said.

“It is what it is,” Josh said. “Did Jesus help spread deception for the Romans, to keep his tax-exempt status? 'Cause if he did, that's not a god I'm gonna follow.”

“Okay. We'll try another church next time.”

“Why does it have to be in a fancy building, anyway?” Josh asked.

“You thought the building was fancy?” Jennifer asked. “I didn't.”

“Well, why all the formality, is what I'm asking. Is that the way Jesus wanted you to do church?”

Jennifer thought about this for a few moments. “Actually, the church was underground for the first couple centuries, I guess. A lot of Christians were martyred, so they met in secret, kind of. Like they have to do in China, or the Muslim countries. You've seen the fish symbol everywhere, right?”

Josh nodded, sneering. “Yeah. Some real asshole drivers put it on their cars.”

“Language, please,” she admonished. “Anyway, you know where that came from?”

“Didn't Jesus tell his first followers to become fishers of men?”

“Good!” she said, smiling. “That's right. But also, when you ran into somebody on the road in the Roman Empire, but didn't know if you could speak freely with them, you would draw half of that fish symbol in the dirt with your foot while you talked. If they drew the other half of it, then you knew it was a fellow believer, and you could trust them.”

“Sounds Masonic,” Josh said. “Secret gestures and handshakes and all that.”

“Well, it wasn't Masonic. It was way before the Free Masons. And it was to keep themselves and their families from getting fed to the lions—not to keep secrets or ace job interviews or win court cases.”

“Funny you should bring this up,” Josh said. “You know you're gonna have to go underground again, right?”

“They'd never crack down on the Church in America,” Jennifer said. “People here would go crazy.”

“They have to be subtle and gradual about everything in America,” Josh said, thumbing over his shoulder. “The frog is already boiling, though. But anyway, just like in the Soviet Union, they'll give organized religion a pass. Guys like that preacher back there who sell out and do as they're told—they'll be allowed to go on, so long as they toe the line. If you want the real deal, though, you're gonna have to break free of the formal structure.”

“That's your answer for everything, Joshua.”

“From what you just told me, it was the answer for the folks Jesus taught, too.”

They fell silent. Joshua pondered the fish symbol identification. As someone for whom communication was a preoccupation for most of his life, it fascinated him.

He genuinely believed that Christianity would have to go underground again, or be thoroghly corrupted—just like genuine patriotism.

What would the equivalent of that “challenge and password” be in modern times?

36

D MINUS 13

AMARILLO, TEXAS

––––––––

TO KEN FOWLER, IT SEEMED the whole world was waiting for the verdict on the trial of Delton Williams's killers. And everybody had an opinion on how it would go. Ken kept the store open but tuned to a cable news channel a half hour before the verdict was scheduled to be announced.

Ken had gotten out of the cable business two years before. He used his savings to open a store that sold cellphones, tablets and accessories. He managed to save enough because he was frugal; worked overtime whenever it was available; had no expensive habits; was unmarried with no kids; and avoided long-term relationships.

He opened the store not quite in the 'hood, but in the inner city, because he couldn't afford rent in a fancy suburban strip mall. It turned out to be as good a place for that business as anywhere else. Plenty of college aged kids rented cheap apartments in the area, and even hood rats just had to have the latest gadget. Taxes and regulations made it hard to turn a profit for any small business, but Ken chose the right product to sell, and he remained frugal.

A couple doors down from him was a sporting goods store, which seemed to do good business for such an urban environment. And as outdoorsy as the neckbeards and their treehugger girlfriends were who patronized the place, they couldn't live without the latest technological doo-dad, either. Ken got some decent overflow business from there.

Today, however, business was light. It might be best to close early to plywood over the windows and front door before the verdict was announced. His store was a few miles away from where Delton Williams was beaten, but riots could spread.

***

SURROUNDING THE AMARILLO Courthouse, and other government buildings, was a small army of police. They wore body armor, combat helmets and ballistic glasses. They bore pistols, shotguns, carbines or grenade launchers for tear gas shells. They were backed by MRAP vehicles, some mounted with water cannons. It was a scene that just didn't look right in America.

Jurors, attorneys, city government officials and other V.I.P.s exited the Courthouse inside the thick blue lines. They got in their vehicles surrounded by phalanxes of cops and blew town before the news broke, some with police escort.

There was no snow on the ground in Amarillo, but it was chilly. In the 'hood most everyone stayed indoors watching the TV. No shouting, cussing, woofer bumping or sirens echoed through the streets. Almost nobody could be seen outdoors, hanging out or wandering in the alleys. Some of the drunks even sobered up for the occasion.

It wasn't coincidence or osmosis that had the inner city all on the same sheet of music. Their marching orders had come by committee. From the veiled, non-committal statements by the Attorney General down to the blatant declarations of the Panthers, Crips and community organizers of various affiliations (most of whom came in from out of town for the occasion), people who were normally at each other's throats sat prepared to spring into collective action when the verdict was announced.

The talking heads on television announced that the police involved in the fatal beating had been acquitted. Thousands of doors banged open at once and people flooded into the streets, shouting their rage. They wielded sticks, bats, pipes, knives...and some had guns. This wasn't going down like it had in the past. Whitey wasn't going to get away with it this time.

***

JOHN TASPER HAD COVERED the windows of his sporting goods store with plywood, but for now he kept the front door propped open. He stood outside the door so he could observe down the street in both directions. He hoped there would be no riots. In fact, he hoped the cops involved in the beating all went to prison, because he saw the videos of what they did to Delton Williams. But if they beat the rap, as cops usually did, he at least hoped that the riots wouldn't spread to this area.

The verdict was announced, and the cops beat the rap.

He decided he should stay at the store just in case. And he should carry his loaded Browning 9mm...just in case.

He found it curious that with all the police mobilized and geared up like they were ready to do battle with ISIS or something, that absolutely none of them were in this business district. Looking up and down the empty street, John figured somebody could fly through there at 120 miles-per-hour and not have to worry about getting pulled over on a night like this.

Somebody called to him from across the street. "Hey, you hear anything yet about which way the mobs are going?" It was the guy from the cellphone store, who also appeared to be packing heat.

Most of the stores John could see were boarded up, like his. A couple of them had "BLACK OWNED" spraypainted across the plywood. This was one situation where John couldn't blame people for playing the race card—if they had it to play.

"No—nothing," John replied. "The news shows are all still filming around the courthouse."

The other man walked out into the middle of the street and took a long stare in both directions. "I guess it's early yet."

John walked out to take a look from the center of the empty street, himself. With the sun setting, the landscape was tinted orange. John thought the scene looked like something from a zombie movie—right before the zombies attacked. "They only just announced the verdict."

The man extended his hand. "Ken Fowler."

John shook it. "John Tasper. Nice to meet you."

"It'd be nice under other circumstances, right?"

They shared a chuckle.

"Never seen the city like this," John said. "It's like a ghost town."

"Not for long, I'm afraid," Ken replied, and pursed his lips.

"You think they'll come this way?" John asked.

"They are going every way," announced a voice with an Indian accent. Ken and John turned their heads toward the sound and saw a short, dark man heading their way from the cafe on Ken's side of the street. John had never eaten there, being a little wary of any Asian food—even from India.

"They are leaving their neighborhoods and going in every direction," the Indian man said, when he reached them.

"How do you know this?" Ken asked.

"The local access channel is reporting it," the man replied. "It does not look random at all. It looks rather organized."

"Oh shit," Ken said.

The Indian extended his hand. "I am Nihar. I own the Calcutta Cafe."

They shook his hand and introduced themselves. Nihar looked at John's Browning and Ken's Glock. "This is like the wild west out here. Are you going to shoot somebody?"

John frowned. "I hope nobody has to. I'm hoping the most I'll have to do is scare somebody into leaving my store alone. With any luck, maybe they'll just pass this area by."

"You don't have a gun?" Ken asked Nihar, who shook his head.

"Then you really ought to get home," John said. "Stay with your family. Nothing good can come out of you being here."

"My family is with me," Nihar said, pointing back to the cafe.

"Are you crazy?" John asked. "You need to get them out of here right now!"

Nihar's eyes were wide. He looked on the verge of panic. "But...if I lose my cafe, I lose everything."

"You being here ain't gonna change whether you lose it or not," Ken said, "if you can't defend it."

Another man joined them, from the clothing store. He at least had a stun gun and some mace. They stood talking in the middle of the street.

All of them urged Nihar to take his family and evacuate while the streets were still clear. They made no promises, but told him they would try to keep rioters away from his business if possible.

They all stopped talking when an explosion sounded in the distance.

"What was that?"

"A gunshot?"

"Maybe something just got blown up," Ken said. "Rioters set places on fire when there's nothing left to steal."

"Maybe it's the cops," the clothing store owner suggested, hopefully. "Maybe they're moving out to stop the riot. That could have been a flash-bang or something."

John turned to Nihar. "This might be your last chance to get your family somewhere safe."

Nihar thought this over for a moment, then nodded. Finally he returned to his cafe. Minutes later they heard a car engine start from behind the cafe, and the vehicle sped away.

"You might should do that, too," John said, to the clothing store owner.

"Really?" The man hoisted his stun gun. "You don't think I can keep them away with this?"

They never answered. All of them heard it at once. The source of the noise was so distant, it had gone unnoticed for a while. When a car alarm went off, though, they suddenly noticed the din growing underneath it, composed of glass breaking, smashing noises, and hundreds of enraged voices.

"Good luck," Ken said, turning to go back to his store.

John bid him and the other guy the same, and went back to his store, shutting and locking the door behind him.

His phone rang. The caller ID showed it was his wife. She was probably worried and just checking on him. He answered, and was immediately taken aback by her hysterical demeanor.

"I got a call from Janice," she said. "They're tearing her neighbor's house down!"

"Who is?" he asked.

"The rioters! Her neighbor had a flag in his front yard, and still has those bumper stickers on his car. They broke his door down! Janice hears screaming from inside the house! John, he's got a wife and kids in there!"

John swallowed. "Just keep calm, okay?"

"Keep calm? John, she says they're headed this way! I hear gunshots down the street!"

Icy fingers tickled down John's back. He had assumed the riots would be limited to business districts as they had been in the past. The agitators stirring them up were uniformly socialist, and it only made sense they would try to focus the mob's anger on “capitalists.” This time they were spilling over through residential neighborhoods?

John had moved his family after the Feds raided his house. Too many bad memories for the wife and kids. Plus, living closer to the store meant a shorter commute and therefore less gas money; and his mortgage and utilities were less expensive in the city than in the suburbs. They lived in a mixed neighborhood where there didn't seem to be that much racial strife. It certainly didn't seem to be a likely target for rioters.

"Alright, let's not take any chances," John said. "Take the kids, throw some blankets and pillows in the car, bring some snacks, and come here to the store. Park in back and you'll all stay here with me tonight."

"Will we be safe there?" she asked, voice quavering.

"I've got the windows boarded up," he said. "I've got the Browning. I need you to load the Sig/Saur and keep it in your purse. Take all the other guns and put them in the trunk. Okay?"

"Okay," she said.

"Come straight here," he said. "Don't stop for anything."

***

THE MOBS BYPASSED MOST of the houses in residential areas at first. Exceptions were made for homes which appeared to be occupied by the enemy. Indicators of enemy occupation included signs like one that said "Land of the Free; Home of the Brave," or bumper stickers like an old one on some honky's car that said "Real Scandals. Phony President." Confusion ensued when some driveways with stickered cars were identified as being part of the wrong house. But once a window was smashed or a door broken down, nothing inside the house was off-limits, whether the enemy lived there or not.

In the mixed neighborhoods, white and Hispanic families mostly stayed indoors. There was good reason to be afraid. Some houses were being set on fire. Other houses had armed occupants who chased away the mob. In a couple cases, the mob called their bluff and shots were fired.

White residents called friends and family, panicked and exaggerating about the scope of the violence. What was in actuality a few houses, and occasional gunshots, became the neighborhood burning down and a firefight on the streets after they finished telling the story. The recipients of those phone calls made calls of their own, each adding their own exaggeration or embellishment until fear blotted out whatever sanity there had been before the verdict.

On Polk Street, young men began appearing outside by twos and threes. They wore pointy-toed boots and cowboy hats. They congregated into ever-growing clusters, expressing their opinions about what "them niggers" were doing to the white folks of Amarillo, and what they might try when they reached here.

It didn't take long for them to form a mob of their own, and start heading toward the riots, to teach them coons a lesson about who was really bad. Others heard the white mob outside and came out to join them, bringing whatever weapons they could find. One of the charismatic, spontaneous leaders summed up the sentiment of the mob at large: "It's time to settle this nigger problem Texas-style."

***

JOHN'S WIFE ARRIVED behind the store with their kids and some provisions just before the mob got there. John went out the back door and saw the mob bearing down on them, as his wife threw open the car door and got out, eyes nearly bugging out of her head.

John paused to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You did good. But keep it together. Get everything in the store, right now. I'm going to keep them away from you. Just get everything out of the car and into the store as fast as you can, okay?"

She nodded, wiped tears from her eyes and grabbed an armload of bags from the car, telling their kids to do the same. John went to the rear of the car, positioning himself between his family and the advancing rioters.

The angry black faces were close enough to distinguish, now, lit by the lamp posts over on the street. The foremost ranks of the mob broke into a run, frenzied at the sight of live meat. Heart pounding like a jackhammer, John pulled the Browning, hoping he'd only have to fire a warning shot to give his family some time.

When the front runners saw that John had a pistol they slowed to a stop, and almost got trampled by those behind them. John checked over his shoulder and saw his son hauling an armload of guns from the trunk. His wife and daughter were already inside.

"How much more is in the car?" John asked.

"I think that's all of it, Dad."

His son was obviously scared, but was still working like a trouper, while his sister and mother were safe inside.

"Good job, son. Get in there but don't shut the door yet. I'll be right behind you."

His son complied. John backed up, shutting his wife's trunk and car door as he passed. He didn't bother locking it—that would just cause the rioters to bust the windows in. All that was left in the car was the stereo. If they only stole that, maybe the damage would be minimal.

John backed toward the open door. He was going to make it. The rioters were leery of his Browning. He would be able to get inside and lock the door before they reached him, even if they began running again. Then he saw a young guy covered with gang tatts push from behind to the front rank, holding a gun.

John felt the blow as he heard the crack of the shot. Searing pain creased his arm and side. He fell back and would have gone down, but hit the door instead. The corner of the steel door split his scalp and hurt like blazes. He got his bearings and lurched inside, pulling the door shut and locking both the knob and the deadbolt.

His wife screamed. His daughter was crying. He heard the mob outside get closer—both the ones in back he'd just escaped from and the much larger group on the street in front. Hard objects banged off the steel door. He heard glass breaking—they were smashing the windows in his wife's car anyway.

He touched the throbbing painful spot on his head and his hand came back bloody. He pulled at his shirt to see what all damage the bullet had done to him. His phone began ringing.

"See who that is, will you, son? I don't want to get it bloody."

John's wife got ahold of herself at the mention of blood. Then she saw it, and crossed the store to get the first aid kit.

Their son pulled the phone from its holster and checked the caller I.D.

"It's Uncle Joe."

John sat on the floor, trying to gather his wits. His wife brought the first aid kit, and began working to stop the bleeding.

Something hit the steel door so hard and so heavy, it shook the whole wall. It had to be a human body, John thought. He was thankful that the door opened outward, so that it was secure by both the jamb and the deadbolt.

His wife took the phone and answered it.

***

JOE TASPER HAD BEEN down sick with the flu for the last couple days. The fever was bad and he'd spent almost every hour of those two days in bed. He still felt horrible, but at one point remembered the last conversation with his brother. John had said something about the possibility of a riot if the verdict didn't go against the cops.

Joe turned on his television and saw that the verdict had been announced already. And there were, indeed, riots.

He called his brother, who would probably be keeping vigil at the store.

His sister in law answered. In a shrill, hitching, sobbing voice she blurted out a long monologue with almost no space in between words. The gist of it was that the whole family was at the store; rioters were outside the store trying to get in; and John had been shot. In the background he could hear pounding on the doors of the store, and his niece crying.

Where were the cops, Joe wanted to know. He'd seen hordes of them on the news, armored and geared up.

His sister in law didn't know where the police were, but they sure weren't outside breaking up the riot.

With a surge of adrenalin, Joe got dressed in a hurry. The danger his brother was in cut through the fog of his fever. He grabbed boxes of shells, his 12 gauge Mossberg from the closet, wrapped it in a blanket and ran down the outside stairs to his truck.

His apartment was in the suburbs. It was doubtful the riots would reach his neighborhood on foot. So ordinarily he would be safe if he just stayed put. Instead, he had to run toward the trouble. The sound of his terrified niece crying in the background haunted him. She'd been through enough already as a little girl.

His brother was shot, but he didn't know how serious the wound was. John's wife said something about trying to stop the bleeding, and that sounded bad. It was doubtful an ambulance would risk the rioters to get to him.

And what if they managed to break in? Or what if they set the store on fire with John and his family inside?

Traffic was light that evening and it got lighter as he drew closer to the city proper. What traffic there was headed the opposite way. People were getting the hell out of Dodge. Joe put the hammer down and negotiated the roads just as fast as he could safely go.

Less than seven miles from the store, a cop car pulled out of a speed trap behind him with lights flashing.

He couldn't believe this. Just could not believe it. Hundreds of cops surrounded City Hall and the Courthouse, protecting the fat cats while people like his brother were under siege, but this guy had nothing better to do than hand out speeding tickets.

He kept going. If the pig wanted to follow him right into the riot, maybe he'd have no choice but to do his job.

