CAREFUL
MEASUREMENTS
LAYNE D. HANSEN
Copyright © 2018 Layne D. Hansen.
AU photo: Lindsey Waite
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Archway Publishing
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Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
ISBN: 978-1-4808-6058-2 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4808-6059-9 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018903271
Archway Publishing rev. date: 06/18/2018
CONTENTS
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Prologue
Part One Arriving
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two Putting Down Stakes
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Three The Devil You Don’t Know
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part Four Rebels
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part Five A Reckoning
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
About The Author
Dedication
To those who love freedom, but don’t know how to express why.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my wife, Sherry, for her advice and support. I would also like to thank those who have read and critiqued this work: Cynthia, Ryan, Lisa, Nichol, Jared. Big thanks to the very talented Landon Rasmussen, who painted the cover. I would like to thank my brother Chris for helping me get this published. Lastly, I would like to thank those who have thought about, written, and fought for freedom for the individual—and for those who continue to do so.
Introduction
Like many authors will tell you, writing this novel has been a labor of love…and frustration. This book is ten years in the making. It started with the question of what would happen if there was actual, full economic equality. Since this type of large-scale experiment described in this book would likely never happen, I have used my understanding of human nature, economics, politics, and my imagination to answer this question. The result is what you now hold in your hands.
Many readers will say something like “man, this guy really hates liberals,” but this is not the case. I have many liberal friends. You could also say that I hate liberalism, but that isn’t true either. People long ago hijacked that word, which actually means social and economic advancement while maintaining political and economic freedom. What I do hate is the idea that some people are smarter than others, and therefore, they must create governments. Those governments create policies, which dictate how people should live their lives. The audacity and arrogance behind this idea is truly breathtaking.
This philosophy has taken many forms, and goes by many names: socialism, communism, progressivism, among others. The fundamental idea, however, is common among all of these approaches, i.e., some individuals have the right, if not the obligation, to help others get through life. What they never say out loud, however, is that their desire to “help” others is their way to create wealth and power for themselves. George Orwell captured this idea best in his masterwork Animal Farm where he wrote, “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” As happens in that book, the elite – the self-proclaimed intellectually and morally superior – steal the resources created by others. They keep some for themselves and give the rest to others in order to remain in power.
The desire to be free and the desire to control are two extremely powerful forces. They are like warm and cold weather fronts—when they collide they create a vicious storm that affects everyone it in its wake. This collusion creates human misery. This idea is best encapsulated by another Orwell masterpiece, 1984. The book’s protagonist, Winston Smith, has been arrested for crimes against the state. While being tortured into giving up any sense of individuality, Smith has this exchange with his tormentor:
O’Brien: “How does one man assert his power over another?
Winston: “By making him suffer.”
O’Brien: “Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough … If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face … forever.”
This scene – this boot of dominance – has been played and replayed throughout history, in every corner of the globe. Thankfully, America (outside of a few groups) has been spared the worst of this misery, mostly due to its Constitution, its strong political institutions, and what I like to call political DNA—our ingrained expectation of freedom.
Human misery is scalar and we Americans are somewhere in the middle. Perhaps Milton Friedman described this best when he said, “When government - in pursuit of good intentions - tries to rearrange the economy, legislate morality, or help special interests, the cost come in inefficiency, lack of motivation, and loss of freedom. Government should be a referee, not an active player.” As groups gain more and more control, however, the misery will increase.
Other parts of the world are not so lucky. The road of history is paved with the corpses of victims of the philosophy that some individuals or groups have the right to control others. Whether one is called King, Queen, Emperor, Fuhrer, General Secretary, or President, the human misery is the same. An enormous majority of human beings desire to be free—to be left alone. Others have the psychotic need to control others. Where this comes from is still a mystery to scientists, but it’s real nonetheless.
I truly believe that, if an experiment as described in this book were set up in real life, the outcomes would be very similar to those experienced by these characters. Unless, that is, a large enough group of people stand up and fight against those trying to take away their liberty. Like Ronald Reagan said in his farewell address, “Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction. We did
n’t pass it to our children in the bloodstream. It must be fought for, protected, and handed on for them to do the same.”
