Empire City

by Matt Gallagher

  Applause carried through the room. She totally punched a superior, Mia thought, recalling the rumor for why General Collins hadn’t pinned a third star. And I love it.

  “We live in a moment of much divide. Perhaps not since the Civil War has America been this polarized, this angry and upset with the so-called other side. We here at American Service believe there is no other side. Not with fellow Americans. But the tribalism of the system is strong. Strong and toxic. It’s fracturing our great nation.

  “Now, more than ever, the center must hold. A center of moderation. A center of compromise. A center of service.

  “Yes, service. It’s a word tossed around a lot these days, but what does it mean? What does it look like? For too many citizens, it’s something they believe in but aren’t personally acquainted with. We here at American Service believe we have the answer. An answer that will fill our young people with purpose and benefit the nation.

  “Everyone here at American Service has practiced what we preach. I myself spent a few years in a military uniform, and then a couple more at the Agency. Just resigned from there, actually. To do this.” The general stopped for applause and after a strained beat, some came. The military was one thing, but the Empire City elite held mixed feelings about the Agency. “Service to community. Service to country. Service to our ideals, to our better angels. That’s our vision. After tonight, it’ll be yours, too.”

  She began introducing the presidential candidate, but Mia’s thoughts stayed with the general. “Our better angels,” she had said. Pragmatism and idealism, for something bigger than self. Mia felt like she did at the summer luncheon. Transfixed. Hopeful.

  I’m going to do it, she thought. I’ll leave finance for this, and never look back.

  “She’s talking mandatory national service, right?” Sebastian was in her ear, whispering. Mostly. “Like everyone has to join the army or park service for a couple of years?”

  Mia nodded, her mind beginning to plot out her transition. Was the general’s offer still standing? She needed to be certain. And Pete had said he’d talked about her with General Collins. She needed to know what about.

  “It’s my right as an American to do whatever I want.” Scorn laced Sebastian’s words. He burped into his fist yet again. “Especially if it’s nothing.”

  Mia held zero regard for that. This was America, not a blithe dreamscape. She leaned up to Sebastian and said, words drawn like a revolver, “Shut. Up.”

  The presidential candidate walked across the stage to shake hands and exchange an awkward hug with General Collins. Mia knew little about him other than he was Mormon, came from gambling money, and had salt-and-pepper hair that never seemed to move, even in wind. If he was going to be the bellwether of this movement, she needed to learn more. She tried to focus on his speech.

  “What is patriotism?” the candidate began.

  It was a question, a good question, and one Mia and others in the crowd had explored in mind and heart. The ballroom turned black before it could be answered, though, as if the plug of the world had been tripped over by a clumsy god.

  Through the shadows: the kiss of gunfire into dark air. Shrieks. Shouts. Metallic fear, tinny panic, primal smells for the postmodern condition. A voice, cold and singular, telling everyone to remain still, remain still, remain still if you want to live.

  Through it all, Mia watched, her eyes adjusting, the tips of her fingers prickling. The nape of her neck began to itch. She heard the hustle of bodies and guns moving their way, knowing straightaway they were coming for Pete. It was how she would’ve planned it.

  She took a knee and waited for the enemy to reveal itself.

  FREEDOMBOOK

  Your state-approved source for information and factual content

  The Council of Victors is a federal agency that oversees a wide variety of services, benefits, and medical care for American military veterans and discharged warfighters. The Council consists of nine members, all veterans themselves, selected for renewable ten-year appointments.[1] Historically, the Council has drawn from the government, finance, and energy sectors for its executive selections, though some more recent members have come from Hollywood and academia.