The cop gave chase for over a mile.

Joe would have run the stoplight, but a fire engine, ladder truck and ambulance crossed his path at the intersection, sirens and horns wailing. They weren't heading in the direction of the store. At least they were on their way to help somebody. Joe hit the brakes, hard.

When he came to a stop, the police car rolled in front of him at an angle, parking so that it cut him off.

***

OFFICER CLEVELAND PARKER adjusted his belt when he stepped outside his cruiser, and turned his big Mag-Lite on, his other hand unflapping his holster. He clocked this fool doing over twice the legal speed limit. It was too bad the jails were going to be full of brothers soon, because he'd love to throw this white boy in the slammer.

Then again, maybe this pink toe was more than a speeder. He was driving toward the trouble instead of away from it, so unless he was crazy or on drugs, he must be up to no good. Either way, Cleveland would make sure he lost his license.

The pickup truck's headlights switched to high beams, impairing his vision. This clown thought he was cute. Cleveland liked to blast a pulled-over vehicle with his own high beams, and add the side spot for good measure. Then when he reached the driver's window, he liked to blind them with the Mag-Lite. He didn't appreciate this punk using his techniques.

"Turn off those lights and shut off your engine!" he commanded, pulling his pistol. Oh, he was going to ruin this fool's life, for sure.

Those were the last coherent thoughts Cleveland Parker would ever have. The pickup's door swung open, and less than a second later most of Cleveland's head disintegrated in a hail of buckshot.

***

JOE TASPER AND HIS pickup truck were gone by the time the Polk Street boys passed the scene of the traffic stop. So were Cleveland Parker's sidearm, his burner piece, the riot gun from the car, all his ammo, and his ballistic vest. The Polk Street Boys found the lifeless uniformed black body on the street next to the car, and stripped it of valuables without so much as a pause to consider what might have happened. If any of them appreciated the irony, it was lost in the mobthink

One of them got behind the wheel. Others piled in until the car was full. Others hopped on the hood, trunk and fenders, whooping rebel yells and cattle calls. The overloaded cruiser now led the mob toward the riots. One of the young men in the front seat got on the police radio, laughing, and made many comments about the "headless nigger cop." He hoped there would be plenty more dead cops before the night was over, because they were obviously useless.

***

WILLIE MAE HARRIS HAD sore feet. She wasn't used to walking so far.

She and many other women of various ages had followed the advanced party of looters at a safe distance. Her son Rick was up there, and she tried to keep track of him. Her daughter Shirolle and grandchild Antwoshae were in the same group as her. She lost track of the rest of her household along the way, but hopefully they'd be able to find some good stuff. In any case, her, Rick, Shirolle and Antwoshae would grab all they could carry.

She heard a gunshot from the alley behind a boarded-up store. The skittish crowd recoiled at the sound, but realized the action was happening elsewhere and kept going.

Rick turned around, eyes searching the group of women behind him. "Mama?"

"Go on up there!" Willie Mae called to him, pointing to the side of the street opposite where the gunshot came from. "Try them stores over there! Act like you got some sense, boy. Damn!"

Rick couldn't hear her over all the noise, but understood by her gesture where he should go. He pushed to the other side of the street.

A big commotion went on up ahead. Willie Mae asked the folks on either side of her what was going on. In time word was passed along from the front: there was a clothing store up there with some nice, expensive name brands.

The forward progress of the looting party slowed and stopped now that it reached a prime resource conglomeration. Willie Mae and her peeps went forward until they saw a swarm of young men working to tear the plywood shielding off a store front.

The plywood came down with a ripping sound and a chorus of victorious profanity. Glass shattered as the young men smashed out the windows and flooded into the store.

Willie Mae grabbed Shirolle and pushed her forward, then gestured for Antwoshae to go with her. Willie brought up the rear. She was jostled around and nearly crushed a few times by others, but managed to avoid cutting herself stepping inside the shattered store front window.

Something was happening in the center of the store. Racks were knocked over as a group of maybe nine young brothas swarmed on something or somebody, kicking and beating on it with their weapons. Word was passed back that some white fool used a stun gun on one brotha, and sprayed Mace at another. Willie Mae turned to the shelves while others were distracted by the violent beating.

Antwoshae found some nice sneakers, and Shirolle some designer shoes. Willie was only able to get a suit before everything was picked clean, and almost lost that to a young brotha with a knife before he took a better look and decided he didn't like the suit. She didn't have a chance to check the size, but was sure she could sell it if it didn't fit somebody in her house.

Something else buzzed through the crowd, and people evacuated the clothing store, trampling others in their haste. She spotted Rick and grabbed his arm. "Where they all goin'?"

Rick bent down to speak in her ear. "There a store we done passed already. Got cellphones and stuff, Moms."

"Well get over there," Willie said. "I'll catch up. Get me one of them iPhones and a few chargers."

***

KEN FOWLER USED HIS outside security cameras to watch the developments outside. At first the mob passed his store by. It looked like he and the "BLACK OWNED" stores might survive.

He shook his head, biting back the rage, as the rioters got inside the clothing store. His video feeds, with only the street lamps for lighting, didn't pick out enough detail to see faces. It looked like a solid mass of black cancer out there.

Then they came back toward his store.

Fear and anger made him feel weak and energetic at the same time. He took a position behind one of his merchandise counters, pulled his Glock and waited to see what happened.

They went after his door. They beat on it with hard implements. Ken's blood ran cold as he heard the plywood cracking over the din of cussing, yelling voices.

Ken had gone the extra mile securing the plywood, and they had a lot more trouble with it than they were expecting. Still, sliver by sliver, they hacked and ripped it away. Finally the plywood shielding was gone. An electric charge wrapped around Ken's brain and vibrated in his teeth. If he hadn't urinated earlier, he probably would have pissed his pants right then.

The glass panel of the door exploded inward when a salvo of bricks hit it. A dark body appeared in the opening, silhouetted by the glow of the street lights.

No lights were on inside the store. Ken leaned over the counter in the darkness, took aim, and fired.

The body fell backwards. Another figure appeared in the opening, stooping over the first. Ken dropped it with another shot. Over the ringing in his ears, Ken noticed the pitch and volume of the crowd noise change. Then, incredibly, another figure appeared in the opening, yelling something at him like, "Yo, man, hold up! Hold up, in there!"

Ken fired again, and that figure went down. There was a pause in the attack, and Ken couldn't tell what was going on. He changed magazines and pushed jacketed hollow points into the first mag during the lull.

Some kind of activity blurred just outside the door but Ken had no clear shot at anything.

Something pounded on the steel back door, but he was fairly sure they couldn't break that one down.

A hand appeared in the front doorway, holding a bottle with a rag stuffed in the neck. The rag was burning. A brick came flying in from the street, but instead of sailing inside and hurting Ken or anything in the store, it hit the bottle before the hand could chuck it inside. Liquid flame burst outward and a torch-like apparition tumbled out onto the street, screaming. Ken might have laughed if he wasn't so scared.

Somebody else appeared in the door, fired two quick shots with a small caliber pistol, and dodged back out of sight before Ken could draw a bead on him. The shots were wild, coming nowhere near him, but they provoked him to action. If he didn't do something, it was only a matter of time before somebody with a gun or another Molotov Cocktail got lucky.

Ken gritted his teeth, climbed over the counter and marched to the door. This close he could see more than he had from farther back. He brought the Glock up level, taking aim at one of the figures...

The guy with the small caliber pistol appeared again, sticking his gun inside the door for another wild shot. Ken grabbed his wrist and yanked hard. the skinny man smacked into the door frame and staggered to regain his balance and pull back. Ken shoved the Glock's muzzle into the guy's chest and fired. The man flew backwards and landed like a limp rag doll on the street. A chorus of shouts erupted in the immediate area.

Ears ringing and blood thumping in his temples, Ken stepped through the door. He pivoted left and fired into a big man up close. The man went down. He pivoted right and fired at a muscular kid running away, and missed.

The area cleared as looters saw him, saw the gun, realized what he was doing with it, and ran.

Ken surveyed the destruction all around him, wrought by these urban savages. The anger burned hotter than the fear at this point. He shot at a couple who didn't run (or didn't run fast enough) and that convinced the rest they should clear away from this particular area with a quickness.

"You better get your black ass away from my store," he bellowed, "before I put a cap in it!"

***

JOE TASPER DROVE DOWN the street and saw it clogged with people up ahead. The people he saw had bats, pipes, and other weapons. Joe floored the gas. Some of the rioters thought they could intimidate the driver of the Chevy truck into stopping. For some reason they didn't believe the driver was willing to run them over.

When the pickup rammed one of them, who went down and underneath, causing the vehicle to bounce roughly as the tires ran over the body, reality sank in. Cussing and screaming, they cleared the street as the truck bore down on them.

The crowd parted before Joe like the Red Sea before Moses. He slid to a stop right in front of the sporting goods store and threw the door open. He stepped out slinging the Mossberg around his back and pumping a shell into the breach of the police riot gun. He gave the looters no time to debate if he was as merciless on foot as he was behind the wheel, by blowing the nearest man right off his feet.

Some whirled and ran. Others backed away, then turned and ran. Joe fired into their backs for good measure. The shot had a good spread at that range and a couple of them yelped and went tumbling.

Joe posted himself in front of the door, screaming obscenities at the looters in his raw, scratchy voice. Somewhere in his fever-fogged mind he knew the cops were going to come for him eventually. He would kill every single one of them he could. They wouldn't take him alive. If he didn't have his brother's family to worry about, he would go find some cops right now.

***

THE MOB DECIDED TO move on, hoping to find some easier prey farther out. In just a few blocks they crossed paths with the white mob from Polk Street. A rumble ensued.

The organizers of the various black rioting and looting forces remained in touch via cellphones. Some of their followers wanted to unleash their surprise weapons on the gang of rednecks. Their leaders insisted they save the big stuff for the po-po.

***

WHEN THE POLICE FINALLY did move out to suppress the riots, they dealt with the rumble-in-progress first. It was a shock to see that one of their cars had been captured. It meant the rumors were probably true about one of their own getting killed already.

And that pissed them off. They brought up an MRAP with a water cannon, and put some tear gas into the convulsing mass of humanity as well, but were more than happy to deal out deadly force on an individual basis to the young men who wanted to continue fighting. They would justify it all in the paperwork later.

There was solidarity among the boys in blue. There would be no whistle-blowing on each other.

But the looters in the melee with the Polk Street gang were only one faction. Other mobs were wreaking havoc in other parts of the city. When the cops finally engaged them, they ran into automatic weapons and rocket launchers. If the rioters had known anything about tactics, they would have killed hundreds—not just dozens—of Amarillo's Finest.

***

TWO VETERANS, JIMMY and Bill, called their network of like-minded friends and gathered together at Bill's house. All of them brought pistols and rifles; a few of them brought shotguns as well. They wore urban camouflage pattern fatigues, ballistic armor, including helmets for some, and mostly standardized load-bearing equipment. They had a brief operations order regarding a roadblock at a nearby major intersection.

Rioters had barricaded the streets to stop traffic and attack commuters, dragging them from their vehicles. Rumors flew that they were killing and raping; but all the militia men agreed that they were certainly robbing and beating people at the very least. They remembered what happened to Reginald Denny in the Los Angeles riots a couple decades before.

Bill had an extended cargo van which was beige with several primer gray patches. They removed the license plate. The men piled into it and Bill drove them to a parking lot two blocks from the intersection in question.

They performed a last minute commo check with their radios. Three of the older, less mobile men were left to guard the van, forming a triangular perimeter. The rest of them formed two fireteams and moved in bounding overwatch toward the objective.

They hadn't traveled far when they sighted rioters, still half a block from the intersection. Bill had everyone find cover and assigned sectors of fire while making sure rear and flank security was covered.

They opened up on the mob.

Rioters dropped by twos and threes, some not dead, but screaming from debilitating wounds. The surprise factor was strong, and many rioters were rendered inoperable before any who were still able attempted to return fire. Those who did were ineffective at that range (about 200 meters), and were dispatched quickly when they failed to find adequate cover.

In a matter of minutes, the survivors chose flight over fight, and an avenue to the intersection was partially cleared.

Bill led his squad forward. They encountered some hostile fire from the flanks but were prepared for it. The enemy had nothing like their mobile discipline or volume of accurate fire, and were cut down or scared off.

Still with no casualties, the militia squad forged ahead until they had eyes on the intersection. A firefight ensued, and the ambush force was swept away in less than 10 minutes after about a 40% casualty rate and ineffective return fire at best.

The militia established a perimeter to protect their two volunteers who cleared the dumpsters, park benches and other debris of the makeshift roadblock out of the intersection. They remained in their perimeter for nearly 15 minutes, engaging a few probing attacks by armed but poorly disciplined rioters, while Jimmy took his medical bag around to do what he could for the still-living victims who had been dragged from their vehicles and beaten, raped and/or shot. The squad then tactically withdrew back to the cargo van.

Before Bill joined the rest at the van, something caught his eye. He pushed his helmet back and detoured by a building that was still smoking from the fire that had left it a ruined skeleton. The whole area looked like a war zone. In front of the building was a small flagpole. The rope used to raise and lower the flag had been cut and the flag was gone. He took a look around the area, not expecting to see it, but he did.

The flag had been tossed at a rain gutter, but hadn't fallen completely in. He slung his rifle, walked over and picked it up. It was partially torn, and apparently somebody tried to burn it, too. For whatever reason the fire died before it was completely consumed. Bill held the flag in both hands, examining the damage and pondering the symbolic meaning of it.

He remembered back to when he first enlisted, years ago. The officer who swore him in with several others had warned them that if they disrespected Old Glory in any way, he would tie them to a chair and feed it to them stripe-by-stripe; star-by-star. He wondered what that officer would say about this.

Any garment or bedding or other item made of similar fabric with the same level of damage, Bill would have written off as not worth keeping. This flag could never be repaired to a reasonable facsimile of what it was supposed to be. Even so, Bill folded the tattered remnant as best he could and stuffed it in his cargo pocket. Then he jogged back to the van where his friends stared at him as if he had a screw loose.

They debated among themselves whether or not to go clear some more of the roadblocks in the city, but came to the consensus that they best not push their luck. They loaded back in the van and sped off by a different route to Bill's house, where they would remain geared-up but wait to see if the situation got worse or better.

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37

D MINUS 11

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

––––––––

ROCCO AND CARLOS WERE already there when Leon arrived at the office in the morning. The television was on and both his partners were standing in the lobby watching it.

On the screen was a scene of a police water cannon hosing down looters in Amarillo.

"...Violence shows no sign of stopping any time soon," announced a female voice over the riot footage. "Once again, it has been confirmed that the Governor has activated the National Guard, and the first troops should be arriving within the hour. In Washington, the President held a special press conference for the developments in west Texas."

The scene changed to the press conference, where the chief figurehead of the western world issued some carefully crafted statements built around the words "tragedy," "crisis," and "hate."

Leon set his fag bag down and said, "You called it, Rocco. It's goin' down just like you said."

"Did you hear about the other ones?" Carlos asked. "There's copycat riots already today in Detroit, New Orleans and Los Angeles."

"I heard sumpthin' about Atlanta on the radio, comin' in," Leon said.

"So far they're only classifying that one as a demonstration," Rocco said.

"The body count so far is 26 cops dead, and they don't know how many regular people," Carlos said.

Leon whistled. "That just in Amarillo, or all the riots together?"

"Just Amarillo," Rocco said, gravely.

Leon watched the screen with them for a few more minutes, then went to put his stuff away. He joined them for coffee as usual.

They sat around the table with grim faces, with no attempts at humor this morning.

"That one customer already called in to cancel his appointment," Carlos said.

"Nice of him to tell us," Rocco said, sipping some coffee. "This might turn out to be a dead day, amigos. Most folks are probably waiting to see what happens. The kind of folks who give us business will most likely hole up and load their magazines while they wait to find out if martial law is around the corner."

"How far do you think this will go?" Leon asked.

Rocco shrugged. "There's no way to tell. It's already gone further than Kent State, or Watts, or Ferguson."

Cavarra's cell beeped to announce a text message. He slipped on his glasses and looked at the screen. His countenance transformed from grim to perplexed.

"Everything okay, Rocco?" Carlos asked.

Cavarra stood from the table, with a far away look.

"Rocco...?" Leon asked.

"Listen guys," Cavarra said, hesitantly, as if busy thinking something over and only limited brain power was available to speak. "Something came up. I've gotta go. I won't be back in today, but I'll try to call you tonight to check in."

"What's up, man?" Leon asked. "Is it bad? You need some help? Carlos can mind the store if you need me to..."

Rocco showed them his palm and forced a smile. "It's not necessarily bad. Just something personal. Can't really talk about it now, but I'll fill you in when I get back."

"Come on, Papi," Carlos protested. "You know you can tell us, right?"

"I know," Rocco said. "And I will. Just for right now, I gotta go. You two hold down the fort. If nobody shows by 1300, it would be a good day to service the chains on the Shootout targets."

Rocco got his trash packed and was gone within five minutes, leaving his friends to ponder who the text might be from and what it might mean.

From the television a female voice with all the practiced inflections and intonations standard for electronic media was saying, "Willie Mae Harris, a mother of nine, was marching in the demonstration with two of her children."

A teary-eyed, overweight, middleaged black woman appeared on the screen, with a white hand from off-screen holding a microphone in front of her mouth. "We was walkin' past these stores, just carryin' signs. 'Cause what happened to Delton is just wrong. And we got to the part of the street where these stores is, and this white man came runnin' out of his store with a gun. And he just started shootin' at us."