We are losing this in America. Hopefully, I have created something here that will help to wake a long-sleeping giant. There truly are some out there that seek to take away your freedom. Why? Because, in a strange way, it fulfills something within them. We need to wake up, join together, and start fighting back.
Thank you for reading.
“[Communism’s] first commandment is found, not in the Communist Manifesto, but in the first sentence of the physics primer: “All of the progress of mankind to date results from the making of careful measurements.”
Whittaker Chambers, Witness
Prologue
The windshield wipers screeched across the old truck’s cracked windshield, but they did nothing to improve the driver’s view. Countless layers of dirt and dead bugs cast a milky sheen on the glass, made worse by the glare of the setting sun. Hank Williams blared from the stereo system that the driver’s grandson installed the year before.
That kid thinks this is his truck, the man thought with a grudging smile. It was something the old farmer had never been able to get through his grandson’s thick skull—this was Grandpa’s truck and would be until the day he died. Memories flooded his mind as he gazed across his expansive farmland. Learning how to drive the old tractor. Moving countless miles of sprinkler pipe. Tromping through the fields with his father and grandfather with mud-caked boots. Those long ago days caused tears to sting at his eyes.
Perhaps Ronald Harris was feeling sentimental because his end was coming sooner than later. He was stepping down as owner, president and CEO of Harris Farms, Inc. the next day. It used to be called “the farm,” but the operation had become so prosperous his sons demanded that he incorporate. This land, so loved and toiled over, had sustained his family for generations. His grandfather bought the first small parcel of land and slowly added to it when others couldn’t afford to keep going. His own father did the same and now here he was, about to pass it all along to his own sons and grandsons. This wasn’t just land and structures and equipment—it was a legacy, he thought as he crested a familiar rise.
He descended again, bringing a small, fertile valley into view. The crops were coming in fine, he could see. Harris’ dreamy melancholy suddenly came to a halt, however, when he saw that a disheveled figure was walking towards him. Apparently the man was unaware that he was in the middle of the road. He appeared to be wearing a military uniform. It was smeared with dirt. His boots were caked with mud. Harris brought the truck to a rolling stop. He wasn’t a swearing man but a curse word from his childhood nearly escaped his lips. Harris stepped out of the truck and slowly walked towards the man. Harris reached him as he was about to collapse to the ground.
“Goodness, son!” Harris exclaimed.
The man tried to speak but only a croaking sound escaped his throat. He gave up trying to speak and made a drinking gesture with his hand.
“You want some water?” Harris asked.
The man nodded, his eyes rolling back and then returning to meet Harris’ gaze. The old farmer lowered him to the gravel road and shuffled back to his truck. He returned, sloshing water out of a plastic bottle as he opened it. Harris held the bottle out towards the man, who wrenched it from his hand and drank greedily. He spilled more down his shirtfront than he drank.
“Thank you,” he rasped and then took a more careful drink.
“You’re welcome,” Harris replied, concern and confusion furrowing his brow. He reached down and helped the younger man to his feet.
“Thank you,” the younger man said again, limping towards Harris’ truck bed.
“You’re welcome.” He looked the man up and down again. He was trying to figure out why someone would be out here, on his land, dressed like a soldier, and in this condition. “How?” he said, perplexed. “Where?” Harris gave up trying to make sense out of what he was seeing and asked, “Where did you come from?”
The younger man gazed at Harris, either not sure what the question meant or how to answer. Finally he turned and pointed towards the northwest.
“You were over there,” Harris proclaimed, his eyes wide with surprise and recognition.
Some sort of experiment had been going on a few miles northwest from where they stood. He’d never gone there himself but a few of his rancher and farmer friends had done business with residents there.
The man nodded, tears rolling down his dirt-streaked face. Whether unashamed or too tired to care, he didn’t try to wipe them away.
“What’s your name?” the farmer asked, still unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
“Patton,” he croaked. “Patton Larsen.”
