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Agent Ramirez jumped on a shuttle flight to DC from O’Hare at 6:00 a.m., spilling coffee on his hand while trying to juggle the cup and his briefcase down the aircraft’s narrow aisle. The advantage to being small-statured, he figured, was that plane seats didn’t present the same problem for him as they did for others. Unless he managed to draw the short straw—he smiled at his own pun—and be seated next to a mastodon in a flower-print dress. The woman overflowed her armrest like shit stuffed into a Hefty bag, and Ramirez spent an uncomfortable hour jammed into a corner of his seat. Even so, the woman’s flabby arm touched his, and he flinched away.
He endured this aggravation because the current Director of Homeland Security, Eliza Proctor, failed to embrace technology. There was nothing wrong with V-meetings—the participant’s avatars looked almost real these days—but the fossilized old bitch didn’t like the occasional time-lag that chopped up dialogue, or that some putz inevitably forgot to unmute their microphone. No, Eliza Proctor didn’t get to where she was by suffering—at least not when she had minions to do that for her.
Ramirez rented a car and exited Washington National at 8:20 in the morning. At 8:25 he rolled to a stop behind a line of jammed traffic trying to cross the Potomac. Fifty-seven minutes later he inched five miles and arrived at the old Treasury Building on 15th, which Homeland had taken over in 2031, remodeled, and expanded it to fit their growing needs.
Proctor’s admin told him the director was in the National Press Conference, taking place in the Rayburn building, and would he be so kind as to meet her there. Well, of course he’d be so kind, wouldn’t he? He had no other choice but to be so kind.
Fuming, Ramirez recovered his car and inched through masses of pedestrians, many of them holding signs for one dippy cause or another, and bullied his way into an access-controlled parking lot a block away from the Rayburn office complex. He took the longer way around, via Independence Avenue, because the sight of the capitol dome never failed to inspire him. The icon lifted his spirits. Ramirez jogged up the few steps at the Rayburn’s entrance and badged past the metal detectors and X-ray units. He asked directions from the Federal Protection Officer and quick-marched through marble halls to room 2168, the Gold Room.
A guard in front of the conference room stopped him. “Sorry, sir, this is a press conference; it’s not open to the public.”
Ramirez flashed his shield. “I’m not the public.”
Inside, the press conference was going strong. The Director for Health and Human Services, Doug Atkinson, stood in front of the mic. Seated along either side of the podium were directors from a baker’s dozen federal agencies and offices. Eliza Proctor anchored the far left, as weathered as a redwood forest. If she dies, Ramirez mused, they will have to cut her in half and read the rings to tell how old she was when she fell.
The crone met his eye when he sidled into the room and tilted her head in a microscopic dip.
A long, narrow room full of reporters, both physically present and projected avatars, jotted quick notes and composed one-hundred-and-forty-character news blips to post. None of them looked old enough to buy a legal drink.
“In summary,” Director Atkinson stated, “there will be no entitlement cutbacks as a result of the current fiscal crisis. We are confident Congress will reach a budget deal which will raise the debt limit and allow for an injection of much-needed currency into the economy. Everybody get that down? Excellent. We shall now move on to—”
“Excuse me.” A ditzy blonde stood with a finger raised. She was present in person, so Ramirez couldn’t tell which news outlet she represented. Obviously a newbie, heedless of the protocol for the National Press Conference. “Excuse me,” she repeated.
Atkinson raised an eyebrow and uttered a tentative, “Yes? Mizzz, uh...”
“Cheryl Henderson, Midwest News Service.” The blonde’s hand tremored ever so slightly, but she stayed on her feet. “A follow-up question, please?”
Atkinson double-blinked his surprise but nodded.
“Ah”—the ditz ducked her head to check her tablet—“oh, here it is. You said ‘inject currency into the economy.’ Can you clarify where that money is coming from? Will it be new taxes, or will the Treasury, ah, just, ah, print more money?”
Atkinson shifted his feet and glanced at Undersecretary Sethi, the delegated Treasury representative. The woman, wearing a green sari with gold trim and a translucent gold uttariya covering her head, leaned into the microphone in front of her. “The government will do the responsible thing first, that which benefits the greatest number of people at the lowest cost. We will employ a multipronged approach to this situation and have developed a number of contingencies to meet our fiscal obligations.”