The scene changed to the jailhouse, and the affected female voiceover continued. "A local store owner, Kenneth Fowler of Amarillo, has been charged with multiple murders during the demonstration. The district attorney says he will prosecute according to the new hate crime legislation, since it is evident from witness testimony that his killing spree was racially motivated."

“Gringos are going crazy,” Carlos said.

“They ain't no worse than my people,” Leon said, sadly. “Or yours.”

“Rocco was right, no? All those people were just waiting for an excuse to do something like this.”

"Hey, man," Leon asked, fishing for a cheerful distraction, "does Rocco know about you and his daughter?"

"Nothing to know," Carlos said, shrugging. "We never did anything."

"It looked to me like you were gonna hook up," Leon said.

"She was into me," Carlos said. "But she's in Sacramento and I'm here. Probably for the best, anyway. It would be weird being with Rocco's daughter, no?"

"I know that old fart would skin you alive if you pumped-and-dumped her," Leon said, snickering.

"No, I got too much respect for him to do that," Carlos said.

About an hour later, Carlos was pulling routine maintenance outside, while Leon went over the books inside, when a vehicle pulled into the parking lot. Leon looked out the window and saw a silver Lexus, with a trailing dust cloud just settling. The huge black man who got out had lost significant muscle mass since Leon last saw him, but still resembled Eddie Murphy's big brother on stilts and steroids. Leon went out to meet him.

"Big Jake!" Leon called out, happy to see his old buddy.

Mac's gaze fell on Leon, recognition flashed, and he returned the smile.

Something seemed kind of off about that smile, though. Maybe because of how they parted ways last time.

"Yo, Cannonball! I'm surprised you're out of bed this early, man."

Leon stopped when he was close enough to rub skin.

"What's up, Mac? Thought you was workin' for The Man, now?"

"I still am," Mac said. "That contracting gig got much too crazy about the time I left. And it's crazier than ever, now."

It was getting pretty crazy back on the block, too, Leon thought, but he'd been dwelling on that non-stop for long enough already. "Good to see you. What brings you this way?"

Mac looked around and took a big breath of the clean Western air. "Was out this way, more or less. Hadn't seen you in a while. Wanted to check this place out."

"Man, you just missed Rocco," Leon said. "He took off a while ago. Says he's not gonna be back today. How long you in town for?"

"Oh. That's too bad," Mac said.

There was something off about the way he said that, too.

"Where did he go?"

"Leon shrugged. "Didn't say, man."

Mac checked his watch. "I only got a couple hours, but had to swing by, my brotha."

"That's legit," Leon said. "I might as well give you a tour, while you're here."

"Yeah, man. Sure enough."

They walked at a leisurely pace toward the office, side-by-side. Leon noticed Mac had a slight limp. "How's your knee?"

"It sucks, to be honest," Mac replied. "Can't do half the stuff I used to."

"Hey, Mac," Leon said, extending his hand to slap skin again. "I hope I didn't leave you in a pinch when I quit SSI."

Mac made a dismissive face. "Naw, man. You snipers are a dime a dozen over there. Forget it."

"I was just worried about Tommy," Leon explained, anyway. "Plus, it was time for a break. That whole gig in Indonesia, on the boats and stuff. That was pretty hairy."

"Hairy? Hairy?" Mac teased. "You sound just like your white buddies."

Leon chuckled. But "hairy" was an expression exclusive to Rocco, among their mutual friends. He wondered why Mac attributed it as a white thing.

They entered the building and Leon let Mac glance around the lobby and counter before he took him in the back where the workshop was. Mac scanned the room keenly, as if memorizing what he saw.

"What's all that?" Mac asked, pointing to some equipment on a workbench in the corner.

"That's the reloadin' bench," Leon replied. "They're bustin' heads with ammo prices these days. We save a whole lot of money this way."

"You sell reloaded ammunition?" Mac asked, surprised.

"Naw. We sell the virgin stuff by the box, same as ever'body. We do this for ourselves. I learned to do it, too. Got my M21 zeroed to my own loads. It's almost all I use."

Mac nodded toward a Mini-30 in the vise. "What's that there?"

"Just where we modify; put accessories on. Like that."

"Convert to select fire?" Mac asked.

Leon felt a bit insulted. "C'mon, man. We ain't stupid. These days you can get locked up for nothin'. We don't do anything we know will give The Man an excuse. We put on foldin' stocks, bayonet lugs, stuff like that."

"Got to be careful," Mac warned. "All that might be banned again, soon."

"That's right, you work for The Man. Tell me Mac, why they so upset about bayonet lugs? There ever been a bayonet used in a drive-by, or a school shootin', or anything else they keep tellin' us is why they gotta take semiautos away?"

Mac frowned. "It's not so much the things that have already happened, but what could happen. The kind of weapons that have bayonet lugs are not what you take to go duck hunting."

"What's duck huntin' got to do with anything?"

"It's a legitimate purpose to own a gun," Mac answered.

"This week it is, anyway," Leon said. "But the Constitution don't say nothin' 'bout duck huntin', Mac. It's about keepin' a militia armed. You can't point to a better militia weapon, than a semiauto rifle with a good stock that can take a bayonet."

Mac shook his head, the frown deepening. "You got the wrong idea of what the Second Amendment is for. It's so we can have a National Guard; not so some ignorant cracker and his inbred cousins Bubba and Billy-Bob can go play soldier."

Leon let that one go and wrapped up the inside tour. He led Mac outside to show him the cool stuff. They found Carlos collecting brass on the Jungle Walk.

"Look who!" Carlos greeted, standing. "Big Jake!"

They shook hands. "Bojado!" Mac said. "A civilian again, huh?"

"Ooh-rah," Carlos replied.

They chopped it up for a few minutes before Leon and Mac moved on. Carlos invited him to stay for lunch and he'd buy the pizza. Mac politely declined.

As Leon showed him the Western Shootout Course, Mac asked, "You ever feel isolated out here, Leon?"

"What'ya mean?" Leon replied.

Mac shrugged. "You know: out here in Shitkicker Central, the only black face around..."

Leon rubbed his scalp and stared thoughtfully into the woods beyond the course. "Yeah. There's some bad stuff comin' down, from what I can tell. Sometimes it's like I'm already stuck in the middle."

Mac shook his head sadly. "See, when I heard you was moving out to this Clint Eastwood country, I knew it was a bad idea."

This confused Leon for a minute. "Naw, man—it's not because I'm here. It's bad ever'where."

"At least you'd have some support with your own people, though."

"My own people? You mean my folks back in Valdosta?" Leon now shook his head. "I wouldn't get no support from them. They'd only want me around as long as they got some kinda' benefit, anyway."

"Not them, necessarily. The black community in general."

Leon flashed him a sour grimace. "You serious, man? You want me to trust the 'hood rats to watch my back? Maybe I never graduated college, but I ain't stupid, Mac. Nearly any nigga on the continent would sell me out for beer money, or a damn bag of weed. They'd do it to you, too. Where you been, man? Under a rock?"

"That's ghetto trash," Mac said. "What about cats like me? You know I'd have your back."

"Yeah, that's my best bet. So at least I got Rocco and Carlos close by, if sumpthin' goes down."

Mac frowned, shaking his head again. "Hey, I got nothing against Cavarra. Or Bojado. We all ate some of the same sand. They're good soldiers and all that, when you're talking about first or second generation war. But we're facing something different, here."

Leon scrutinized the big man's face. He took a moment to speak; then did so slowly. "Jake, man, I don't know what you're drivin' at. Seems like you're tellin' me I can't trust my friends. I'm tellin' you they're just about the only people I can trust. Rocco, Tommy, Carlos—they proved themselves to me, man."

"What side you think they'd be on if we all lived in Amarillo?" Mac challenged. "Because Amarillo might be coming to a theater near you, my brotha."

Leon took his time answering, again. "So what you're sayin' is, Rocco is the enemy 'cause he white. Carlos is the enemy 'cause he Mexican. And I should go march with some punk-ass thievin' gang bangers 'cause we the same color. That what you plannin' to do? Man, what they been doin' to your mind?"

"My mind is fine."

Leon shook his head. "You got out of Delta 'cause of what the politicians did to you guys in Somalia. Can't you see it's even worse, now? And this tribal attitude, man. I can't believe you're tryin' to make me doubt Chief, and Rocco, after all we been through together."

"I'm just saying," Mac said, "there's a lot of people who aren't necessarily your enemies right now, who'll end up on the opposite side of you when things get busy. Hey, it's great that you can coexist and all that. I'm just trying to get you to think smart, Leon. Think about the future. You don't know everything I know. It's about to get uglier than you could dream, my brotha."

"What is it that you know?" Leon asked, voice tinged with irritation.

"I can't tell you everything," Mac said. "But for instance, that white boy who went into Sumatra with us—Rennenkampf?"

Leon nodded. "Yeah, Josh. What about 'im?"

"He's Aryan Nations, Leon. He's into some subversive shit. And I'm telling you, Cavarra talks almost just like him."

"That is so weak," Leon said. "Josh is Tommy's best friend. He just married Jennifer, man."

Mac never lost a beat. "I don't know how those sick people think. They make some kind of exceptions for Indians. And don't think you know everything about Tommy, either."

"What's that s'posed to mean?"

"He believes in that cockamamie shadow conspiracy shit. Just like the white supremacy groups."

Leon couldn't believe how Mac was characterizing everything. "First of all, news flash: Tommy's not white. That sorta' disqualifies him, don'tcha think?"

"He hangs around those kind of people," Mac reasoned, oblivious to the deja vu and irony of the role reversal from his conversation with DeAngelo.

“Man,” Leon said. “You a conspiracy theorist, too. Why you down on them for that?”

Mac raised his eyebrows. “Me? A conspiracy theorist?”

“You're damn skippy. The only difference is, you think the conspiracy is only against black people. There's a whole forest a' problems out there, but that's the only tree you see or care about.”

The two men had become tight while contracting together in Iraq. There was a lot Leon admired about Mac, but friction began growing between them ever since 2008 and the campaign to put Barrack Hussein Obama in the White House.

Leon didn't care for either of the presidential candidates in any election he was old enough to vote in. And he didn't appreciate being expected to vote a certain way just because he was born with brown skin. Mac and everybody else did vote and think and talk the way they were expected to, but acted like it was their own idea.

Having a black president could have been a great vindication, if it was somebody who tried to do the right thing...or at least had a clue what the right thing was. But nobody Leon knew in "the black community" saw things the way he did.

Mac once opined that even if Obama were to walk on water or raise the dead, white folks would still break bad on him.

Leon thought that the opposite was true—that Obama could rape a nun or strangle a baby on national TV, and his followers would either ignore it or find a way to justify it.

The two friends had reached an impasse.

Politics really came down to something very simple: How a person voted and what they believed depended on whether they loved or hated America. Nobody in politics yet had the courage or integrity to admit that they hated America, and a lot of regular people still weren't willing to admit it even to themselves. But that was the issue at its ugly, naked core. When you hate something, you try to destroy it. If you can't destroy it outright, you try to "fundamentally transform" it. Any lies, betrayals and deception are justified when you hate it enough. At least half of the people enjoying her benefits hated America passionately. It was a lot like spoiled rich kids who had nothing but contempt for the supplicating parents who pampered them.

Leon respected Mac despite their differences; but he also respected his other friends. Neither Tommy, Rocco, or even Josh Rennenkampf had ever done him wrong. He received no special treatment from them, which he also appreciated. Some people automatically tried to coddle Leon because he was black, which had always irked him. He preferred to be judged by conduct and performance, by the same standards everyone else was. His friends did that. Rocco and Carlos did that. Tommy and Josh did that.

There just didn't seem to be much to discuss with Mac anymore. In a matter of minutes, their friendship was strained to the breaking point.

After Mac left, Carlos noticed something was bothering Leon, and asked what was wrong. Leon couldn't answer honestly. Mac had planted seeds of doubt and despite himself, Leon now wondered how much he could really trust anyone.

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38

D MINUS 12

LAS ANIMAS COUNTY, COLORADO

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THE NEWLYWEDS WORKED with the dogs for at least an hour every day. Josh wanted to make sure they would take commands from Jennifer as well as him. After spending a couple hours with them that day, Jennifer had to get in out of the cold.

It was a winter wonderland all over the mountain, already.

They took their boots off by the door and Josh shed his coat, since it was comfortably warm inside. Jennifer kept hers on, and went to the kitchen to heat up water for some herbal tea while Josh hung their boots and his coat and hat on the crude rack by the door, consisting of thick pipes protruding from the wall. He then sat at the desktop he used for normal productivity and web surfing.

He checked his news feeds. The situation in Amarillo sounded bad. Plus there were copycat riots in other cities. Only time would tell how bad those might get.

Police suspected that a lot of the cop killings were being perpetrated by the same shooter, who dispensed head shots with a scattergun. For the mainstream media pundits the most tragic aspect of the whole affair was that some mysterious vigilante group had used "military weapons and tactics" to gun down an unknown number of "African-American demonstrators" at a major intersection.

Hispanics were getting into the riots as well, with big numbers in the southern cities. This was the third world "nation within a nation" created by executive amnesty, doing what it was designed to do—not only bleeding the taxpayers dry, but beginning to spill their blood literally as well. At the rate they were still flowing unchecked into the country, they would have the numerical advantage on the streets soon.

Another story was almost buried, about a skirmish on the border between a rancher and some drug runners from Mexico. It remained to be seen whether authorities in his state would do their job, or intervene on the side of the invaders. If they did their job, they'd come under the guns of the Feds. The world had become a place where it was dangerous to do the right thing.

Islamic whack-jobs had just murdered some more infidels in Syria. Whack-jobs that had been funded and armed by Washington.

Some of Josh's fellow crackpots were speculating about the latest school shooting. The wildest theory was that actors had been hired to play the victims' parents. The "evidence" for this was a flimsy stretch at best. Josh thought such theories were only truly useful as straw men, to discredit alternate media as a whole.

Jennifer, with her coat finally off, arrived at his side with a steaming cup in each hand. She placed them on the desk and sat in his lap. "What happened to the world while we were outside?"

"I'm reading about it, now," he said, giving her a back massage while leaning sideways to view the monitor around her.

"Oh, that feels good," she purred. "What's going on in Amarillo?"

"It stinks. The police had plenty of warning, and had riot squads there standing ready from before the verdict. But they weren't sent into the troubled areas until hours after the looting and riots started."

"What? Why? Are they that incompetent?"

"It's not incompetence," Josh said. "It's calculated. We've seen this over and over. The cops take their orders from somebody who thought this would be a great opportunity to demonstrate why militarized police are necessary. Give the sheep a taste of chaos, and they'll bleat for more order."

Jennifer made a sad noise and pulled her hair behind one ear. "It's kind of hard not to think that cops hate the blacks, when they do things like this."

"There's more to it than that," Josh said, scrolling down to read more of the page he was on. "Divide and conquer. Easiest way to divide is along racial lines. Political differences aren't enough. If right-wingers were really as dangerous as they say we are, they wouldn't have to do this. But they need to set off some loose cannons in a powderkeg, and this is how to do it. They spent the last 20, 30 years packing the powderkeg, and priming the cannons, and now it looks like they're trying to touch it off."

"It's all so unnecessary," Jennifer lamented, instinctively pushing fingernails to teeth. "Different races can get along fine. We're proof of that. It's these agitators and race-baiters trying to stir up racial strife."

"They're part of it," Josh said, pulling her hand away from her mouth. "Quit biting your fingernails."

She craned her neck to make a face at him.

"You're right," he said, lifting the mug to his lips, blowing on the surface of the hot liquid. "It's unnecessary. But somebody more influential than us wants a race war, and every day it looks more and more like they'll get one."

"Well..." she began, but didn't complete her thought.

Josh took a sip of tea. Too hot. He put it down.

He recognized the almost musical sound of that one word. Jennifer didn't gloat or throw I-told-you-sos in your face. She simply sang, "We-ell," then never finished the sentence.

"Let me guess," he said, cynically, "the Bible predicted this would happen."

She sighed and took a sip from her own cup, then said, "It does. I just didn't want to believe it. When Jesus said 'nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom'...well, the word translated 'nation' is ethnos. Sound familiar?"

"Ethnic," Josh said, blowing on his tea again. "Ethnicity. Interesting, professor."

She twisted in his lap until she was sideways and could make eye contact. Her brows were knitted into a frown he didn't see on her very often. "What are we going to do, Joshua? What do people like us do, if that's really what it means?"

He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. "We stay up here out of everybody's way. We survive."

"What about your neighbors?" she asked. "Or other people nearby?"

"The ones I know just want to be left alone," he told her. "They're not into 'white power' or anything stupid like that. But whatever; I'm not gonna let anybody hurt you."

She hugged him tight. "I'm worried about my mother. Uncle Tommy and Aunt Linda. The Shawnee are outnumbered on every side. Whites, blacks, Mexicans...anybody may go after them."

"I feel sorry for anybody who goes after Tommy," Josh said, only half-joking.

"I'm serious," she said.

He rubbed her neck soothingly. "If and when it comes to that, they're welcome to come up here. We got high ground and can watch each others' backs."

She remained on his lap for a few minutes, then took her tea and stood up. "I'm going to figure out what we're eating," she announced, cheerily. "Any special requests?"

This was something else he loved about her: how quickly she bounced back when she was obviously troubled. "I like everything you've made, baby. Your lemon chicken was the bomb—we can have the leftovers if you don't feel like making a new dish."

She glanced at the time display on the computer. "We've got time. I might as well rustle something up."

He watched her hips rock as she walked away. She tossed her hair glancing over her shoulder and busted him, grinning and giving him a wink as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Life was good for him these days. Josh wondered how long that would last.