  The Council of Victors replaced the Veterans Administration at the conclusion of the Vietnam War due to recurring institutional failures and allegations of government corruption.[2] “The Council will be a fusion of federal power and funding with private industry’s knack for innovation,” founding member Ambassador Javier Contreras said in 1983. Among its early successful projects were Vietnam Victory Square in Empire City, Heroes Hall in Chicago, and the first rehabilitation colony for veterans with troubles, in the Outer Banks.[3]

  In order to broaden the Council’s vision and impact upon local communities, the Council of Victors sanctioned 300 local Victor councils in 1992, located across the United States.[4] The Council of Victors is strictly a nonpartisan assembly, as stipulated in its charter. Any member of the Council (local and executive) must resign before pursuing political office.[5]

  CHAPTER 9

  THE SCREEN FLASHED with breaking news but it was too low to hear and Jean-Jacques found the chyron on it oddly imperceptible. The attacks, the demonstrations, the street fights, they were starting to blur together. Soldiering provided agency. Life as a citizen offered anything but. He hated feeling like a bystander but what choice did he have when something was happening elsewhere? What choice did anyone? He found the remote and pressed the off button.

  The room the secretary had directed him to felt like the inside of a shoebox—blank, bland, and made of slender walls. Jean-Jacques had been waiting fifteen minutes but it seemed three times as long. His phone couldn’t locate any roaming service and the office’s wireless connection was locked behind a password. He had two texts he needed to respond to: the first, an offer from Flowers to come hang in Gypsy Town; the second, a plea from his cousin Emmanuel to get dinner.

  He didn’t want to do either, but knew he’d end up doing both. Flowers needed a spotter; he was out of his element, and not just with Britt and the two boyfriends and the whole bohemian music shit-scene. Empire City had beat down many a traveler over the decades, most of them savvier souls than Grady Flowers of Oak Ridge, Tennessee. As for his cousin, Jean-Jacques needed to be direct and let the man know he wouldn’t be investing in whatever plan he had conjuring. He’d say it’s because he didn’t mix family and business, but that wasn’t it. He’d just seen too many little Emmanuels in hoods across the globe. He knew how the schemes looked and how they sounded. He knew how they ended.

  Before he could settle with Flowers or his cousin, though, he needed to get this done. They’d called it an interview, which could mean a lot of things. He’d once “interviewed” a Revolutionary Guard captain in Mashhad that ended with the young Persian dangling upside down from a twentieth-floor tower railing. The memory made Jean-Jacques smile. Good times, he thought. That tour had been real freedom. The kind only frontier soldiers and far-gone outlaws knew. The kind that bayed in the savage chambers of the heart, that smelled of dark animal piss and tasted of the same, the kind that allowed human beings to lose and find themselves all at once. Some men never came back from that freedom; it was life too full, too uncut. Those who did tended not to forget what they’d exchanged for civilization. They’d made the deal for reasons, of course. But on occasion, some of them wondered about that uncut life. What they could’ve been. What they almost were.

  Jean-Jacques was one of those.

  The door opened with a soft yawn. Three men in slacks and starched white shirts came in, moving with the vertical strain that constant posture yielded. A fourth followed, less crisp than the others and hunching, holding a yellow notepad. Jean-Jacques folded his arms across his chest, balled his fists, and silently repeated his favorite saying from the Legion: Be Polite, Be Professional, Have a Plan to Kill Everyone You Meet.

  “Hello, Corporal Saint-Pray-ux,” one man said as they settled into chairs across from h
im. He was middle-aged, gray at the temples, while Jean-Jacques pegged the other two in their thirties. The man with the notepad took a seat in the corner. “Did I pronounce that right?”

  He had not but Jean-Jacques nodded anyhow. It wasn’t the worst he’d heard.

  “This is Agent Stein, this is Agent Dorsett. My name is Assistant Director Larsen. They’re Bureau agents here in the city, and I’m part of a counterterrorism task force based out of Federal City.” He pointed to the corner. “This is Mr. Burke, a legal representative from the War Department, here on your behalf. Appreciate you coming on such short notice.”

  “All good. We’re on the same team.” Jean-Jacques said it as deadpan as possible. Starched shirts and neckties didn’t change that these guys were cops. The lawyer kept his head down, writing into his notepad.

  “Can we get you a coffee?”

  “I’d take a beer.” Not unreasonable. It was 7 p.m.

  The black agent looked at Larsen, shrugged, then left the room. Thirty seconds later, he returned with a bottle of light pilsner.

