An Unlikely Phoenix

by Frank Zafiro

  The Governor pressed her lips together for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right, of course. So your advice is not to share that we had access to the house feed?”

  “For now, yes.” He turned to Ebby. “Did you record that stream?”

  Ebby nodded. “Yes. I thought the Governor might want to watch it again sometime.”

  “Good,” Keaton said, then looked meaningfully at the Governor. “That’s our ace in the hole, ma’am.”

  The Governor agreed. “I’m still not sure if I want to wait or not, but you’re right about the feed.” She turned back to the screen, watching the closed captioning stream across the bottom of the mainstream news channel. “Right now, I am most concerned that this ends peacefully.”

  Alex sat down, staring up at the blank left half of the screen and the static house feed. He wondered if Nathalie were somewhere safe inside the arena. That moved him to reach for his phone again, but he received the same result as before. No answer from Ryan, and an error message for Nathalie.

  The three of them settled into the seats and watched in silence. Ebby turned the volume back on the newscast feed, and they listened as the reporter continued to speculate on the volatile nature of the threat. There were a few stray shots of the police in positions around the arena, and the occasional update that rarely held anything new. This went on for well over an hour, then one of the reporters looked particularly excited as he gestured and spoke.

  Ebby brought that feed to the forefront.

  “—authorities are now confirming that radical elements of a yet unidentified dissident group are inside of the arena. It is unclear if this is the same group responsible for the terrorist threat or the violence that has occurred during the concert, but what we do know is that this group has been transmitting illegally from inside the venue. Moments ago, the incident commander made this brief statement to the assembled media.”

  The news cut to a recorded segment. A square-jawed man with blond hair that was gelled even more perfectly than the reporter stood amidst microphones. The caption beneath him read, “Lieutenant Potulny, St. Louis Metro Police Department.”

  Potulny’s reedy voice belied his Aryan features. “The transmission from inside the venue was a clear violation of the Internal Security Act, a felony. In addition, it was accomplished utilizing foreign technology that is illegal in this country, another felony. Therefore, as we evacuate the arena one individual at a time, we will be identifying each person, as well as searching him or her for illicit contraband.”

  “What kind of contraband?” one reporter asked.

  “The technology I just mentioned, primarily,” said Potulny. “But anything else that is in violation of state or federal law will also be seized and the person charged accordingly. We are dealing with the safety and well-being of Americans here.”

  “Sir, are there terrorists inside the arena?”

  Potulny shook his head. “I can’t comment on that. Anything more than what I’ve already told you falls under tactics and it would be unsafe for me to share. Please respect the safety of the good Americans who may have come to listen to some music and found themselves in the middle of political rebellion.”

  With that, Potulny turned away.

  “Christ,” Alex muttered. “It will take hours for them to empty the arena one person at a time.”

  “Not to mention that what they’re doing is a clear violation of the Constitution,” the Governor added.

  “Not if they can prove a credible terrorist threat,” Keaton replied. “They can suspend personal liberties for the collective good.”

  “Oh, Paul. I know that. They play that card all the time. But when have they ever had to come back after the fact and prove that the threat actually existed? Never. They just stonewall, saying they can’t offer the proof at the time because they’re focused on resolving the situation. Then later, they can’t offer proof because it would compromise the safety of their operatives or of Americans in general, and then everyone shrugs and moves on until the next time they need to violate civil rights. It’s a complete sham.”

  “And yet it works,” Keaton said.

  “You sound like you admire them.”

  “The effectiveness of the tactic? I do. But not the intent behind it.”

  Jon Hamm appeared on the stage on the arena house feed. Ebby switched over to that audio.

  “—outside of the arena right now. The promoter received a call instructing all of us to leave through the main doors, single file. Police will be identifying each of us, and conducting a search.”

  There was a swell of disagreement.

  Hamm held up his hands angrily. “I know, I know. This is ridiculous. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not planning on showing anyone my identification or submitting to any searches. You all can make up your own mind.”

  “Oh, no,” the Governor said. “That’s the wrong move.”

  “Only if he’s alone,” Keaton hedged. “If eighteen thousand people agree with him, that could cause serious problems for the police.”

  “No, it won’t,” Alex said. “That lieutenant, Potulny? My brother knows him. He is a party hack and a climber. If those people resist, whether violently or passively, he will resort to force. From what Ryan has said, he might even enjoy it. But he’d definitely use the opportunity to make a point.”

  “What point?” Ebby asked.

  “That you do what you’re told,” the Governor answered. “But I think they need to go along with the police in this case. The situation is too volatile for them to risk any kind of greater protest. Especially if the police are being led by someone like Alex described.”

  The mainstream news feed flashed “Breaking News.” Ebby switched to it.

  “—a discredited actor, is reportedly exhorting the crowd to violently resist the peaceful police action to defuse this terrorist situation.”

  The video and audio cut away to Hamm, whose expression and tone were angry. “I’m not planning on showing anyone my identification or submitting to any searches.”