He spent the next couple hours doing his normal work, took some time to watch a movie with Jennifer on the big screen, then did some more cyber-legwork for Tommy.

39

D MINUS 11

INTERSTATE 10 WEST BOUND

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CAVARRA KNEW THE SENDER as soon as he read the text:

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"KEEP A STIFF UPPER lip."

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IT TOOK HIM WAY BACK to when his kids were young. He taught his son some contingency plans for various situations. In one of them, in case his mother was going crazy, or one of her boyfriends did, or a burglar or kidnapper or whatever was in the house, if Cavarra was away and they were speaking on the phone, he would say, "I think I've got a migraine."

His son was not a headache person, and he certainly didn't get migraines. Cavarra would then decide where his son should go to wait if he could escape from whoever it was.

"Keep a stiff upper lip," meant Cavarra wanted him to wait to be picked up at a specific lifeguard tower on the beach.

In Leucadia, California.

His son needed to meet him, in person.

All during the long drive, Cavarra speculated about the reason. His son didn't check in with him all that often. But he still knew his son, and knew he wouldn't ask for a face-to-face out of the blue unless there was a good reason, and it concerned something that couldn't be discussed over the phone or email. His son had never served in the Armed Forces, but Cavarra had passed down an OpSec (operational security) mindset from an early age.

Officially, his son worked as a "market analyst" for an Internet Service Provider, but Cavarra knew better. Heck, he'd been the one to put in a word for his son with Cavarra's old spook contacts. Straight-laced agents with dark glasses went around questioning the boy's old teachers, coaches, friends, neighbors and employers. There was no mystery about what line of work Cavarra's son was in.

Which meant something awfully hairy must be going down.

Cavarra listened mostly to music on his satellite radio during the drive, but tuned to the news channel periodically to get the latest on the riots.

Rioters from the black neighborhoods had set up crude roadblocks at key intersections in a few cities, and had yanked many a white commuter out of their vehicles to be robbed, assaulted and/or killed. A grocery store owner who became a victim of looters on the first night now had armed guards at every door and was "racially profiling" all potential customers. Technically he was actually "class profiling," refusing to accept food stamps for anything, from anyone. But non-whites who were turned away at the doors were confident in their assumption that it was racial. The store came under siege first by a Hispanic mob, then the police.

The National Guard was on the scene in Amarillo, now. Clashes between whites and blacks in the street had died down, but impromptu roadblocks went up hastily, vehicles were attacked, and the cutthroat mobs dispersed faster than police could coordinate and arrive in force. People quit reporting for work at their jobs in the city, fearful of attack and aware the police couldn't protect them. Business was drying up fast, too, for the stores not destroyed in the riots. Neither commuters, customers, nor truckdrivers delivering supplies wanted to risk running the gauntlet.

There was an outbreak of arson all over, now, and police were being ambushed and killed when hunting down the riot organizers, despite the presence of the National Guard.

Some were demanding answers from the mayor and police commissioner as to why the riot squads weren't deployed right away on the day of the verdict. Blame was shuffled around like a hot potato as politicians passed the buck. Even the pundits Cavarra somewhat respected wanted to assume incompetence was behind it all—not intentional, criminal dereliction of duty.

Cavarra hoped the governor didn't order house-to-house searches for weapons. Texans might not stand for it. Amarillo was not Boston.

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D MINUS 10

LEUCADIA, CALIFORNIA

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CAVARRA REACHED THE beach that evening. It was cool enough by southern California standards that the sands were mostly deserted. Rocco got turned around a few times trying to remember how to get to the right lifeguard seat. He felt a pang of sadness realizing how long it had been since the last time he brought his kids here. He missed them. Especially the young, innocent versions of them. The older he got, the more he wished he could go back and spend more quality time as a dad.

After a few minutes he realized that the lifeguard station he remembered was no longer there. A more modern tower stood in its place.

As Cavarra approached it, there was movement to his right. A tall, athletic figure rose from where it had been sitting in the midst of some scrub brush on the sand near a 50-gallon barrel used for a trash can. In one hand was a partly emptied six-pack.

There was enough light that evening for Cavarra to recognize him. He was still handsome, and in good shape, but was unshaven, disheveled and looked as though he'd drunk more alcohol than he was used to.

Justin wasn't a hugger. They shook hands. "Hi, Dad."

"How long you been out here?" Cavarra asked.

"Couple hours. Didn't want to risk missing you. Let's walk down by the surf, huh?"

They walked side-by-side toward where the cold breakers were crashing.

"You got a cellphone or any other electronic devices, Dad?"

"In the car," Cavarra said, smiling at the irony of his son questioning him about potential security risks.

"Want a beer?"

"Sure," Cavarra said, and took one. "How you been, Justin? Don't hear much from you anymore."

"Not much reason to hear from me," Justin replied. "Usually."

Upon reaching the surf, they turned to walk parallel with it. This was a good location for Justin to pick (if only it wasn't so far from both of them, now). The crash of waves would render it unlikely anyone with a long-range microphone could make out their conversation.

"Look, Dad, I know you're in Arizona now. I'm quite a ways from here, too. I couldn't risk long distance comms. This was the safest meet I could think of. I'll be in deep caca if anyone guesses what I'm doing. I took a couple vacation days; said I wanted to hook up with a girl I met online. I actually did meet with her earlier; and will again tomorrow, just to make it look real, in case."

"I'm warmed by your sacrifice," Cavarra quipped. "I hope she's not too ugly."

Justin ignored the joke. "I'm not for sure if you know what I do, Dad."

"I've got an idea."

Justin nodded. "I kinda' figured you put in a good word for me with your old contacts. Don't know I would have made it otherwise."

Cavarra shrugged. "All the good words in the world wouldn't get you hired, unless they saw talent."

“Technically, I work for the NSA,” Justin said. “But my paycheck comes from the DHS. I hear that the NSA is going to hand over all its domestic work to the Department eventually, anyway—so it'll all be less confusing.”

Cavarra nodded. “It's a tangled web, isn't it?”

"I don't know what you called it in the Navy," Justin said, "but what I do is compile data as intelligence is gathered. We use it to build profiles."

Cavarra raised an eyebrow. "Really? On who?"

"DomTers," Justin said. "Domestic terrorists. Well, potential terrorists, anyway."

Cavarra was hoping the profiles would be of ISIS or Muslim Brotherhood operatives, double agents from Russia, China, North Korea, or some sort of external threat. But he feared it would be this. "Ah, the fabled 'List'."

"Not so fabled, Dad."

"Yeah, I know," Cavarra said, taking a swig of beer. "Once upon a time it really was just a paranoid theory. At some point fiction became fact. I know by the time of Janet Reno, at the latest, it was reality. Well, I mean I guess it goes back to J. Edgar Hoover. But Hoover was actually after folks who hated this country and wanted to bring it down. Now everything's upside-down and backwards."

"Since we got these new servers," Justin said, "you wouldn't believe how long The List got."

Cavarra grabbed his son's shoulder. "I know we didn't see eye-to-eye on everything, son. And you're pissed off at me for a lot of reasons. I get that. But this business they've got you involved in—it's wrong, Justin."

"Just wait," Justin said, polishing off his own beer. "So I get curious and look at some of the top level DomTer risk profiles the other day. I come across this one, and the name sounds familiar. He's ex-military, SpecOps, so I wonder if maybe I heard the name from you. But he was Army, not Navy."

"What's his name?" Cavarra asked.

"Last name is Scarred Wolf. I take it he's Native American."

Cavarra felt a cold sensation spread all through his body. "Oh my God."

"Wait, Dad." Justin held up his index finger, then opened another beer and took a long pull. "I try to open the profiles in his network. They're grayed out for some reason. But this chick works right next to me. Always talking my ear off. So I flirt with her a bit. Long story short, I memorized all her logins and passwords looking over her shoulder, because she blabs for so long she gets automatically logged out all the time. One night when she's gone, I log into her computer. It allows me to click on the grayed-out profiles."

"And my name came up on The List," Cavarra said, solemnly.

Justin nodded and chugged some more beer. "I don't know who wrote the program or how, but it must have recognized the match in our last name, and locked me out of the accomplice list. Now I'm wondering why they even cleared me for this job. But everything's growing so fast; procedures and protocols are being developed on the fly. We must have just partially slipped through the cracks on the user side."

"It won't last," Cavarra said. "They'll make the connection sooner or later."

"Oh, they'll probably figure it out inside a week," Justin said. "The Internal Security bots will report that somebody viewed your profiles. It won't take a detective to figure out I'm the one. I'm toast, one way or the other."

Cavarra said, "Thanks for telling me, son. I guess it shouldn't surprise us."

"It was a surprise to me," Justin said, "to put it mildly."

Cavarra stopped, turning to stand facing the ocean. Justin faced out with him.

"I was never into politics," Justin said. "This job was a rush, in some ways. We get intelligence by way of some really cool technology. The things I consider at work...my next performance review, where I might be, how much I might be getting paid 10 years from now if I do a good job here...that's as far as I thought about what I'm doing. Remember that movie, Jack Ryan? That's me, briefing the president one day, I thought. Anyway, if my bosses say all these people are potential revolutionaries or whatever, they must be right. That's above my pay grade and the ones who decide have more information than I do."

Justin gulped some more beer. "Then I find out my dad is on The List."

"Domestic terrorist," Cavarra muttered, thoughtfully. "That's me, alright. Technically, that should qualify me to be the mentor of a presidential candidate. I could ghost write the autobiography of a 25 year-old nobody ever heard of, for a five-figure advance."

Justin squinted. "Huh?"

"Bill Ayers—commie terrorist that ran the Weather Underground. He ghost-wrote Dreams From My Father. Nevermind."

They watched moonlight flash on the waves for a moment.

"We've had our differences," Justin said, slurring his words just a bit. "But I know my dad is not a terrorist—domestic or any other kind. So I seriously doubt this Tommy Scarred Wolf dude is a terrorist threat, either."

"Well, you're right again," Cavarra said.

"You spent your life serving this country," Justin said. "You risked dying for it I don't know how many times. You sacrificed everything, including your family..."

Cavarra winced at this last item. It was true: his family fell apart because he was too busy commanding a SEAL Team. He took an early retirement to patch it up, but by then it was too late to save it.

"I know you loved us, despite what Mom says," Justin admitted, and belched. "And I know you're nobody's terrorist."

Cavarra took a deep breath, and let it out. "I still love my country. But the country's been hijacked. Now good is evil and evil is good. Patriots are terrorists and traitors are heroes."

For a while they just stood there, staring out to sea. Waves rolled in by relentless ranks, broke on the shoreline, only to be replaced by the next rank. The aftermath of each crash sent dying shock waves of water up the beach to lick at their feet. Cavarra could feel the sand being eroded out from underneath him with each succeeding wave, sinking him deeper. If he stood in the same spot long enough, they might bury him alive.

What a way to go.

"I'm glad you see that, Justin," he finally said. "That I loved you and your sister, I mean. And your mom, while I could."

Justin belched again and finished off his present beer. "I need to drain the lizard."

"You're right about them figuring it out, too," Cavarra said. "The transition wasn't complete when you first got hired, so I probably wasn't on The List, then. But sooner rather than later, they're gonna connect you to me, and you'll get the axe, for starters."

"Yeah," Justin agreed.

"As far as they're concerned, you're the enemy, too. You need to tell me everything you know about your department; their assets; how they operate; and what they have on me and my friends."

Justin nodded, and trudged away to take a leak.

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40

D MINUS NINE

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

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GUNTHER CHECKED HIS heading by compass, and gave the hand-arm signal to move out. The night was cool and dark, but everyone's eyes were adjusted. They recognized the signal and filed after him out of the O.R.P. (objective rally point).

Each member of the patrol carried an AK, and a full load of 7.62X39 Warsaw Pact ammo. Gunther, on point, turned to check their intervals en route and saw the Saxton brothers were too bunched-up, again. He signaled for them to spread, and continued on.

He led them to the ambush site and stopped to direct them into position, man-by-man, counting heads as he went. A wide ditch simulated a road for this exercise. Their mission was to bushwhack a small supply convoy.

They didn't go by-the-book. They almost never did. For this mission, Gunther had Maurice Swope and Ralph White Feather carry out a sub-unit task which involved running a heavy length of steel cable across the roadway at a steep angle. On a real road it could be anchored between two telephone poles, if no big trees were handy. The lead vehicle would be pulled aside by the angling cable, into one of the poles. This method had been inspired by a proposed S.O.P. on a long-vanished website.

Little brother Carl's sub-unit task was to rig explosives on that pole to disable the engine, plus driver and gunner with any luck. The older guys, plus Jason Lone Tree and the Saxton brothers, pulled security during this time. The latter would serve as crew for a belt-fed weapon, should they ever acquire one.

Their noise discipline was excellent, as usual. The only hiccups came in handling the cumbersome coil of cable. Gunther thought it took entirely too long to string it.

There was nobody playing opfor (opposing force) so after a few minutes in position, Gunther coached them through actions on the objective. After all gear was secured, they fell back into a column-of-ducks and Gunther led them back to the LD (line of departure) by a different route.

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TOMMY SHADOWED THEM through the entire exercise, noting mistakes and weaknesses for later correction. Overall, it was an encouraging performance. Gunther had evidently kept the Shawnee Militia well-regulated and it showed in the execution of this drill. He led them well, too.

Drilling the men was just another part of Tommy's life to be placed on hold when he took on cleaning up the mess the previous sheriffs had made of the office and the county.

He rested a little easier knowing that Gunther had stepped up to fill his shoes. Takoda hadn't participated in a drill for over a year, which was disappointing. But some of the older guys were now attending regularly and seemed to be taking it seriously.

Peaks and valleys, Tommy mused.

At the after-action review (A.A.R.), Gunther did a good job debriefing the unit. Tommy wouldn't have classified Gunther (or himself, for that matter) as a "natural leader," but he was a strong leader—natural or not. He had caught most of the mistakes made and chose wisely which to correct on the spot and which to deal with afterwards. The A.A.R. was perhaps similar to watching a head coach like Marv Levy or Joe Gibbs address his team after a close victory—giving credit where due but pointing out that there was room for improvement.

When done reviewing, Gunther turned it over to his father. Tommy was careful not to step on Gunther's toes. He spent twice as much time reemphasizing what Gunther said than he did adding additional corrections.

Afterwards it evolved into a bull session, as it usually did. Tommy was okay with this. They were citizen soldiers after all; not professionals. And some of them never saw each other except during a drill, so it was an opportunity to bond. Basic human psychology was at work, too. They were all thinking men, or they wouldn't participate at all. Each had opinions, and wanted to share them.

Tommy usually did a lot more listening than talking during these times, and this night was no exception.

Maurice Swope wondered aloud how relevant the exercise was. He couldn't think of a scenario in which a convoy would come through the rez. Several of his comrades jumped on that one and he rather deserved the scorn for popping off without thinking it through.

Gunther, quite the armchair military historian for the last couple years, then explained that interdiction was really the best offensive option in the strategic toolbox of an unorganized resistance movement against a large, well-supplied occupational force; and guerrilla units would live or die by the hasty ambush.

Ralph asked him who he envisioned as an occupational force, which initiated a debate about the current political situation.

Tommy often marveled at the cognitive dissonance of his people, and even a couple men in the Shawnee Militia suffered from it. On the one hand they constantly rehashed the record of betrayals by the federal government, and believed it would one day come after them again, perhaps to finish the genocide it failed to complete in the 1800s. They saw the increasingly tyrannical behavior of urban police as confirmation that such a holocaust was forthcoming. And yet, at the same time, they believed that the answer to nearly every problem was to give more power to the government.

Tommy finally spoke up. "Don't fall for the cover story. The issue isn't race; it's about control. The white man isn't your enemy, necessarily. Neither are Hispanics or blacks. All this racial identity zeitgeist is just a divide-and-conquer gambit. Sure, if the Neo-Nazis come here looking for a fight, we'll give them one. But that doesn't mean we welcome the Federal Gestapo with open arms, either. The enemy of our enemy is not necessarily our friend. That's stupid, infantile logic and it's why so many of the nations lost their lands and live on reservations now. We were so worried about petty squabbles and blood feuds with other tribes and clans, we made deals with the devil. Don't let the devil tell you who your enemy is this time. We can figure it out for ourselves."

A few of the braves vocalized their agreement with enthusiastic whoops or grunts.

"That's the white devil you mean, right?" Charlie Drake asked, and the others laughed.

––––––––

TOMMY RECEIVED A TEXT from Josh on his way home, declaring an urgent need for a secure chat ASAP.

Once they were connected, Josh wasted no time.

"I think the false flag is going down in Amarillo."

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41

D MINUS NINE

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

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SITTING AT HIS COMPUTER desk, Tommy searched and clicked as he talked with Josh, to look at the same information his friend used to make his deduction.

"It's official," Josh said. "The announcement for this convention was made this morning. Now look at that roster of speakers. Anything seem odd to you?"

"Just tell me what's odd," Tommy said.

"It's supposed to be a big Utopian summit to smooth over race relations and find common ground and bind cultural wounds and ride unicorns farting rainbows," Josh explained, "right? And it's being held right there at the most infamous scene of racial strife in recent memory. Wouldn't you expect a lineup of the usual suspects—a bunch of communists and Black Muslims masquerading as civil rights champions—with maybe a token NeoCon speaker mixed in?"

"I guess," Tommy said. "That does sound like the kind of balance they usually give public forums."

"Look at these guys," Josh said. "What's their political affiliation? These speakers have been calling out the establishment for drone assassinations; indefinite detention without trial; using the IRS and FCC to crack down on dissenters. Where are all the lefties?"