  “Mesi,” Jean-Jacques said, twisting off the cap and taking a drink. “So. The bomber. What you looking to know.”

  They’d called that morning, refusing to say why they wanted to speak. Just that they needed to. Good with Special Operations Command? But of course. Where at? They had offices all over the districts of Empire City, name one. (Little Haiti? Eh, name another one.) Would tonight work? Sure, if nothing sooner didn’t.

  Jean-Jacques considered the possibilities over the day, zeroing in on army veteran Jonah Gray. Nothing else made sense, even if he didn’t understand what it had to do with him, or why they asked he come by himself. Regardless, the Bureau men’s faces stayed still as stone at Jean-Jacques’s prodding. Good training, he thought.

  “You know him? Let’s start there,” the older agent said.

  Jean-Jacques shook his head.

  “You’ve seen his photograph?”

  “Couldn’t miss that caveman stare if I wanted to. It’s everywhere.”

  “And you’re sure you’ve never met?”

  “Sure we never talked.”

  “Some tips we’ve received claim he worked with the Volunteers,” the agent who’d gotten the beer said. He had an accent like Flowers, subtler though, more creamy. Whatever the language—and Jean-Jacques knew four fluently and could converse in a handful more—mountain people sounded mountain and coastal people sounded coast. This guy was coast.

  “Which missions.”

  “The Abu Abdallah raid, for one.”

  “Brother.” Jean-Jacques laughed. “We had about one hundred in auxiliary. Every branch had boots there. Demanded it. SEALs. Force Recon. 82nd. Some ground zoomies. Even those crazy-ass Agency door kickers. Now every vet on the planet can say they was on that island, helping get the bad man. Use it to get laid.”

  The lawyer kept writing. None of the agents even smiled. Too bad, Jean-Jacques thought. It’s funny.

  “Got another tip saying he ran su-support for you all.” The other field agent, Stein, spoke now. He had a mild stammer. Jean-Jacques distrusted it. “In the Dinaric Alps.”

  That was interesting. That’d been one of the first missions with their supers—a running gun battle with Balkan nationalists who had them surrounded. It hadn’t been publicized, since it hadn’t been a glorious victory over terror. It’d been a total mess. Four days at the top of the earth with no resupply. Pete and Flowers thought it’d proven their mettle. Jean-Jacques thought it’d revealed their limitations. Nothing but the smells of death, with some desperate calls for artillery in between. Superheroes or not, they’d have been dead ten times over without that artillery. The Alps had shown Jean-Jacques what real power was. It’d shown him where it came from, too.

  He kept that to himself, though. “No such support.” Every word he spoke would be parsed into fragments upon fragments by analysts who hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Best to keep it brief. “Just us up there.”

  The agents asked about Sergeant Swenson and Corporal Flowers, if either had ever expressed knowing the bomber.

  “Big negative.” Jean-Jacques looked at the man in the corner, whose focus remained on his notepad like it held the mysteries of the universe. Of course they sent the worst lawyer alive, Jean-Jacques thought. “As surprised as I was. We all thought it was a wog, to be honest.”

  The lawyer wrote faster than usual into his notepad. Probably shouldn’t have said that, Jean-Jacques thought. Oh well.

  Agent Dorsett leaned back in his seat, causing it to screech against the tile floor. Then he cracked his neck like he was about to power-clean the table. Fucking babylons, Jean-Jacques thought. Everything’s always a show.

  “I’m going to be real with you now, brutha.”

  “Okay.”

  “We figured those tips were bullshit. Timeline doesn’t match. Due diligence, though. Now I need you to be real with me.”

  “Okay,” Jean-Jacques said again.

  “Only difference between us is a boat stop. Remember that.”

  Jean-Jacques thought about that, then thought about why a federal agent would say that to a soldier. “Okay,” he said yet again.

  “Thirty bombed monuments. One for each year of the Mediterranean Wars. Each monument from a different war. This was exact. Tight. Planned, with a message. We got surveillance of Gray entering Vietnam Victory Square the morning of.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It is. That’s just one of thirty, though. He did this all by himself? Hell no.”