“Nice to meet you,” Harris said out of habit. “Wish we could’ve met under better circumstances. Ronald Harris,” he said, offering his hand, which Patton shook weakly. “You hungry?” Harris asked.
Patton nodded solemnly.
Harris walked to the open door of his truck and searched for food.
“Sorry young man,” he said, crinkling a bag of pistachios. “I only have these. Don’t think you could eat these do you?”
Patton shook his head and shrugged.
“Well, I don’t live too far from here,” Harris said. “Let’s head to my house and you can tell me how you got out here.”
Tears formed in Patton’s eyes again. “There are more of us … people like me … people with me,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Where?” Harris asked, his eyes growing wide with surprise.
Patton raised his arm and pointed down the hill towards a tall, gangly figure walking towards where they were standing. He then turned and met Harris’ gaze with a mirthless smile and a desperate look in his eyes. Harris grimaced. He said a silent prayer, asking for the help or the wisdom and the clarity of mind to know what to do.
“How many are there then?” he asked, feeling a surge of emotion crawl up his back and then his neck.
Patton shrugged. They got into the truck and drove down the hill towards the second man, who appeared to be in worse shape than Patton.
“How did this happen?” Harris asked after an awkward silence, still bewildered.
“They had a reason to live and a reason for us to die, I guess,” Patton said coolly, his eyes seeming to lose focus and then come back again.
This statement made no sense to Harris but he said nothing, assuming it was just babble. They reached the solitary figure in less than a minute. He was tall and painfully thin with dirty, disheveled red hair. He looked to be wearing a uniform, but it wasn’t military. It looked like someone in jail would wear. Harris opened the truck’s tailgate and the two helped him sit. Harris held a water bottle towards the man, who took it gratefully. The red-haired man opened it and commenced to drink as Patton had.
“How you doing?” Patton asked his comrade.
The man turned and looked at him with drawn and weary eyes and then looked down at his wet shirt.
“You said there are more of you?” Harris asked Patton.
Patton nodded grimly and stood. Beckoning the farmer to follow, Patton hobbled over to the next rise. As they reached the crest, they could see down the next stretch of gravel road, which went nearly all the way down to interstate. When Harris saw it his jaw went slack. A group of about a dozen people was slowly making its way up the slope towards them. They were all similar to Patton in appearance. Two pairs of people were carrying others on makeshift litters. Upon further inspection, Harris realized that Patton was in the best shape of anyone.
Harris looked at Patton and Patton met his gaze. Tears welled up in both of their eyes. Simultaneously, they made their way down the hill to meet the group and to try, somehow, to help them.
PART ONE
ARRIVING
CHAPTER
1
Year
s earlier…
The passenger train slithered across the landscape like a snake following its meandering prey. In between cities and towns the engineer could get the train up to nearly a hundred miles per hour. The train was torturously slow, however, when it climbed through the Sierra Nevada Mountains. To Patton Larsen, the slower the train traveled, the better. He was going to his destination willingly, but he was still anxious. The permanence and uncertainty of his decision still bothered him, like buyer’s remorse. This was, perhaps, his last chance to leave his past behind him and to possibly build a future. Patton shook himself out of his stupor and watched the passing landscape again.
Spring was coming early to this part of the country. Snow and ice clung to the ground in places, but for the most part it looked like the weather was beginning to turn. The sun was bright and the few clouds that he could see were unthreatening. Most noticeable was the crispness of the colors. The tall pines and wild grasses were a lush green, the snow a bright white, and the exposed earth was a rich brown.
As often happened, Patton’s mind turned inward. He suddenly thought of his mother.
“I think you’re just running away,” she replied when he told he was going away, possibly forever. “This damn experiment. What are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing. Maybe I am running away, but I don’t know what else to do.”
She turned away from him in that way she did when she was about to cry. Patton usually let these types of conversations wane, but this was too important. He had to make her understand.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. “Do you want me to go back to the hospital? That was hell for me too, you know.”
She nodded and clasped her hand around his, squeezing it then releasing then squeezing it again. She turned to him with tears running down her face. “You didn’t lose everything in that wreck,” she replied, nearly inaudibly.
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