  The video cut back to the reporter, live. He managed to look disapproving and grave at the same time. “Now let’s shift over to Angela Whitestone, who is standing by with Lieutenant Potulny for a response.”

  A statuesque blonde woman appeared on screen, her microphone poised. “I’m here with Lieutenant Potulny once again. Sir, how do you respond to the reckless statements made by Mr. Hamm moments ago?”

  Potulny scowled. “Look, I don’t know who this guy is or who he thinks he is, but his actions are irresponsible. We have mobilized in order to secure the facility, maintain the safety of the Americans here, and deal with a terrorist threat in the middle of what amounts to a political protest. There are a lot of moving parts here, and all of them are potentially volatile. Encouraging anything other than absolute cooperation is not only dangerous, but frankly, it may even be treasonous under federal law.”

  The reporter seemed to suppress a salacious smile at Potulny’s words. “What should good Americans inside the HSA Arena do, sir?”

  Potulny looked directly into the camera and spoke slowly and clearly. “Move toward the main exit in an orderly fashion. Have your identification ready and be prepared to be catalogued and searched before you are allowed to leave. Cooperate fully with police. Anything less than that merely plays into the hands of terrorists and makes it unsafe for Americans.”

  The reporter turned back to the camera. “There you have it. Concert-goers are directed to—”

  “Turn that sound off,” the Governor said wearily. “God, I hate national media.”

  A tense fifteen minutes went by. Hamm remained on stage, talking to the crowd. Then, unexpectedly, Springsteen appeared on stage, beckoning to Hamm. Amidst some cheers, they stepped offstage. From the camera angle, Alex could see the two of them standing with Taylor Vera, Nate Crider, and several other people. The group was in an animated discussion that seemed to start as a disagreement, but slowly worked into something more ag
reeable. Springsteen, Hamm, and a woman Alex didn’t recognize did most of the talking. Eventually, Hamm returned to the center stage microphone, holding his hands up for quiet.

  “Listen, please. Listen. I’ve given this some thought, and I’ve talked it over with the promoter and the performers. We believe that the best thing to do tonight might just be to go along with the request of the police.”

  A round of boos and some shouting met his statement. Hamm raised his hands again. “I know. I realize some of you are against this on principle, and so am I. I also know that some of you are afraid of what violence the police may resort to, whether we go through this process or refuse. We considered this. Listen...”

  At that point, Springsteen walked back onstage, carrying a battered guitar. Nate Crider and Taylor Vera trailed behind him. When Hamm noticed them, he smiled, and changed direction mid-sentence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Hamm said grandly. “Here for an encore...Taylor Vera, Nate Crider, and Bruce Springsteen.”

  The dissatisfaction gave way to applause and a few bellows of “Broooooce.” Hamm gave way at the microphone and started to walk away but Springsteen said something to him. The actor grinned and joined Vera and Crider.

  Springsteen stepped up to the mike, lifting the guitar strap over his head and settling it on his shoulder with practiced ease. Then he strummed a couple of chords before he spoke.

  “We live in a country that claims to be free,” he said. “And that’s something I want to believe in. You’re free to believe what you want, and to do whatever you choose. But here’s what I plan on doing. I’m going to sing this next song with my friends here...” He motioned toward the three entertainers on stage with him. “...and we’re going to encourage you to sing along, too. It’s an old song, and an important one. And then after we’re finished singing, I’m going to put down my guitar, and I’m going to the main exit. I’m going to leave this arena in a way that is keeping with the purpose of this concert. I’m going to leave freely and in peace.”

  A mixed response came from the crowd, including a lackluster cheer, and a few shouts of disagreement.

  Springsteen ignored the sound, strumming his guitar a few more times thoughtfully. Then he added, “I figure, if we live in a country where the police will beat up an eighty year old man for playing some music, well then maybe this really isn’t a free country anymore.”

  That brought a concerted cheer of approval. When it died down, Springsteen said, “But I don’t think that’ll be the case. Not for me, not for any of us.”

  Next to him, Taylor Vera nodded along, and so did Crider and Hamm.

  “So anyway,” Springsteen finished. “This is how we win. With peace and freedom. Because that is what this land is all about. And this is a land that was made for all of us.”

  He strummed quietly, then struck a firm bass note and started the song in earnest. Alex recognized it immediately, and a moment later, so did the crowd. Springsteen’s raspy vocals walked through the first verse, and he was joined by Vera, Crider, and Hamm for the chorus.

  This land is your land

  This land is my land

  Alex could hear Vera’s higher tones and the low bass vocals from Crider perfectly complimenting Springsteen’s folksy lead.

  From California to the New York Island

  Alex heard a small sound, and looked over to see the Governor covering her mouth while a tear slid down her cheek.

  From the redwood forests to Gulf Stream waters

  This land was made for you and me....

  The song continued, and the performers alternated through taking lead on the verses while the crowd overwhelmed their voices and the simple acoustic guitar sound during the chorus. Alex watched on in amazement until the final lines of the final chorus ended, and Springsteen strummed a finally slow chord. Then he and the others left the stage.