"Could it be the pendulum is swinging the other way?" Tommy suggested.

"The pendulum is a myth, Tommy. No such thing. There's a Hegelian ratchet. This is just being efficient. These guys are a nuisance to the narrative; but being black they can't be silenced with the usual race card tactics. So silence them permanently, and frame another faction of your enemies."

"I don't buy it," Tommy said. "I've heard of some of these guys. Some of them are in Congress. But they're not a big enough threat to justify an operation of this scale."

"Pay attention, Chief," Josh said. "That's not the goal. It's just the gravy. The side benefit. They want justification for what they're about to do. If they can get rid of a thorn in their side at the same time...why not? And I guarantee you, after the fact, the politics of the victims won't come up—only their race. The politics of the patsy will come up though, at every opportunity, so that everyone of like mind will become racist by association."

Tommy read over the page which described the upcoming summit. The underlying theme was, "Whatever our color, we all love our children." Echoes of Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech. And a huge multicultural children's choir would be performing at the event. Tommy closed his eyes and pictured a dead, bloody child being cradled by a crying mother, or paramedic, or DHS agent. As loopy as Josh sounded so far, Tommy knew such an image would be enough for most people to cheer on whatever legislation Congress presented as a countermeasure.

"Macmillan just expanded his Amarillo station," Josh said. "He's been practically camped out down there. And Jade Simmons? Over the last few months she's visited Amarillo 20 times more than any other destination. You think she's just really, really interested in the Delton Williams business? Now look at the proposed venue for the summit."

Josh sent him a jpg file. Tommy opened it and studied the picture of an outdoor football stadium. He looked at it with a tactical eye. "Not an ideal spot for a bombing."

"You could kill plenty with the right kind of bomb," Josh said. "But they don't need a bomb this time. They've already got the Patriot Act and NDAA 2012, etc. ad nauseum. Bombs are passe, though I guess explosives could play a small part."

Tommy enlarged the picture.

"Look at the surrounding terrain," Josh said. "Yeah, you can post police snipers in a few locations, but what a crappy field of fire they'd have. Meanwhile, if you're a shooter for the other team, you've got all the options you could want. Huge avenues into the stadium from four directions, not counting going under and through the bleachers. Plenty of cover, including 15,000 or more other human bodies. No matter where you post security, they can be taken out with ease after just a little bit of recon."

"Do you know who's tasked with security?" Tommy asked.

"Yeah, and it's perfect: the county sheriff. When his security detail is compromised, and proves completely ineffectual, add yet another excuse to finish federalizing all law enforcement. You probably know from your own dealings with the Feds that they don't care much for guys like you who have jurisdiction but are accountable to the people. Too many sheriffs around the country have been interfering in their plans."

"This is Texas," Tommy reminded him. "Chances are a lot of people in the crowd will be armed, and just might return fire if something goes down."

"Again, perfect," Josh said. "Whoever does this is geared up with the new armor, that can stop rifle rounds...which Congress is also trying to ban, by-the-way. These Texans try to play hero, shoot back, wind up causing collateral damage and still don't stop the bad guys...it works like a charm. Pro-gun people been saying for years that hijackings and school shootings and the like would go down much differently if some of the victims were armed. This will be a case study for negating that argument. Armed civilians just make everything worse, see?"

Josh sent another file, which flashed in icon form at the bottom bar on Tommy's screen.

"I just sent you an update to the stadium's calendar," Josh said. "This summit is supposedly a spur-of-the-moment deal, inspired by the awful violence of the riots, blah blah blah. The summit organizers booked the stadium for this event weeks before the verdict was announced. Maybe not a smoking gun. But I find the timing interesting."

Tommy looked over the document and sighed. "Still pretty thin, Joshua. Seems like more of a hunch than a lead."

"Okay," Josh said. "You might be right. Maybe it's nothing. But you wanted me to look for potential targets, and this looks better than anything else right now."

"Explain more on the no-bomb aspect," Tommy said.

"They need a really big atrocity committed with 'assault weapons'," Josh explained. "The school shootings just haven't been getting it done for them. They need something big, and organized. I wouldn't be surprised if one or more of the shooters has a select-fire receiver from a 3D printer, either. They've got to find an excuse to shut that technology down. And it won't be a lone nut this time, I'm betting. Look for an entire unit, with right-wing militia bona fides. A whole squad or two of 'lone nuts,' who've assembled peacefully to plan this whole thing; have taken advantage of free speech to learn their deadly skills over the Internet or whatever; who used some kind of secure communication to recruit and coordinate; who took advantage of freedom of mobility to cross state lines, for some dastardly reason...let's see, what else? Oh, they're motivated partially by a hateful ideology hiding behind freedom of religion, of course. Who knows: maybe it'll turn out there's documented evidence that they failed to meet their daily quota of network news, too." Josh paused to utter a scoffing chuckle. "Maybe that's too tall of an order. But you can bet that 'hate speech' from alternative media sources will be cited as motivation so often that people will hear the talking points echo in their sleep."

Tommy thanked Josh for the research and opinions, and spent the next hour mulling it over.

It sounded like paranoid lunacy, of course. Josh was good for that, when you got him talking. But Tommy had come across some loony stuff in the past that just happened to be true.

And while he could come up with a rational explanation for everything Josh told him, something about this summit in Amarillo did smell wrong. Lawrence Bertrand had organized false flags in the past. Two people working directly for him had been spending a lot of time in Amarillo. A supposedly last-minute organized event had been planned well in advance...

Tommy wanted more tangible proof. But with Bertrand and his stooges operating in secret, could there ever be much more to go on?

Tommy was so deep in thought, he jumped when his cellphone beeped.

A text message came in from an unknown phone. It had call signs once used by himself and Rocco Cavarra, and a brevity code from their last mission which meant "Rendezvous last rally point ASAP."

Where had he and Rocco last met?

It had been after the victory party. Tommy had taken his friends out to one of his deer stands so Leon could zero his new rifle. They had a good time, but Tommy didn't enjoy it as much as he would have, after the debacle Takoda engineered at the party.

Tommy didn't have encrypted commo with Rocco like he did for Josh. But he needed to know how soon to expect him. This cloak-and-dagger stuff was a pain in the 4th point.

He finally texted back: "Text again two hours out."

The reply came back: "Wilco."

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42

D MINUS EIGHT

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

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THEY MET AT THE DEER stand the next day. Rocco introduced Tommy to his son, Justin, who shared the same information he'd given his father.

Tommy questioned Justin, to get a feel for the big picture. Then he merely sat in silence for a while, pondering the madness of it all.

"Rennenkampf is up toward the top of The List with us," Rocco said. "And some of my friends, too."

Tommy snorted out what could pass for a cynical laugh. Josh Rennenkampf had been operating for years under the assumption that a list like this existed somewhere. It was just another one of his paranoid, tinfoil hat quirks.

"Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me," Joshua often said, poking fun at himself while never quite letting go of his fringe lunatic beliefs.

"You remember our conversation about false flags," Tommy said, locking eyes with Rocco. "And the secret teams that have been operating possibly as far back as the JFK assassination?"

Rocco nodded. "The 'tier zero' units; like the ones we ran into in Sumatra."

"Yeah," Tommy said. "Josh thinks he may have found their next target."

"I'm listening," Rocco said.

Tommy shared Josh's theory about the race relations summit. Rocco listened and worked his jaw for a bit afterwards. "So the purpose of this convention is to find common ground," he mused aloud. "Meet halfway. Extend the olive branch; whatever. So then the right-wing boogeyman shows up and proves himself just as evil and dangerous as we've been told all along. The implied message is that the 'good guys' tried to compromise with the 'bad guys,' but there is no compromising with them. It's fatal to try. In other words, what nobody on TV's got the balls to admit about Islam... is what they're gonna try to pin on the liberty movement here at home."

"So you don't think it's far-fetched?" Tommy asked.

"I didn't say that," Rocco replied. "But we've seen a lot of far-fetched scenarios play out in recent history, and they multiply at a geometric rate. Fast and Furious; Benghazi; using the IRS to shut down political opponents; stealing elections with massive voter fraud; trading five top terrorist leaders for one turncoat deserter; bypassing Congress to implement a de facto invasion; getting caught red-handed making deals with your Russian bedfellows to compromise national security; all Hillary's emails magically disappear from every server...those are all pretty far-fetched And not anybody who matters was ever held accountable for any of it. Nixon was guilty of what—conspiring to cover up a petty burglary? But now the same press that crucified him participates in the coverups. It's ludicrous. But people are conditioned to accept the ludicrous, and only be truly suspicious of people who question the official story. Maybe Rennenkampf is just shooting in the dark. We won't know for sure until after the fact."

"Right," Tommy said. "Exactly."

Rocco waved toward his son. "Justin's been working on the other side. He's never seen things the way I do. What do you think, son? Is this beyond the scope of possibility?"

Justin took a long time to answer. Finally, he said, "Since I found out my father is considered an enemy of the state, I've been thinking a lot about what I've seen and heard, and what I've been taught. There's like this...atmosphere. It's like we're working toward something really ambitious, and it's going to kick off at any time. Nobody says it out loud, but you get that impression, you know? There's a sea change coming, and we have to be ready, because it's going to be crazy for a while, but we're going to do great things and be heroes before it's all done. That's the atmosphere of the world I live in."

"You're saying it's not a ridiculous theory, then," Tommy said.

Justin shrugged. "I can't give concrete evidence. But it's like we're expected to be able to do whatever is necessary, even if it seems kind of fishy. I can see this Amarillo scenario being true. To be honest, I could have seen myself playing a part. Of course they take pains to compartmentalize everybody in the Department. I'd have never known the full story. But even if I knew that we were selling a hoax, and innocent people would die, I'm sure I'd tell what lies I had to, and break a few rules, to make sure my part of it went without a hitch."

Tommy grimaced. "Why?"

Justin shrugged. "Eggs and omelet, I guess. I've never bothered much with politics. It's kinda' like Who Wants to be a Millionaire, where you base a decision on what the audience thinks. Most people think the government and news networks are honest and have good intentions. The majority must be right, right? Plus I work for the guys doing this. They're smart people. They think all these misfits clinging to guns and religion are dangerous; ergo: they are dangerous. Putting these dangerous people where they can't hurt anybody must be worth telling a few lies, breaking a few rules..."

"Killing a few innocents?" Tommy asked.

Justin shrugged again and stared at his feet. "Right."

Rocco thrust he hands in his pockets and paced. "People just don't ask questions. We forgot how to ask questions."

"Thanks for your honesty, Justin," Tommy said.

"When is this convention supposed to be?" Rocco asked.

"Next Saturday," Tommy said.

Rocco sighed. "Let's say Rennenkampf is wrong about the false flag. Say he's just chasing after the wind on that." Rocco pointed at his son. "The stinking secret police have us at the top of a watch list of domestic terrorists, Tommy. They've got lists of our friends and family. They've got our credit card numbers; our utility bills; they're watching our bank accounts, email and Internet activity. They've got aerial spy footage of where we live and work. How long do we have before they take action on this intelligence?"

Tommy shook his head. "Maybe 20 years. Maybe five minutes. I don't know."

Rocco continued to pace, his boots stirring up tiny clouds of dust on the prairie floor. "I'd like to know where you're at mentally, Chief. Are you entertaining the possibility that they never intend to act on it? Maybe they collected it just out of curiosity and only keep it in case they need to help you if you lock your keys in your car or something?"

"No," Tommy said, quietly.

Rocco stopped pacing. "Then my next question is: are you going to just pretend it doesn't exist until they kick in your door at zero-dark-thirty some morning? If not, what are you willing to do about this?"

Tommy remained silent for a while, then said, "This involves more people than just us right here. Maybe the first thing we should do is bring them into the loop."

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D MINUS SIX

LAS ANIMAS COUNTY, COLORADO

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A SPECIAL OPERATIONS veteran had friends...and then he had friends.

It was a brotherhood of sorts that many never completely dropped out of, even after throwing boots over the wire. "Nijenina" was the word Tommy Scarred Wolf used to describe the men in this unorthodox fraternity.

For a true member of the brotherhood, a man would drop whatever he was doing and travel around the world to help a brother in trouble. When a brother called you out of the blue and said your presence was urgently required at, say, some remote area near the San Isabel Forest, you went. You delayed plans, called in sick, pissed off the wife or girlfriend; and it had better doom-well be something of utmost importance. But you went.

Men began arriving at Josh and Jenny's mountain home the next day, and straggled in from all over for the next 24 hours. The hosts made room for them as best they could and Jenny ensured everyone ate well.

Josh, Tommy and Cavarra were present, of course. Also Leon, Carlos and Justin. Rocco's old SEAL buddies Butch, Jorge and Tony showed up. Josh's friend Griz, plus some other 5th Group friends of Tommy's, Kurt and Frank, joined them. Phil Jenkins, who the surviving Retreads knew from the Sudan mission, was the final partner in crime.

Cavarra had briefly considered inviting Mac, but Leon talked him out of it.

Mac's attitude bothered Leon. He didn't trust him. Mac was different now. Or maybe it was the world that was different.

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ROCCO GAVE THEM THE sitrep (situation report), calling Justin and Josh to brief them on specifics. News of The List didn't make anyone happy, but neither did it surprise most of them. The reactions to Josh's theory about the false flag were more varied.

They all agreed on the gist of the national situation: the news media was nothing but an Orwellian propaganda machine, attempting to distract or confuse when it wasn't lying outright. It suppressed more news than it reported. The government, meanwhile, was pretty blatant about their intentions, for anyone paying attention who hadn't been brainwashed by the media. To the ruling establishment, Public Enemy Number One was the American people. Occupants of the Oval Office gave strategic military secrets to the Red Chinese and the Russians without batting an eye.

It was an armed populace that could move around freely and say, publish, or learn anything it wanted to that really worried those trusted with the reins of power.

Coup de tats were easy in other countries. But in the USA, obstacles to consolidation of power had been purposely built into the structure of government.

Those safeguards had been gradually dismantled over the last century. Many observers assumed the process had been a random sequence of steps that just happened push all in the same direction purely by coincidence. People like Josh Rennenkampf believed the fundamental transformation was by design.

If the direction of the country was not set by benevolent altruists with strong parental instincts who just happened to consistently violate their oaths of office by accident; but by people willing to lie, steal and scheme in order to achieve their own goals by whatever means necessary, then the most formidable obstacle to the course-setters was the will of the people.

Americans took their freedoms for granted, but most would prefer to keep them. They would prefer to live comfortably, avoid war, and be governed by representatives accountable to them. And some of them resisted infringement on their right to keep arms. History had proven, time and time again, that crisis was required to make Americans surrender portions of their political inheritance.

If the coincidence theorists were the true tinfoil hat camp, then it only made sense that crises would be manufactured when there wasn't one handy to exploit. There was at least one more major crisis needed before the will of the people could be neutralized once and for all.

While each of the men gathered at the Rennenkampf place had experienced enough of human nature to realize that people do tend to conspire when they know there is strong opposition to their ambitions; for some reason they had trouble believing that authority figures shared that human tendency. That was one of the points raised in a marathon debate among the former operators.

That presumption sounded ridiculous when summarized in simple terms, and tempers flared.

Tommy and Cavarra shared some details of their encounter with a "tier zero" team overseas. Cavarra went on to repeat some scuttlebutt he heard when assigned to the NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, about a Black Ops department specifically assigned to develop false flags.

The final consensus was that a false flag in Amarillo was possible, but unlikely.

Jennifer wasn't present, having left the testosterone-flooded living room to give them privacy, but Josh brought up the point that she had made: that if such an event was possible, they should at least plan for the possibility.

––––––––

"I SEE THE FALSE FLAG as the easier thing to deal with," Cavarra told everyone. "Whether it's real or not, just get the stadium cleared. Call in a bomb threat or something. If the attack does come, the victims are evacuated beforehand."

A few men nodded agreement.

"As for The List, a cyber attack is the way to go," Rocco continued. "Josh is a pretty good hacker. I'll let him take over, here."

Josh stood and turned to face the men scattered around his living room. He pointed to Justin. "I've been finding out what I can about the Data Center. What I want to do is wipe their database. I mean totally clean out all the info they're holding, and jack it up so bad they'll have to start from scratch."

Leon folded his arms across his chest. "Won't that wipe out legitimate data along with the illegal stuff? I mean, they collect poop on foreign powers, too, and real terrorists."

"I don't know if you've noticed," Josh said, dryly, "but nobody in Washington has shown any interest in stopping actual threats to our national security. Whistleblowers and guys like us are the only ones they consider dangerous. So what good is that intelligence if they never intend to use it anyway?"

"We've been over this before," Rocco said. "We should move along."

"Anyway," Josh continued, "I don't think I can hack in from the outside, as it stands. Or it might take me years to do it, and who knows how much time we have. With Justin's help from the inside I think we can install a back door through all the security of his facility. I'm developing a really destructive blended threat which should be able to infect all the databases and even the software, working its way into every intranet linked to it."

"Won't their protection detect the virus and destroy it?" asked Tony.

"That's why I need Justin to open the back door," Josh said. "I'll have to disable their security, without them knowing it, before I can upload the worm." He cleared his throat and paused for a moment. "I don't want to bore you with a bunch of geek talk, so let's leave it at that for now. But there's something else I'd like to do. Justin's bosses have access to the Emergency Alert Service. That means they can override programming any time. All programming. I think while I'm in there, doing this, I should use that to send a message to every TV on every cable system about what's going on."

A few of the men laughed, or whooped. They obviously liked this idea.

"That's really gonna piss them off," Frank said.

