Uncivil liberties pc-2

by Gordon Ryan

  “Thank you for tonight, Pug,” Rachel said. “I needed this tranquility.” She hesitated, her face turning grim. “I may grow to hate that word, given its new affiliation with the bill Senator Winchester introduced on Tuesday. It would be a shame to lose such a peaceful word because of association with more distressful events.”

  “Will it pass?” Pug asked.

  “In a heartbeat. Any representative or senator opposed will be vilified and ostracized by his or her peers. It will cross party lines better than any legislation in memory.”

  “I must admit, Rachel, that it contains some measures that will make my job a lot easier to perform. Arrest and detention, I mean. And interrogation, search and seizure of property.”

  “Is that the America you envisioned when you were a child, when you entered the Naval Academy? Is a police state your idea of freedom?”

  Pug shook his head. “Of course not, but we’re faced with a terrible situation, Rachel. I don’t have to explain that to you, of all people. At some point, we have to rely on our guardians to have our best interest at heart. We have to trust the police and the military.”

  “And what about others who are less restrained or honest then you are, Pug? Who will curtail their actions? Who will stop them from abusing those rights? Probably some politician in South America, maybe even a well-meaning person, said it was good for their country too, then hundreds of people began to disappear and were never seen again. If you think that can’t happen in America, you underestimate the nature of people who demand to have their own way. Power is an addictive thing, Pug. Those who hold it come to believe their vision is the only one worth pursuing and violating the rights of a few people-or a few thousand-is worth the sacrifice. Not their sacrifice, of course, but those who disagree. Dissent will become a thing of the past. I’ve already seen the symptoms in the Senate. People who ran for office for honorable reasons convince themselves that their ideas are the only right ones. In some countries, they convince themselves and others that a few hundred or a few thousand people killed is little to ask for the salvation of tens of thousands of others. And it grows incrementally. People become afraid to speak against the government.”

  He nodded. “I understand the concerns. It will be a balancing act and law enforcement, military or civilian, will need to police their own house to assure civil rights are not trampled in the process.”

  “As I said, it hasn’t worked in many countries that we came to call ‘banana republics.’ Their citizens are oppressed, or killed, by those intent on retaining power.”

  “Granted,” Pug said. “But we can rise above that.”

  “I hope so, Pug. I truly hope so.”

  “Thank you for tonight, Rachel. I’m very grateful you accepted my invitation.”

  “For me too, Pug,” she said, stepping in close. Without comment, she leaned even closer and lifted her chin, placing her hand behind Pug’s head and pulling him close enough to kiss. He reacted by putting his arms around her, wrapping her in a full embrace. When she withdrew, Rachel leaned back and smiled up at him. “I know we need to face our potholes, Pug, and can’t run away from them, even if they seem dark and dangerous.”

  “Are you suggesting that you’re willing to ‘patch’ my pot-holes, Rachel?”

  “I’m suggesting that I don’t want to be alone tonight. I’m suggesting that this is not recreational sex, but that it’s an emotional need. I do care for you Pug, and it may not sound romantic, but I need you on duty tonight, General Connor.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Pug said, pulling her closer once again. “The Marine Corps is honored to be of service.”

  Chapter 34

  Eisenhower Executive Office Building

  Washington D.C.

  July

  When Pug walked into the EEOB on Friday morning, he was met in the corridor by Carlos Castro. “Seen the morning papers?” Carlos asked.

  Pug raised his copy of the Washington Post from under his arm and motioned toward Carlos’s office. Once inside, Pug dropped the paper onto the table top and took a seat in front of Carlos’s desk. The headline read:

  Domestic Tranquility Law of the Land

  Individual Citizen Rights Restricted

  “It gives us carte blanche,” Carlos said, “but it certainly ties the hands of ordinary citizens if they happen to be stopped for trespassing.”

  Pug nodded. “Senator Winchester has been quoted on every talk show since last night. He’s today’s hero. Truth is, it will make our job a lot easier, with no restrictions and ten-day retention without charges being filed.”