  “Sure.” Jean-Jacques sniffed. “But what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Your cousin.” Empty seconds passed. Jean-Jacques listened to recycled air. “Emmanuel.”

  “What about him?”

  The field agents looked at Larsen from the task force. The older man nodded and began reading from a file.

  Jonah Gray. Age forty-six. From Ohio. Army veteran of the Mediterranean Wars. Tours to Beirut, Cyprus, and Albania. First as an armored cavalry scout, later as a chaplain’s assistant. Upon military discharge, a medical tribunal sent Jonah Gray to a colony on Block Island for “signs of combat stress reaction and psychological trauma.” He spent ten years there and was released, having met the criteria for a return to the citizenry. The Bureau hadn’t been able to get much else from that time frame. The Council of Victors held tight to colony documents.

  Jonah Gray went west after the colony. He’d met some separatists on Block Island and become interested in their ideas. He earned a nickname during his western travels: the Chaplain. His time as an assistant had shown him the power of reverence. A holy man held great importance to soldiers, whether in the Mediterranean or the Great Basin. He became a roving desert prophet, going from separatist group to separatist group, calling for uprising against the American government. The separatist leaders treasured him at first, seeing how this holy man inspired their rank and file. That turned, eventually. They began to fear being usurped. Jonah Gray was turning his pulpit into a platform for questioning their tactics and strategy. Sermons about God and justice were one thing. Being told they weren’t doing enough for true revolution was another. The separatist leaders had banished Jonah Gray from their camps three years before.

  “He fell off our radar after that,” Agent Dorsett explained. “A mistake. But our focus was on the separatists, not a wandering reverend.”

  After the war memorial bombings, the Bureau had been trying to piece together where Gray had gone next. There’d been a vet break from the Block Island colony he must’ve been involved with: twenty-four veterans escaped, including a group of his former ward mates. From those men and the strategies learned out west, Gray had formed a militia of his own. They called themselves the Mayday Front.

  The Front weren’t political extremists in any traditional sense. Not far left, not far right, not devoted to toppling the federal state or tax system. Other than Gray himself, they didn’t even seem all that religious. “But they’re angry,”
Agent Stein said. “And armed. A group of radical warfighters and citizens hell-bent on humiliating those they think have humiliated them. Want to destroy the rehabilitation colonies, for example. Let veterans with troubles back into everyday society.

  “They’re crazy. No plan for what comes after.”

  Gray had learned how to lead, how to plan. Like the Western separatists, like the Muslim Brotherhood and IRA abroad, the Mayday Front had both a militant wing and a social service wing. He had deputies installed in both while staying off the grid himself. No digital profile to speak of, no media presence. They’d found one lone video online, a grainy speech Gray had made in the Florida backwoods while recruiting an ultra militia.

  Right-wing ultras and lefty activists working for the same cause, toward the same end? That didn’t reason. Jean-Jacques said so.

  “Gray’s fucking nuts,” Agent Dorsett said. “But he’s got that madman charisma. It’s an ethic of total retaliation.”

  The militant wing had carried out the war memorial bombings. They could pin Gray to Vietnam Victory Square the day of. Now they needed to find him. Which is why they needed Jean-Jacques.

  His cousin, the agents said, belonged to the Mayday Front. Not the militant wing, but the social service one. They’d had trouble infiltrating the militants—they were wary, distrustful, made up of veterans of the Mediterranean who’d known one another for years. The social service wing, though, was more nascent, run by a deputy with Haitian roots. It’s how Emmanuel had become involved.

  “Your cousin brings you in,” Agent Larsen said. “You’re a famous Volunteer. They’ll welcome your presence. Jump at getting you involved in their community projects and outreach. Especially if you let slip there’s something about the wars that you resent. Something you regret. Will help earn their trust.”

  Could Jean-Jacques handle that?

  He thought about Tripoli, and the boy he’d lost, the boy he’d failed. Yes, he could conjure up something for these Maydays. But why? He needed to be getting ready for war again, he said. Hitting the gym. Doing foot marches through hills. Zeroing his weapons at the range. Shit like that.