"Ya think?" Butch replied, sarcastically. "They might put us on a list or something, huh?"

"It's a big turd burger any way you look at it," Tommy said. "The Gestapo will go on pretending they'll live-and-let-live for as long as we swallow it. They're coming after us sooner or later. Our choice is to wait until it's too late, or do something about it while we still have time."

Griz, the big, bearded man who looked like a viking without the funny hat, said, "I like it. Wake the sheeple out of their boob-tube trance if you can. Maybe some of them will stay awake afterwards. It's worth a try."

A few men grunted agreement.

"Does anybody think we should not try to hijack the signal if we can?" Cavarra asked.

Nobody spoke.

"Okay," Josh said. "Now with all I need to tweak once Justin opens the back door, it's not something I can do with a laptop at Starbucks. I need a hardwired connection into the Data Center that can move a whole lot of information fast. And I'm probably going to need a few hours to do this, because I'll need to tweak some software on the fly, once I see what it is. Also, there are some things I can't accomplish remotely. Someone has to physically be there to push certain buttons."

"If that's the case, maybe we should just break into the Data Center itself," Carlos said.

"The Center itself was built on Camp Williams," Rocco said. "The Utah National Guard is all around the place, and there's a Special Forces Group there, as well. We could probably break in. Some of us might even make it out. But to stay there long enough to give Josh the time he needs? Too much can be brought down on top of us. That's a suicide mission."

"But information does flow in and out of the Data Center," Josh said. "And they don't rely solely on microwave towers. The country at large may be completely vulnerable to an E.M.P. attack, but the NSA wants to be able to continue spying on us even if the grids go down. So they've got some hardened satellite installations here and there. I think I can get in from one of those. I need you guys to help me get in, and cover me while I work."

"What about the false flag?" Griz asked. "I mean, I know it might not be real. But what if it is?"

Tommy stood and turned to address everyone. "He's right. I'm gonna take a few people with me to Amarillo before the convention starts, just in case an anonymous phone call isn't enough."

"We've decided that both operations should be simultaneous," Cavarra said. "If the false flag is real, then at least some of the Feds' resources will be tied up in that, which could give us some extra time."

"This substation, or satellite facility, or whatever it is," Butch said, "It'll be guarded too, won't it?"

Cavarra nodded, grimly. "Yeah. I was honest with you. I never said 'there's good news and bad news.' There's only bad news...and slightly less bad news."

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43

D MINUS ONE

MOJAVE DESERT, NEVADA

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TERRANCE HANDEL PARKED his car in the roped-off area in the desert which served as a parking lot. There were thousands of cars already parked there, though the festival didn't officially kick off until that afternoon. He took an extra day of vacation so he could make the drive and still be early for the commencement ceremony.

So far he hadn't done any drinking. So far there were no more gaps in his memory. He rewound back through the last couple days...yup: he remembered every mundane detail.

Terrance pulled his backpack out of the car, locked the doors and wandered over in the direction of the signs, banners and pole-mounted loudspeakers. The pack was heavily loaded and despite his upper body strength, lifting it and getting it on his back took some effort.

It was perhaps a half mile walk before he reached other human beings. Banners and pennants flapped in the desert breeze everywhere—rainbow banners, yin-and-yang, the U.N. flag, several flags with yellow stars on either red or red-and-blue fields, plus banners bearing the portraits of Mao Tse Teung, Che Guevara and Barrack Obama.

Tents were erected in many different groupings. Some people were still setting up their tents. There were more middleaged and elderly than Terrance would have preferred; but they at least were outnumbered by people closer to his age, including some bangable chicks.

Portable toilets were already in place. Plenty of booths and kiosks littered the landscape. Long tables were stacked with merchandise in a flea market type plaza. All this lined the borders of the festival area. In the middle was a large, bare clearing, surrounding a shaded stage with enormous amplifiers all around it. The stage was high, on top of what must be a sound-deadening shelter for the generators, and it extended out in an ornate design, like some ancient temple from Rome, Greece. or Egypt.

After having a look around, Terrance located the hottest babe still putting up a tent, with an open space adjacent, and dropped his backpack there. He approached the girl (a petite blonde with tanned and toned legs, and high-sitting C-cup breasts) smiled and introduced himself.

She smiled back. "I'm Kari."

"Looks like we're going to be neighbors," Terrance said.

He offered to help her finish staking out her tent. She accepted. The small talk went well as they worked together, then her boyfriend arrived with a plastic ice chest. She introduced them.

Terrance had been hoping Kari was alone or had come with girlfriends. Now he regretted choosing this spot.

There had been another chick with space to camp next to her. She had D-cup breasts and a small waist, but her hips were kind of wide. He should probably have picked her anyway. But likely somebody else had already claimed that spot by now. Besides, he really didn't want to have to lift that backpack again today.

Kari's tent was all set minutes after her boyfriend arrived. Terrance pulled his own tent out of his pack and began unrolling it.

Kari stooped and took hold of Terrance's backpack, as if to move it. She grunted and let go, standing and rubbing her lower back. "Oh my god. Nice to see you packed light."

"It's good where it is," Terrance said.

"Did you go to Burning Man?" Kari asked, squatting opposite him to assist in stretching out his tent.

"No," Terrance said. "This is the first thing like this I've gone to."

"What made you decide to come?" the boyfriend asked.

"I don't know," Terrance replied. "Just wanted to see something memorable, I guess."

"Well, you will," Kari said. "If it's anything like last year, or like Solstice Slam, you'll never forget the experience. I wish I could just stay out here all year 'round."

Terrance assembled the fiberglass poles and stuck one through the loops sewn into the tent seams. "Speaking of forgetting, I heard one of the workshops here is about restoring memory."

"Why? You have Alzheimer's?" the boyfriend asked. It seemed he felt a little threatened by the attention Kari payed Terrance, and was looking for an opportunity to insult him.

"Oh, they have so many workshops," Kari said. "Memory loss; healthy eating; meditation; sexual healing...there's something for everybody. And the music...it's like, so incredible."

"Something for everybody?" Terrance replied, skeptically. He flexed the first pole into position, the fittings sewn to the tent floor holding it bowed. "I kind of doubt that."

"No, really," the boyfriend said. "They even have groups for fascist pigs here."

Kari gave her boyfriend a look, then said, "Yeah. One of the groups is called Shinar Soldiers and Montauk Marines. It's for people who've been a part of the military industrial complex, but who love the Earth and care about people around the world. You look kind of military, to me. Are you?"

"Used to be," Terrance said. As soon as he heard the name of the group, he felt compelled to check it out. Just as he couldn't explain why he wanted to spend his vacation out in the desert with a bunch of treehuggers, he couldn't explain why he wanted to drop in on the “Shinar Soldiers and Montauk Marines.” But he knew he was going to do it.

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44

D MINUS ONE

AMARILLO, TEXAS

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THE POLICE WERE UNABLE to track down the vigilante group in the chaos, but acting on tips they did bring in Kenneth Fowler—a man accused of hate crimes against the demonstrators.

While Fowler was locked in jail awaiting trial, a small group of counter-demonstrators showed up outside the courthouse. They carried signs with messages like "HATE CRIME=THOUGHT CRIME," "STOP THE DISCRIMINATION," and "RAPE & MURDER OK, BUT SELF-DEFENSE IS PUNISHED."

With so many police around, this was the safest area in the city. The little counter-demonstration attracted the attention of everyone but the news media, and people wandered closer to see what the gathering was about.

A white woman with a pixie hairdo, a belly protruding farther out than her breasts, and a hard sneer, read a few of the signs and called out, "Go home, you pathetic scum! Your racist martyr is in jail where he belongs!"

A couple of the counter-demonstrators responded. More individuals wandered over, and joined the sneering woman. The counter-demonstrators were called racist and all the usual names. They countered by asking what race had to do with the issue, which they saw as a right to property and self-defense.

While the white folks went back and forth, Tareyton Daniels swaggered over to see what was up. Tareyton was six foot three and built like a bouncer. He only had two tattoos on his dark brown skin—both portraits. One was of Malcolm X; the other of Muhammed Ali. One of his front teeth was gold. Both his ears were pierced. He wore a gold watch that was part of what he looted during the initial riots, and carried brass knuckles he traded food stamps to acquire, along with a bag of weed.

Tareyton never laughed because he found nothing funny. The most amusing thing in life was pain.

Other people's pain.

His favorite color was black. His favorite team was the Panthers. His favorite pastime was the Knockout Game.

He came up on the demonstration and read the signs, but didn't understand what they meant. He listened to the white folks without signs taunt the white folks who did have signs for a few minutes. Then he understood that the ones with the signs were against the riots.

They were against black people.

Tareyton Daniels didn't play that. He was about to show those crackers what year it was.

Tareyton shoved the butch white chick out of the way to get to a 40-something man holding a sign.

"'Scuse me, man. Check this out," he said, and cold-cocked the guy with a blow right behind the ear.

The old white fool went down, banging his head on the pavement. He wasn't getting up any time soon.

Some pink toe started yelling like a bitch, "Police! Call the police!"

An old white woman with a sign got up in his grill, but he knocked her out with one punch to the face. He bore down on the little bitch yelling for the police, grabbing him by the arm...

Something hit the back of Tareyton's knees, causing them to buckle. Then something crashed into the side of his head.

Tareyton staggered back a few steps before his vision cleared. There before him stood a skinny little white fool with his dukes up like he wanted to throw down. It must have been him that kicked him in the back of the knees and walloped him in the head. Furious, Tareyton stalked toward him and swung a roundhouse at his head.

White Boy ducked under the punch, hit Tareyton hard in the gut twice, then his little white fist clipped Tareyton's mouth.

"C'mon you big chickenshit!" the pink toe jeered. "You're not up against a woman or an old man, now!"

Tareyton touched his lips and his fingers came away bloody. He slipped on the brass knuckles and charged the little pink toe fool. The punk could fight. But Tareyton outweighed him by at least 80 pounds. He would get him on the ground where he could use his weight...

Unfortunately for Tareyton and the others opposing the demonstrators, not every curious passerby was on their side of the issue. A few more pink toes showed up wearing cowboy hats, boots, and big ugly belt buckles. They weren't interested in peaceful resolution or involving the police. They not only went to work on Tareyton, but on all the males in the anti-protest contingent.

As people of color came upon the scene, they saw one of their own getting a beating, and that was all the stimulus needed. Fists, elbows and knees flew in a brutal, growing melee, while the counter-demonstrators evacuated their injured compatriots out of the area.

Cops moved in to break it up, but not with enough numbers. The belligerents were more frenzied than the police were prepared for, and the cops got swallowed by the churning violence. Both sides were like rabid dogs, ready to die before they backed down.

More people joined in. More cops joined in. Word spread through the streets. A camera crew for a news affiliate finally took notice. They went live with the rumble in the background while an attractive reporter gave the landmark report of her career, describing how a right-wing mob had attacked peaceful black demonstrators.

***

MELDRICK JONES HADN't joined in the looting and vandalism of the last several days. Not because he wasn't on board with defying the oppression by the white devil. It was because...well, there was just something undignified about walking the streets in a mob, burning, looting and fighting. Meldrick couldn't picture a Denzel Washington character in a movie doing any of that, so he didn't do it. If brotha Denzel was above it, then Meldrick was above it.

He hadn't seen his neighbor, Cleveland, since before the riots started. But Ms. Harris, two houses down, had been on TV.

Meldrick was the sales manager for a furniture store downtown. He hadn't been to work for days because the store had been looted and burned. Most likely it was out of business for good. He had spent the afternoons since then calling around his network to find another job, but there were no openings at a level commensurate with his expertise.

The low-hanging fruit was just to go on welfare. But Denzel wouldn't go on welfare. That brotha would find a title and position worthy of his swag even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse.

The looters showed how undignified they were, by putting a brotha out of a job. Sure, some rich old white fool owned the furniture store, but the looters should have checked first, to make sure there were no black employees working there.

Well, at least the riots had left Meldrick's neighborhood alone.

Until now.

A commotion outside got Meldrick's curiosity up. He stepped through his front door to check it out.

Down the street a house was on fire. Hundreds of men were on the streets, yelling, throwing rocks, smashing car windows and mirrors. Even at this distance, it was obvious they were all Hispanic.

Meldrick's wife and daughter joined him on the front lawn. "What's going on?" his wife asked.

Meldrick didn't answer.

"This must be La Raza," his daughter said. "I kept hearing about them when school was in session, from the Mexicans."

She hadn't left the house for days, because all the schools were closed. Teachers and bus drivers feared for their lives and didn't want to risk the commute, even with the National Guard securing the roads.

"La Raza?" Meldrick's wife repeated. "Why are they tearing up our neighborhood? They should be down around Polk Street or somewhere, burning white people's houses."

"Baby," Meldrick said, "go inside and call the police."

She put hands on hips and shifted her head from side-to-side as she said, "Nigga, it's the po-po who started all this from jump, in case you forgot. How you gonna ask them to come save a black neighborhood? Far as they're concerned, we might as well be part of the ghetto."

He grabbed her by the shoulder and said, "Well call the National Guard, then. Just call 911 and tell 'em what's goin' down."

A chubby young man with a Mohawk, who had just demolished a mailbox with a sledgehammer, glanced down the cul-de-sac and spotted Meldrick's wife and daughter. He turned to his nearest comrades, thumping them on the chest and pointing down the street at the two females. Those men turned to alert others.

This was bad.

"Get inside! Now!" Meldrick pushed them both through the front door. His wife turned back to protest, but saw a wave of Hispanic men begin to advance toward her house and changed her mind. She found a phone and dialed 911.

"I can't get through!" she cried. "It's like the switchboard is jammed!"

Meldrick followed them inside, closed and locked the door.

His daughter tuned the TV to a news broadcast which showed a street battle taking place down by the courthouse.

"Looks like the police are busy," she said.

Pounding began on the front door. Meldrick wondered how long the lock could hold.

A rock smashed through the living room window. The females screamed. Meldrick searched around desperately for a weapon. All he could find was a statue of an African warrior. He gripped it as he would a club, trying hard to think.

What would a Denzel character do in a situation like this?

***

THE BUSES WEREN'T RUNNING and it was too dangerous to walk the streets nearly anywhere in Amarillo. Entire residential neighborhoods were burnt down, and swarms of refugees seeking shelter from the cold broke into whatever buildings were left unguarded. Anyone brave or stupid enough to walk the streets unarmed got robbed, usually by violent methods. The stolen money went to buy food and drugs, when such could be found.

Arden Thatcher drove his Toyota to the suburbs and waited in the Wal-Mart parking lot until the plain blue S.U.V. with tinted windows parked next to him. Arden exited his pickup, opened the passenger door of the S.U.V. and quickly slipped in. Ted was behind the wheel. The engine was still running.

Ted shifted into gear and took off.

"You been watchin' what's goin' on?" Arden asked, exuberantly. "We been kickin' those niggers' asses all over town."

"Yeah? How about you?" Ted asked. "You been involved?"

Arden shrugged, losing some of his zeal. "Just a little bit. Nothin' serious; you know. And nobody in the F.A.P. knows anything 'bout it."

"You sure?" Ted asked, turning from the road ahead to flash him a sharp, measuring look.

"Oh yeah. I swear to god, Ted."

"Listen Arden, this is very important: did anyone from F.A.P. contact you since the riots started?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about that conversation."

Arden adjusted the seat, leaned back and gazed at the roof of the vehicle for a moment. "Well, they asked if I was alright, and I was like, 'yeah.' Then they was like, 'are you in any danger? Are the rioters gettin' close?' And I was like, 'no, they know better than to come anywhere near Polk Street.' So they was like, 'keep your powder dry, and your bugout bag handy, and keep an ear out. Call us if anything happens that you know about.' That was pretty much it."

"Do you know anything about a squad-sized militia unit that shot up one of the rioters' roadblocks?" Ted asked, steering into a freeway on-ramp.

Arden giggled. "Hell yeah! I heard they shot up over a hunnert niggers over there. They went coon huntin', is what they did!"

"Do you know who did it? Anybody in the Free American Patriots talk about it?"

Arden shook his head.

"Has anyone in F.A.P. told you to bug out; or said that they're bugging out?"

Arden shrugged. "No, not to me. I mean, but they're all thinkin' it might come to that, if the police or the National Guard start searchin' house-by-house."

Ted pulled onto the highway and accelerated to flow-of-traffic speed. "All right. Now listen, Arden. Pay real close attention."

Arden did as he was told.

"It's going down," Ted said. "You've screwed up over and over. But you've got a chance to redeem yourself. You just have to do exactly what you're told. You ready?"

"I'm ready," Arden said, eagerly. This was it? He finally had a chance to prove himself, then.

"First thing you're gonna do is call your squad leader in the unit. With me so far?"

Arden nodded.

"You're gonna give him the code phrase for everyone to link up at the oil rig. Don't say anything else. Just that and hang up."

"Oh," Arden said. "So how am I gettin' to the oil rig? You're takin' me?"

"You're not going there. They are. We're gonna nail them to the wall, finally."

Arden cried a rebel yell.

Ted cringed, rubbed his ear and shot an angry glance at him. "Don't do that again. Now listen: I'm taking you somewhere to meet some guys. They're going to give you some gear and a weapon."

""Wow. Really? 'Cause I didn't bring mine. I didn't know I'd need one tonight."

"That's alright. We got you covered. But you just keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Do as you're told and don't say anything unless one of the men on the team asks you a question."

"I'm gonna be on a team?" Arden asked, hopeful.

"Yup. And if you do exactly what you're told, you'll get to shoot some niggers before it's all over."