  He turned to the Governor, who had dried her tears by then. “Will it work?” he asked her.

  The Governor nodded confidently. “Oh, yes. Without question.”

  They sat and watched events unfold over the next several hours, but in the end, the Governor was right. According to the mainstream news, the crowd cooperated, and police were able to secure the facility.

  When the Governor asked Ebby to check her dark web source, the computer guru was unable to locate a live feed, but she did find a recorded report that had been archived. In it, the unknown shadow blogger Veritas showed a clip of Springsteen’s plea and subsequent performance. Veritas then signed off after reporting that the crowd appeared to be in agreement, and that this was the most advisable course at the time. “This reporter will also comply,” came the digitally altered voice. “At least, so the fascists will believe.”

  The screen went dark.

  “I hope he gets out,” Alex said.

  “They’ll never know who it was,” Ebby said. “They may not even find the device. There are lots of hiding places in an arena that large.”

  “We may never know for sure,” Alex said.

  “Veritas will be back,” Ebby assured him. “Even if it is someone else next time.”

  Alex thought about that for a moment, then nodded his understanding.

  They watched for a while longer, all of them seeming reluctant to let this momentous event come to an end. At least that’s how he felt, even though they’d never actually been at the arena.

  His phone buzzed about four hours after the performance of “This Land is Your Land.” It was a text from Ryan.

  Saw your call. Nathalie safe. Will call you tomorrow.

  “Good news?” the Governor asked.

  He glanced up. “How did you know?”

  “It wasn’t hard. Your face lit up with relief.”

  “My sister-in-law is out of the arena, and safe,” Alex told her.

  “Good.”

  They sat quietly for another long while, watching the propaganda that passed for news strangely line up with some alternate news that Ebby was able to find and stream. Alex wondered at how rare that event must be. Then he found himself wondering about something else.

  “What are you thinking?” the Governor asked him.

  “About something you said a little while ago, when I met with you in your office. We were talking about a flashpoint, a catalyst.”

  “A Sarajevo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember,” she said.

  “This wasn’t it, was it?” Alex said, not really asking.

  The Governor thought about it for so long that he wasn’t sure she was actually going to answer him. But finally she said, “I don’t think so, Alex. But it is something. It is most definitely something. As for what that something will become...” She shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

  Part III: SOMETHING

  St. Louis, USA

  and

  California

  March 2029

  Our democracy must be not only the envy of the world but the engine of our own renewal. There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured by what is right with America.

  William J. Clinton,

  42nd President of the United States

  Chapter 13

  Almost from its inception, the New American Party (NAP) espoused many of the same principles upon which the United States of America claimed to have been founded; chief among these, freedom and equality. The strict interpretation of the Constitution was another tenet that received a fair amount of attention, with the Second Amendment, in particular, getting a significant amount of consideration. Detractors of the party in its earliest days claimed that it was the outgrowth of an emboldened Alt-Right movement and essentially a thinly veiled white nationalist party. NAP organizers and leaders denied this, and proceeded to walk a delicate line of balance between appealing to its core constituency without alienating the majority and risking political marginalization.

  By the late 2020s, this objective had largely been achieved. While the NAP seemed to consistently engag
e in significant propaganda efforts to highlight its inclusivity and equity toward all Americans, in truth it had suffered the same fate that many such organizations meet. It had fallen prey to its own sense of privilege and become ever more exclusive.

  — From An Unlikely Phoenix by Reed Ambrose

  RYAN HATED THE DESK. After spending his entire career in patrol, where his squad car was his office, being leashed to a desk grinded on him. He wondered for a while if this is what it would have been like if he’d been promoted to detective, but dismissed that thought. Detectives left their desks all the time, following leads, and interviewing people. Good detectives, anyway. But he wasn’t allowed to do that. He couldn’t leave the police station.

  He was allowed to carry his gun, and Lieutenant Potulny had granted that concession as if it were a papal decree, full of sneering magnanimity. The reassuring weight on his hip made Ryan feel only slightly closer to normal, though. He understood that the job involved a significant amount of paperwork, but only pushing paper for forty hours a week was slowly whittling away at him.

  This was a prospect that Potulny seemed to enjoy. At least, this was what Ryan surmised from the number of times the lieutenant stopped by the Found Property Unit. There was little to nothing for Potulny to do there. He was nominally in command of the unit, along with several other units in the precinct, but Potulny was clearly not limited strictly to his rank and title with the St. Louis Metro Police. His party membership provided him with significant power and influence, and he exploited his federal status at all turns.

  Ryan had thought that the promotion to lieutenant would make Potulny even more unbearable, but he couldn’t have predicted the meteoric rise to power and influence he’d witnessed over the past few months. The way Potulny handled the concert protest in February, at least in official eyes, made him the darling of both the department and the party. Ryan had even heard rumblings of an assignment to Washington, D.C., though rumors differed as to whether the position would be within the executive branch or the New American Party itself.