“I see,” said Henderson, although clearly she did not. She scratched her head with her stylus. “Um, follow-up question? What about inflation? I’ve heard that’s really bad. Would you say your policies will help or hurt inflation?”
Atkinson leaned on the podium with both hands. A thick game-show-host helmet of white hair set off his reddening complexion. Ramirez suspected Ms. Henderson’s press credentials would soon be revoked—or the IRS audit team would come knocking on her door. “The only thing that will pull us out of this economic slide is jobs. Jobs, jobs, jobs. The government creates jobs by pumping money into the system. Surely you learned the phrase ‘prime the pump’ in school? Of course you did.” The director leaned back, lips compressed. “Trust us to know what we’re doing and report the news accordingly.”
“But Director Atkinson—”
“That will be all for today. We will email everyone the remaining headlines for distribution.” The white-haired man gestured, and the audio pickups clicked off; he then leaned into Proctor’s ear for a quick word before stalking away.
The Director of Homeland Security joined Ramirez as the remaining reporters filed out. Proctor sneered at Cheryl Henderson, one of the last to leave. “Where do they find these puppies?”
“I do not know,” Ramirez said. “The pound?”
Proctor buzzed a dry, raspy laugh. Broom thin and dried to the consistency of a cornhusk, Eliza Proctor would stand a head taller than Ramirez if her back wasn’t bent by osteoporosis. “You were down in Texas recently, right? A little matter of an unruly family?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You pick up any rumors of another secession attempt?”
“No, ma’am, not a word.”
“Well, our sources are saying they’re at it again, the dumb hick bastards. Tried it in ’26 then again in ’32. Getting whipped like stray dogs didn’t teach them a thing.”
Ramirez wasn’t sure how to respond, so he signaled agreement and kept pace with her glacial shuffle steps. In two minutes they had covered less distance than a first down in football. Why didn’t the slab of beef assigned to her protection detail simply pick her up and carry her in a backpack? They would at least move faster.
“Anyway,” Proctor wheezed, “I need you to wrap up that Chicago thing, PDQ, and get down to Texas. Turn that little ferret nose of yours loose and find the damned rebels. The last thing this town needs is another damned civil war. Hell, we’d have to have a bake sale to fund it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are we on finding that file?”
“I have a CI embedded with MacCauley’s people who is tracking the copying facility. The work can be done in a single room, so I’m not convinced he will be able to find it in time. We have placed surveillance cams on every street corner in Chicago, and doubled that in the area of Cabrini-Green, which is where we think she went to ground.”
“With the spooks?” Proctor’s lips compressed even tighter.
“Probably.” Ramirez hesitated before continuing. “We have a hard time infiltrating C-G territory, and the locals counter-sweep for electronics regularly. To counter this, we have blanketed the area with numerous drones. The database of every known terrorist has been refreshed, and FR will bingo them the instant they show their face.”
“Results?”
Ramirez clamped his hands behind his back, squeezing them as if Proctor’s neck were between them. “Negligible. We have spotted a few low-level players, and our CI has shown up frequently. He appears to be engaged as a rooftop electrician.”
“Sounds like a complete waste of resources.”
“Which is why we are also working the other channels, such as monitoring the purchase of data wafers and other media for spikes in shipments. We are also working our informants hard and have staked out all of MacCauley’s known associates, past residences, and family members. Drones are patrolling for any street distribution of media. Active sniffers have been programmed by the NSA to patrol all phone, Internet, and satellite communications.”
Proctor’s querulous voice echoed from the marble halls as she shuffled. “We’re feeling the press of time on this, Ramirez. Frankly, I expected more from you by now.”
“Has the video become public?”
“You know it has not.”
“Then our tactics are working.” Ramirez tilted his head to take the sting from his words. “Results are forthcoming, Madam Director. Please be patient.”
“Patience has a limit, boy,” Proctor snarled. She sniffed and waited for a gaggle of lawmakers to bumble past. Pinning him with her watery-green eyes, the director said, “One way or another, Ramirez, when this is over, I expect that bunch of chickenshit motherfuckers to be gone. Are we clear on that?”
“Crystal, ma’am.”
After another two meters, Proctor glared at him sideways. “Well, what you hanging around me for? Go to it, boy.”