Traffic thinned out as they headed out of town.

Arden phoned his contact, and gave the appropriate code phrase.

***

MEMBERS OF THE FREE American Patriots grabbed their bugout bags and headed for the designated rendezvous at an abandoned oil rig outside Amarillo. Most of them were half-expecting this call. It seemed the world around them was coming apart.

They were all paying attention. They all believed that the times were grim. They all answered the call.

They gathered, performed a head count and realized that Arden Thatcher, who made the call, was the only member absent.

Federal agents were waiting for them.

Everyone had left their weapons in their vehicles, so nobody had the ability to resist when the Feds sprang the trap.

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45

D MINUS ONE

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

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CARL'S DAD CALLED A meeting of the Shawnee Militia the night he got back, and nearly all the active members showed up. Even Takoda.

Tommy told them he needed volunteers to go with him out of state Friday and not return until Saturday evening at the earliest. All the older members begged off at that point. Tommy thanked and dismissed them. To the young men who remained, Tommy warned them the mission would be either boring or dangerous, and gave them the opportunity to decline.

Nobody did.

For Carl's part, he would gladly endure some boredom if it meant a possibility of excitement or doing something useful. With the exception of his father and oldest brother, none of them had ever done anything but train. This was something real.

All except Carl were old enough to join the conventional Armed Forces. But plenty of men throughout history had gone to war even younger than him.

Tommy explained that what he needed them for was lookout duty. There was a convention at a football stadium in Amarillo on Saturday; and a possibility of some sort of terrorist attack taking place, there. They would place an anonymous bomb threat call to get the stadium evacuated. But just in case, Tommy wanted men placed strategically around the place, on the lookout for anything suspicious.

They would all have radios to keep in constant contact. They would also all be armed. This was Race Riot Central, after all, and anything could happen.

Carl kept cool on the outside that week, but inside he was chomping at the bit. He almost didn't hang out with his friends like usual, but Ray kept pressuring him.

It was hard to turn Ray down. Normally the gang just played videogames at Ray White Bird's house. But lately Ray's older sister Rachel had been kicking it with them a lot, and she seemed to like Carl.

Carl didn't normally pay much attention to adults outside his family, but he did enjoy Rachel's attention. She had moved out years before and Ray said she almost never visited before she discovered her little brother's friendship with Carl. His friends noticed what was going on and said she was into Carl. They made conspiratorial comments about how older girls were experienced and knew how to show a good time. Carl wasn't a natural with women, like Takoda was, so he didn't know how to escalate, much less close the deal. Besides, he wasn't even positive she had romantic aspirations. He'd be a real ass if he tried to put the moves on her when all she had in mind was friendship.

With his big day coming up, Carl still didn't want to blow off his friends. And he didn't want to miss the chance to see Rachel. So he decided to just drop by, briefly, Friday afternoon before meeting his brothers for the Amarillo trip.

***

RACHEL WHITE BIRD HAD quite a stroke of luck with the youngest Scarred Wolf boy, since he was buddies with her own kid brother. She used the connection to get close to Carl.

Rachel didn't get a lot of romantic attention from men her own age and older. Some of them treated her like "one of the guys," which is what she once thought she wanted. It turned out she didn't enjoy her status all that much. She would have preferred the romantic attention of some high-status men, but they chased after prissy missies. They were probably intimidated by a strong, independent woman like her with a take-charge attitude. But somebody as young and obviously inexperienced as Carl Scarred Wolf had not yet been jaded, or scared, or whatever most men's problem was these days.

She kind of liked Carl—he was smart, intense, and as modest as a teenage boy could be. That made it easier to get to know him. And as she came to know him better, she found more of his buttons to push. She just about had him figured out.

Close enough, anyway.

Carl arrived that afternoon with Ray's other videogame junkie pals, but he didn't remove his jacket, and shied away when she tried to take it off him.

"I'm not staying long," he said.

"What's up?" Ray asked.

"Just got something else going on tonight," Carl said. "I can't hang out this time."

The other boys probed him for details, but Carl was evasive. Finally Ray convinced him to come down to the basement for a minute. He just had to show him the latest weapon or something in one of his stupid games. Carl went down, as did all the boys.

Knowing he would have to come back upstairs to leave, Rachel remained in the kitchen. She poured a mixture of whiskey and soda in two plastic cups, and waited.

When Carl returned, he waved, smiled, and made as if to walk right by and exit.

"Come here," she said.

He altered course and joined her where she leaned against the kitchen counter.

"You were kind of rude," she said. "Didn't even say hi. Acted like you don't know me."

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be rude."

She reached out to comb his hair with her fingers. It wasn't any more unkempt than usual, but she pretended it was so she had an excuse to touch him. Today she wore tight shorts and a tight halter top that exposed her stomach. It was not the time of year to dress that way; and Rachel didn't dress that way even in the hottest days of summer. But she showed as much skin as possible when around Carl. And she touched him as much as possible during conversation.

"So where are you going tonight?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Just got other plans, is all."

She feigned jealousy. "You must have a new girlfriend."

"No," he said, with an uncomfortable laugh. "Nothing like that."

"Then what is it like?"

"Why are you so interested?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I'm not."

For some time now she'd been trying to make him tell her what exactly occurred during the outings he went on with his father, brothers and some other men from the rez. So easy to manipulate in some ways, he was a stone wall when it came to that subject. She saw the same stubbornness in him now and it irked her.

She lifted the drinks and handed the stronger one to him. "One for the road, then." She drank from hers, maintaining eye contact over the rim of the cup.

"Thanks," he said, and took a swallow.

His face scrunched up. He coughed. She was afraid he'd spew the mouthful out, but he'd already swallowed it. "What the...?" he rasped.

She giggled. "What's the matter, Carl?"

He set the cup down, giving her a bewildered look. "I didn't know you drank."

"Not much. Oh, come on—have a drink with me."

"Sorry," he said. "I mean, thanks and everything, but no."

"Oh, all right," she said, nodding with a disapproving frown. "That whole thing about Indians not being able to hold their liquor. Your parents probably don't allow you to drink, either."

His brow furrowed. His pride was wounded by her implying he needed parental permission.

As she hoped.

"It's not that," he said. "I just gotta go."

"I understand," she said, dismissively, drinking some more from her own cup. "You still live with your parents. Their house; their rules."

She noticed his jaw jut out a bit. He grabbed the cup and chugged two big gulps. He set the cup down, wiped his mouth and said, "See you later." Then he went through the door and was gone.

Rachel pulled out her cell and dialed the number most recent in her call history. A male voice greeted her, "Yeah, what's up?"

"He's coming your way," she said.

Outside, Carl's engine cranked to life, and he sped away. A few seconds later she heard the siren peal.

Rachel dumped the remaining contents of both cups down the sink, then marched to the bathroom to change into her normal clothes.

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46

D MINUS ONE

TEXAS PANHANDLE

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TED PULLED OVER AT a rest stop and blindfolded Arden, before continuing the journey. He dropped Arden off somewhere where it was really quiet. Ted introduced Arden to somebody named "Stallion One." There were other men present who went by the names Stallion Two through Stallion Eight.

Arden heard Ted drive away.

Arden asked if he could remove the blindfold.

Stallion One said, "No. Not until I say."

"Oh."

"We're gonna let you get some sleep in a minute," Stallion One said. "Tomorrow I'll go over the plan with you and we'll do some rehearsals. But I want to get something straight with you right now. You listening?"

"Yes sir."

"You don't ever mention us or Ted to anyone, got it?"

"Sure. Yeah. Don't worry 'bout that."

"Even should you get captured," Stallion One said, "you can talk about F.A.P. You can talk about ZOG. Say anything you want about the Aryan race or whatever. But you never, ever mention us."

"You think I'll get captured?" Arden asked.

"Maybe. This is a dangerous mission, after all. But keep quiet about us, and we'll mount a rescue mission. If you talk, we'll make sure there are 20 big niggers waiting for you every time you go to the prison shower, hoping you'll drop the soap."

"Not me," Arden vowed. "Hell, no. I swear."

"Good," Stallion One said. "Now I've heard you screwed the pooch a few times already. Tomorrow is your big chance to put all of that behind you."

"I won't let you down," Arden said. "Ted said you're gonna give me a weapon?"

"That's right. And if you do everything as you're told, you'll get to use it all you want. There will be targets all over the place, and nobody is off limits but my squad, and Viper Squad."

Arden licked his lips. He wished he could remove the blindfold, see who he was talking to and where he was. But he was going completely by the book this time. Ted had given him another chance and he dared not blow it. From what he'd just heard, the first reward for his obedience was coming tomorrow.

D-DAY, H MINUS NINE

Arden spent the night in a dark room much like a prison cell, with a cot, a toilet, and not much else.

In the morning a man in a woodland-camouflage uniform and a khaki balaclava, with dark sunglasses, let him out of the cell. He brought Arden into a small kitchen and tossed him an MRE, telling him to eat it quickly.

After Arden was done, the man in woodland cammies brought him outside. Arden saw he'd spent the night in a simple, block-like stucco building in the middle of the desert. On the hood of a nondescript dark blue S.U.V. was a balsa wood model of a football stadium. Other men gathered around, dressed just like the one who woke him up.

Arden recognized the voice of Stallion One, muffled slightly behind his balaclava "You'll get your weapon and gear a little later. For now, it's time to learn what we're going to do today."

"Have you ever wanted to kill people and get away with it?" one of the masked men asked. Before Arden could answer, the same voice laughed and said, "Today your dream comes true, boy."

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47

D MINUS ONE

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

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TOMMY WAITED AS LONG as he dared for Carl to show up. It wasn't like his youngest to flake out. But it was well after midnight and still no sign of him.

Last time he'd spoken to him, Carl was raring to go, so this was disturbing. Tommy, Gunther and Takoda asked and called around everywhere they could think of, but ran out of time. Linda assured her husband she would track him down via Carl's friends.

Meanwhile, they had to go.

They traveled in a convoy. Tommy wanted enough vehicles with him so they could all get back even if something happened to one or two cars. Takoda's 'Vette could only take one other passenger and some gear in the trunk, but it and Gunther's hot rod Mustang offered blazing speed, should that be needed at some point. Tommy drove his Blazer; John and Mike Saxton took John's old Dodge Ram pickup; Ralph drove a Ford Explorer while Jason braved the cold on a motorcycle and Maurice took his economy car.

They drove through the night hours, when there was less traffic. They moved a little slower than flow-of-traffic, with the fast machines bringing up the rear.

Tommy had nothing but worries. The most recently added worry was about Carl. Tommy couldn't even call Linda to see if she'd heard anything because he'd forbidden anyone to bring cellphones on this trip. Including himself.

Then there was the mission. If Josh was wrong about the attack, then half a weekend and a bunch of gas money was wasted. But that was still much preferable to the alternative.

Whether the attack was real or not, there was still the matter of all the weapons and ammo they were hauling. None of it was illegal, but legality had been proven not to matter over and over again in recent years. What mattered most was affiliation. Most parts of the country were ruled by men; not by law. Tommy ran his own county by what was right and legal, but he was in a rapidly shrinking minority. If the wrong person found out about what the Shawnee Militia was hauling and where they were going, they could be up a creek with no paddle. Given Tommy had some powerful enemies, he could be killed or locked away forever, and a plausible excuse concocted for public consumption...which would never be questioned by enough people to matter.

Having planned for gas stops, the convoy arrived in town Saturday morning.

The city looked a little like a ghost town. Parts of it resembled a war zone. Even in the suburbs many businesses were closed and few people ventured outside. In the city proper fire swept the streets, leaving what looked like a red coal carpet from a distance.

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D-DAY, H MINUS SEVEN

AMARILLO, TEXAS

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AFTER TREATING EVERYONE to breakfast at a truck stop outside town, and giving them some time to relax for a while, Tommy conducted another radio check. Their convoy drove to an isolated spot on a side road where he had everyone load and strap on sidearms. He checked them for concealment. When satisfied, they mounted up again and rolled into town.

Tommy led the Shawnee Militia into the empty parking lot of a closed grocery store inside town and had everybody get out for a pow-wow. He put Gunther in charge and told them he'd be back in a couple hours. While they were waiting, they should see about buying a pre-paid cellphone for a burner. Cash-only, he emphasized.

Tommy took Takoda with him for a recon into the city.

National Guard troops could be seen outside certain businesses that were still open. Tommy had mixed emotions about them not stopping vehicles for inspection. Checking his road map frequently, Tommy scouted a few different routes to and from the stadium. But he stopped when he could see it in the distance—never actually driving past it or up to it.

When Tommy spotted a bored-looking cluster of soldiers at a freeway on-ramp, he pulled over and shut off the engine.

"What's up?" Takoda asked, looking a little unnerved at the prospect of parking so close to the Guardsmen.

"Hand me that bag, there," Tommy said, pointing to a plastic grocery sack on the floor just in front of the passenger seat.

Takoda handed it to his father, who opened it. Inside was a black hat with gold piping and letters, with a 5th SFG emblem on the front. The hat was wrapped around a pack of cigarettes.

Takoda grimaced, confused. "When did you start smoking?"

"I haven't," Tommy replied. "That right there is legal tender on a deployment. It's an ice-breaker, if nothing else. At least when it comes to soldiers."

"Isn't that the hat Mom bought you, like, eight years ago?"

Tommy nodded. "Looks like it's finally time to wear it." He shook the hat, pushed it into shape from the inside with his hand, then dropped it onto his head. He shoved the cigarette pack into his breast pocket and opened the door. Takoda began to get out with him, but Tommy said, "Stay here and watch the truck."

Takoda watched his father approach the Guardsmen, hands in pockets, with the easy stride of a bumpkin. The weekend soldiers converged to face him, wary at first. They listened to him, though. Tommy was not a verbose man, but he talked at length, gesturing casually and sparingly with his hands. One of the Guardsmen replied, then another. Tommy talked some more, drawing another soldier into the conversation. The discussion went on. More of them replied. Takoda watched, with interest, the back-and-forth pattern play out.

One of the Guardsmen gestured toward Tommy's chest. Tommy produced the pack of cigarettes and shook one out for the man to grab. Three others indicated interest, and Tommy obliged all takers. The guardsmen lit up and Takoda saw their posture relax as they blew streams of smoke into the air. After a few minutes, a couple of the soldiers were doing a lot of the talking. And laughing.

Takoda knew his father had a lot of skills, but this was one he hadn't been aware of.

The soldiers shared anecdotes with Tommy, who turned to follow their pointing gestures with his gaze, then ask follow-up questions. When he finally turned to leave the Guardsmen, a couple of them shook his hand, while the rest waved or chin-thrust a goodbye.

Tommy climbed back in the truck, started it, and U-turned back the way he'd come. It took him a minute to acknowledge Takoda's stare.

"What?"

"You're quite a huckster, Dad. I haven't seen you glad-hand like that, even when you ran for sheriff."

Tommy shrugged, putting the hat and cigarettes back in the bag. "I still like soldiers. Even in the National Guard. And there's a certain way to go about talking to soldiers you just met. You can get a lot more out of a talk when they know you're one of them, than you can by pulling rank or acting ignorant. They can smell it when you don't know the drill, and when you don't know soldiers, or soldiering."

Takoda thought about why Tommy chose him to ride along. Most likely, it was to ensure he didn't start trouble among the others in Tommy's absence. Meanwhile, Gunther was the trustworthy one, who he left in charge. That stung, but in all honesty Takoda couldn't blame him.

"Learn anything?" Takoda asked.

"Some white store owner got arrested, charged with hate crimes," Tommy said. "White people showed up to protest. Black people showed up to demonstrate...you can imagine how that turned out."

"Like a mad bull lost its way."

"The National Guard isn't stopping vehicles to search," Tommy said. "Neither are the local cops, who are on the defense and pretty busy with other stuff. The No-Gos are guarding businesses, hospitals, major intersections and freeway ramps. Those guys weren't there to stop cars, but to make sure nobody sets up a roadblock to shake down travelers."

"Has that been happening?" Takoda asked.

"Sounds like it. The first couple days people got raped or beaten to death. And everybody's talking about a vigilante group that shot it out with some of the looters and really brought smoke."

Takoda watched the wounded cityscape slide by out the window. "It looks like the zombie apocalypse has swept through this city, or something."

"Blacks and whites have quieted down some," Tommy said. "Some think they've had enough. The Mexicans are just getting started, though. They're fresh, and organized. Yesterday they looted four different drug stores that the No-Gos didn't have the manpower to secure."

"I'm sure they took all the pharmaceuticals," Takoda said.

"They weren't after the Ace Bandages. Anyway, the violence seems to be isolated to a few neighborhoods now, even though the whole city is afraid to come outside or answer their doors."

"How about the football stadium?" Takoda asked.

"That whole area's been relatively untouched. Might be the safest place in Amarillo."

"Well, maybe not, though."

"Right."

They returned to the parking lot where Gunther and the others waited.

Ralph had obtained a burner phone with cash and gave it to Tommy, who paid him back on the spot. They checked their radios again. Tommy assigned buddy teams and went over a loose plan of action that could be modified on the go as needed. Then they mounted up and the convoy moved out for the stadium.

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48

D MINUS ONE

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRIBAL POLICE OFFICE

POTAWATTOMIE COUNTY, OKLAHOMA

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RACHEL, TWO FELLOW officers of the Tribal Police, and the Chief himself watched the young man through the one-way glass.

Carl Scarred Wolf leaned back in his chair, arms folded and eyes closed. He was motionless, like a statue.

"He looks entirely too comfortable," the Chief said, annoyed. "Is he sleeping?"

"He's not legally drunk according to the breathalyzer," Officer Muroc said. "And he's got his lips clamped. He wants a lawyer and a phone call, and that's all he's saying."

The Chief glared angrily at Muroc. "Have you forgotten how to be a team player? He's legally drunk so long as I say he is!"

Muroc shrugged apologetically.

"He chugged it down kind of fast," Rachel said. "Maybe we just need to wait for the alcohol to settle or something, then test him again." She didn't understand how Carl could blow any less than a Two, with as much liquor as she poured into his drink. But then he hadn't drunk it all. And maybe she hadn't mixed it well. If only she'd had more time, but he'd been in such a hurry to leave...

The Chief paced, scowling. "A teenage boy!" he growled at Muroc. "You can't even intimidate a teenage boy into talking." He now directed his attention to Rachel. "I was going to save you for later, White Bird, but you'd better go in now. I need something, quick. I have no doubt some crybaby will go over my head if we hold him much longer without some kind of reason."

She was no longer showing a bunch of skin, but Rachel was the only one present not in uniform. "I've done well with him so far," Rachel said, striding to the door.

"Be smart," the Chief said. "Remember your training. Make the little prick give us something."

When Rachel entered the room where Carl sat, she wore an expression of concerned distress.

Carl opened his eyes when she entered. He watched her, but said nothing. He betrayed no emotion whatsoever, either. She had no clue what he was thinking, and that irritated her. The inscrutable stone face, just like his father. Just like all the Scarred Wolf men.

Well, she couldn't display her true emotions, either. "Carl?" She rushed to sit down opposite him and reached across the table to touch his hand sympathetically. "I heard what happened. Are you alright?"

"I'm in jail, Officer White Bird. You tell me."

"Carl, I'm so sorry," she said, trying to convey warm sincerity through her eyes.

He stared back blankly and asked, "Is it normal in the Tribal Police to bring a DWI into the interrogation room?"

"W-what?" Rachel stammered. Muroc was right—he wasn't intimidated. He was thinking too clearly for someone who was supposed to be scared. And drunk.

"You heard me," he said. "I was never read my rights. I haven't been allowed my phone call. And nobody gave me a sobriety test, unless you count the breathalyzer. And the arresting officer wouldn't let me look at the readout. What are you people trying to pull?"

"Carl, please," Rachel said, putting a tremor of hurt into her voice. "I'm off-duty tonight. I'm not here as a cop; I'm here as your friend."

The stone face flexed for a moment, into what might be a smile. A cruel, sardonic smile. "Right. Were you on or off-duty when you gave me that drink?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

Carl shrugged. "I guess it's just coincidence that your buddies were waiting for me after you tried to get me drunk."

The problem was, the apple didn't fall far from the tree. Sheriff Scarred Wolf's son knew too much about cops and how they worked.

Rachel's exasperation was real when she let it out in a deep sigh. She didn't have the leverage she needed, but the Chief was watching through the one-way glass. She had to play the hand as best she could, now that he was in custody. "Listen, Carl, I don't think you appreciate what kind of trouble you're in. If you did you wouldn't be sleeping, in here."

Was that a smirk? Was he smirking at her?

She forged ahead. "I'm here to do what I can for you, but your attitude isn't helping at all. I heard you're being uncooperative. You don't want to piss people off, in your predicament, Carl. I can try to work something out with my boss. Maybe get them to go easy on you. But you have to be cooperative. That's the way this works. You want something from them, you have to give them what they want."

Carl turned his head to the side and spat on the floor. "I want my phone call. That's the law, whether I give you anything or not."

Watching and listening in the next room, the Chief cussed. "Little bastard thinks he's a real tough guy."

That whole family was bad news. Tommy and Vince's parents were alcoholics. Vince made a decent detective for a while, but toward the end he got in the habit of snooping around where he shouldn't. Tommy was a lot like him. Sure, he kept his nose clean, but he had some dangerous ideas and habits.

It wasn't clear what Tommy was into, but the Feds had classified him as a person of interest. They wouldn't do that without a reason.

Frankly, it was sickening how people on the rez were so enamored with the "Green Beret war hero." Tommy Scarred Wolf didn't impress the Chief, and neither did his miscreant sons.

They were bad seeds, all of them. Takoda was the worst—practically an anarchist since elementary school when he set off a homemade bomb inside a dumpster just for kicks. But the older and younger brothers thought they were Billy Badass, too.

He might have to let Carl go. But before he did, he would check with his contact in Homeland Security just in case they had any bright ideas.

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49

D MINUS ONE

NSA DATA CENTER

CAMP WILLIAMS, UTAH

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JUSTIN CAVARRA APPROACHED the entrance to his building, glancing briefly at the security cameras. He hoped he didn't look as nervous as he felt.

His I.D. badge got him in the outside door. The security team ushered him through the full body scanners.

His heart raced like a NASCAR engine while he was scanned. No flash drives or CDs came in or out of his work area. The only personal items employees were allowed to bring in, in fact, were their car keys and Agency-issued cellphone. The phones did not have the capability to record audio or video, and no access to any kind of app store.

Josh had disassembled a custom flash drive, hiding the plastic shell in Justin's car alarm key fob, and the storage section inside the cellphone, where it was effectively hidden between metal components.

If this was discovered, the security team would converge on him, and he would be locked away somewhere, never to see the light of day again.

The guards eyed him sharply as he went through the scanners, their gaze bouncing between him and their monitors. Justin told himself that it was just his guilty conscience that made them appear more suspicious than usual.

He made it through without tripping any alerts, and proceeded to the next door. Even as the retina scan and palm print reader unlocked this door for him, he felt like half a dozen eyeballs were burning holes into his back.

He had to use palm print and retina scan for two more doors before he made it to his cubicle.

Barnes was there, but not Frawley and Tench. The two girls put in less hours per week than anyone else. They never worked weekends even when everyone else was required to, so Justin knew they would be gone by the time he arrived. He had volunteered for the graveyard shift also so that Barnes would be leaving after only two hours of overlap.

Justin folded his jacket, setting it on the desk right in front of the computer in Frawley's cubicle. He then navigated the rows of cubicles to the coffee pot, just like normal. Barnes intercepted him there.

"Burning a late one, huh?" Barnes asked.

"Yeah," Justin said, shrugging. "They always want a couple people in here at any given hour, in case something Top Priority comes up. They ask me every week if I'm willing. I figure if nobody ever volunteers, they'll make it mandatory."

"I know your girlfriends would bitch and moan about that," Barnes said, laughing, nodding toward the cubicles of Tench and Frawley. "Well, you're young, and this is one place where overtime is always available. Might as well put in the hours and make the money while you can, before you start a family."

Justin smiled, not so much in agreement, but just as a polite way of acknowledging the comment. He pulled a white styrofoam cup off the stack and poured coffee into it.

"But you young guys don't really get married, do you?" Barnes remarked, conversationally. "Why buy the cow, when you can get the milk free and all that."

"It's not even that, really," Justin said. "You'd have to be a masochist to share a roof with one of these women today."

Barnes laughed again. "Well, we didn't have all the videogames and stuff when I was younger, so we needed something to do on the rainy days." He gave the kind of eyebrow wiggle older guys used when making sexual innuendo. They almost had to, because if an eavesdropper heard them utter any kind of "dongle" joke, they could lose their jobs.

"You been keeping up with the news?" Barnes asked.

"A little," Justin replied. "Sounds like there's a little war going on down on the border."

"What's up with these ranchers?" Barnes asked, shaking his head. "First that old Chapanee troublemaker; now this guy starts shooting Mexicans. He gets locked up, but more rednecks take his place."

Justin bit his tongue. To display any flavor of rogue thinking would invite attention that Justin didn't want.

Recently he'd become a lot more skeptical about the official story concerning any matter. How many times were the people on the border supposed to let the drug gangs from Mexico cut their fences, kill their cows, and steal from them? Their ranches were their livelihoods—the difference between their families starving or living. But you weren't supposed to question the narrative, and certain kinds of people were always the designated victims, no matter what. American ranchers didn't qualify as worthy of sympathy.

Justin wanted Barnes to just shut up and leave him alone, but he forced himself to be friendly. "That stuff in Amarillo is crazy, too."

"Oh my gosh," Barnes said. "They just won't stop. And people are saying Detroit might even turn out worse."

Justin let the conversation run its course, then they both ambled back to their cubicles.

The two hours dragged painfully. Justin had crazy thoughts that maybe the Agency could read his mind and knew what he was going to try even before he did it. He was so distracted he bumbled slowly through his work, making more stupid mistakes than he ever had.

Oh well. After tonight, this job is over.

Assuming that he could make it out of Camp Williams after his work was done that night, what in the world would his life be like afterwards?

He kept coming back to that question. But whatever doom he was bringing on himself, so be it. He might have issues with his father, but his father was not a terrorist. Whoever classified him as one was pure evil. Justin's eyes were open now. If the country was hellbent on becoming some kind of dictatorship, then he accepted his marginalization as an enemy of the state.

He'd just like to stay alive for as long as possible.

Finally, Barnes shut down his computer and prepared to leave, but stopped by Justin's cubicle one more time to discuss another news item—something about the economy, but Justin's mind wasn't in the conversation.

When Barnes left, Justin went to Frawley's computer and booted it. As the operating system loaded, he removed the cover from the key fob and cellphone. Stuck to the backing of the key fob cover was a small strip of black tape. Justin peeled that off and stuck it over the lights on the desktop which indicated the power was on. Now if anybody walked by Frawley's cubicle, it wouldn't be obvious the machine was running.

Next he assembled the sections of the flash drive. By then, it was time to enter the first password.

When he was fully logged into Frawley's computer, he stood and bent over to get behind the case and insert the flash drive in a USB slot hidden from normal view between the cubicle wall and the back of the desktop.

Justin had helped Josh design the blended threat.

Straightening from his hunched-over position, he found the appropriate drive on the "HDD Manager" app and initiated the program. He then shut the monitor off and returned to his cubicle.

He booted up his own work station and listened to the pounding of his heart. He resumed work on a profile he'd started before, but his mind wasn't in it.

Since his job here was gone after tonight, and he'd probably never get paid for it, he spent his time goofing around, using the tools unique to his occupation to look at the dirty laundry of well-known people. It was interesting that most "conservative" celebrities rated only a Level Five Threat or lower. A couple of them had been downgraded in recent times, while others were never as high up The List as some would guess.

He wondered why that might be, and decided that they must be compromised in some way. If only their devoted followers knew.

Justin didn't need coffee that night. Fear had him on edge. Goofing around was a needed distraction, but in the back of his mind he knew that Security could barge through the door at any moment and haul him away.

He continued to remind himself that if he didn't risk it now, his dad and other people like him would be hauled away later.

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50

D-DAY, H MINUS FOUR

MEDICINE BOW NATIONAL FOREST, WYOMING

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DRIVING JORGE'S ELONGATED RV, Phil Jenkins dropped them off at an isolated spot in the woods. He drove away as they moved into the treeline with weapons and gear.

Everything that might rattle had been taped down prior to insertion, but they made last minute adjustments inside the woodline while Griz distributed the silencers. Josh and Butch had night vision goggles, Leon had a thermal imaging attachment for his scope, but most of the others saved the weight and space for other items.

Cavarra was the designated leader. He formed his volunteers into two fireteams. They moved out in a column-of-ducks with their sniper, Leon, in the middle, and Josh, humping all the high-tech stuff, right behind him. They wore old infrared camouflage over their normal outfits, and ski masks or balaclavas under their patrol caps or boonie hats. They carried a variety of rifles. Griz had an M4 slung around his broad back over his patrol pack. An M60 machinegun was slung around his front.

They didn't like starting the operation in daylight, but they were timing it so that Josh could cut into the broadcast during prime time, if possible.

Snow was predicted to start falling later that evening, but for now the forest was only cold and dry. It was early in the year for the first snow, but then it was supposed to be a bad winter, after all.

All of them were past their prime, but moving quickly and quietly through the bush was second nature to them. They made good time and reached the security fence in less than two hours.

The fence was surrounded by a firebreak, leaving no trees handy. Each of them had been humping components of a crude tower they now erected beside the fence. Gloves remained on, so no fingerprints were left. They filled sandbags on the spot to anchor down the outside legs of the structure as a counterbalance to the beam extending from the inside, over the edge of the fence. It was unlikely there were live patrols to worry about, but there might be remote listening devices, so the raiding party kept strict noise discipline while they worked. They had rehearsed this drill enough back at Rennenkampf's place that everyone knew what to do.

Griz, easily the heaviest of all of them, was first to climb up, after temporarily handing off the M60 to a lighter man. Four of the others added their weight to the sandbags for counterbalance. As Griz crawled out on the beam, it bowed to a degree that made everyone nervous. But the beam held. He stuck his boot in the loop on the end of the rope and visually checked to ensure the belay men had the other end before he put his weight on it. The belay men eased their braking grip on the rope and, with the dull rubbing sound of well-oiled pulleys, Griz was lowered to the ground inside the fence.

The next man climbed up, and the process was repeated. The machinegun was lowered down to Griz by itself.

They crossed over from heaviest man to lightest, with Carlos being the last man outside the fence. As he climbed the tower, he switched on the detonators for the thermite charges attached at various points of the structure. Before climbing all the way out on the beam, he pulled the rope out of all but the last pulley and dropped the end down to his comrades inside the fence. Once they had it secured, he crawled out, dropped to a hanging position, put his foot in the loop and was lowered to join them.

They pulled the rope the rest of the way through the pulley and coiled it up, giving it to Cannonball. Butch took the point and they moved out again. The little fence-crossing exercise had gone so smoothly, they were beginning to get stoked. Exhilaration took some of the sting off the oppressive gravity of what they were doing.

Less than another seven klicks and they had eyes-on-target. They hunkered down to observe for a while, then Carlos, Frank and Kurt separated from the main group to conduct a painstaking recon in a semicircle around the objective.

The area surrounded by fence was large, but the building sat relatively close to the stretch of fencing where the gate was.

The place did seem to be manned by only a skeleton force. There was a single guard at the shack by the gate, and another one in a booth by the main building's entrance. Aside from that, the facility seemed to rely mostly on cameras for its security. Another big part of the security scheme was the fact that nobody should know about this place because it didn't officially exist.

Judging by the bored stagnation of the sleepy guards, the infiltration hadn't been detected.

The recon patrol returned to the O.R.P. and briefed Rocco on what they'd found.

Rocco sent Tony, Butch and Jorge to the guard shack by the gate; Josh, Kurt and Frank to the guard booth by the building; Leon, Carlos and Griz around the back of the building. Everyone settled in behind what concealment was available, and waited.

Except Kurt, Frank, and Josh. At a snail's pace, so their movement was almost unnoticeable, they crept forward until they surrounded the guard booth, Josh closest to the main building's entrance.

They waited some more, wound tight as steel traps.

The man in the guard shack radioed the guard in the booth, "Alright, I'm freezing my ass off. Tell Bob to come out and relieve me. I need to take a piss and get some coffee."

"Roger that," replied the guard in the booth, who then used the intercom to relay the request inside the building.

Butch broke squelch three times. Rocco and the others heard it in their radio earpieces. Gloved fingers slid toward safeties. Josh quietly pulled himself into the Ready Scat and leveled his silenced P91 at the door. The standing order was "commence on contact."

The door swung open and a man appeared in the opening, pulling a hat onto his head. Josh sprang from his position while firing.

With a subsonic .40 round through the silencer, the loudest sound was the metallic snick of the P91 bolt sliding back. The shot hit the man center-mass. He wasn't wearing armor, and the bullet deflected off a rib right into the corner of his heart.

Josh reached him before he fell, grabbing him by the collar and adding to his forward momentum with a hard yank that sent him sprawling belly-down on the cold ground. In the same fluid motion Josh caught the door before it closed, and slipped inside.

When Josh made his move, Frank rose to his feet, threw the booth door open and shot the guard point blank. Over by the gate, Butch did the same to the other guard.

At the same time, Rocco remotely triggered the thermites back at their fence-breach point. The sky lit up with a white-hot flash as the structure burned and melted.

The noise of the action was barely audible around the back of the building, but the men there saw the flash and glow of the demolition in the distance, back by the fence. Griz and Carlos gave Leon a boost up the wall. Leon's hands clamped onto the edge of the roof. Lean, hard muscles uncoiled, hoisting him up over the side with his weapons and gear. Once topside, he slipped the looped end of the rope over a vent pipe, held it there with one boot and dropped the rope over the side.

Carlos used the rope to climb up and join him, followed by Rocco.

The three guards on the ground were double-tapped, searched, and relieved of weapons, ammo, and everything else of possible use. Everyone had brought .40 caliber sidearms on this mission, knowing that was the round of choice for DHS personnel, so spare ammo was on site.

Jorge climbed up onto the roof also, while Kurt and Frank moved up to cover Tony, Butch and Griz, who opened the gate and slipped outside the fence.

Inside the building was only one more person. When he saw Josh he reached for something and had to be shot.

His fingers had almost touched an alarm button.

Josh sat down at the computer the man had been using, first, to disable the timeout function and hack the passwords. Then he guided himself on a tour of the control room, figuring out where everything was.

Rocco's voice sounded in his earpiece. "Mountain Man, This is Sea Dog, over."

"Five by five, Sea Dog. Inside secure. Going to work, now."

Josh let out a deep breath and sat at the computer again, removing his patrol pack to extract the laptop. The task ahead of him was overwhelming. He reminded himself to think of it as dozens of smaller obstacles, and just take them out one-by-one.

Rocco got a head count over the radio. No casualties. Now they just had to secure the place and hope Josh could get the job done quickly. Quicker than the opfor could react, hopefully.