  Carlos exhaled and took a chair behind his desk. “General, America is headed down a path that may be impossible to retrace. I’m trying to see the bright side of this, but as a lawyer, even a non-practicing lawyer, I find this infringement on citizen rights troubling. Don’t you?”

  Pug was still standing and retrieved his newspaper from the table, re-reading the headline. “I haven’t decided, Carlos. Anything that helps us catch the Wild Bunch… I just don’t know. We’ll see.”

  “What I’m concerned about, General, is that we’ll see the fallacies of this course of action too late to reverse course.”

  “I understand that. Well, let’s see what the day brings,” he said, leaving Carlos’s office. As Pug entered his office, his telephone voice mail light was flashing. Three messages were identified and he pressed the play button. The lilt of an Irish accent in the first message took his complete interest and he quickly listened to the next two, neither of which was important and both were deleted. He replayed the first message.

  “Good day to yer, General Connor. If you’ve time for a stroll with a friend of the old sod, be at the Washington Memorial, Friday morning at 11:00.”

  Pug quickly glanced at his watch, which read 7:45. He had just enough time to finish reading the Domestic Tranquility analysis paper Carlos had prepared and to meet with the Trojan team to discuss the pros and cons of the analysis. He pressed the intercom button.

  “Carlos, just got an interesting phone message. Could you join me for a few moments, please?”

  “On the way, General,” Castro replied.

  As soon as Castro stepped into Pug’s office, Lieutenant Holcomb followed him. Pug smiled as both men entered the room. Holcomb deferred to Carlos at the doorway, a sure sign that the junior officers were accepting a former enlisted man in a senior position.

  “Two Marines and a Naval Lieutenant in the same room. What should we make of that, Mr. Deputy Director?” Pug quipped. Holcomb had often been the foil in the service rivalry in the office.

  Without the slightest hesitation, Castro puffed his chest and lowered his voice several decibels, replicating the Marine drill instructor’s soft warning that was often delivered just before the in-your-face, spit-flecked tirade. He assumed the third-person personae, so familiar with drill instructors. “General, the Deputy Director, with Marine green blood still flowing in his veins, believes that the Naval officer in question has experienced an epiphany and deeply regrets his choice of military service. It is my opinion, sir, that he has come to request an immediate transfer to the Corps,” Castro replied.

  Pug laughed out loud while Lieutenant Holcomb stared silently at Castro. In the first few weeks of operation, each of the officers selected to be part of Trojan had responded well to the presence of a former enlisted man serving as Deputy Director. On several occasions, some of the team had privately shared with General Connor their admiration for the new deputy and his ability to grasp the most abstract concept of their operation.

  “Hardly, Mr. Castro,” Holcomb added. “Despite your transition to the civilian world, where your co-workers have tried to teach you the protocol for the use of a knife and fork and more importantly, a napkin, this Naval lieutenant thinks it’s more likely that with two Marines in one location, and in recognition of said Naval lieutenant’s responsibility to the Naval Service, which includes the subordinate service commonly referred to as the Marine Corps, sa
id Naval officer was required to assure protocol was observed and he felt it his duty to prevent any disparaging behavior and protect the image of the Naval service. With all due respect to our Marine commander, of course, General,” he said, a sly smile on his face.

  “Okay, “Pug said, “the obligatory inter-service rivalry having been accomplished for today, two petulant Marines having been properly chastened, shall we proceed with the nation’s business? I’ve had a voice mail contact from an old Irish associate. Carlos, it’s your new friend from Dublin, Mr. Donahue. He wants to meet with me at eleven hundred hours near the Washington Memorial. Carlos, can you arrange perimeter security, please, and keep it low-keyed? But I want a shooter within range.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And Jim, I’ll want you in the van to monitor the conversation. I’ll be wired, although my contact will assume that and likely not speak plainly.”

  “Will do, General. Can you tell us what this man wants?”

  “I’m not certain. He’s a former brigade commander in the IRA. I’ve known him for about six years, met with him twice, in Ireland and Brussels. I sent Carlos to meet with him in January.”

  “Do you know the subject of today’s meeting, sir?” the lieutenant asked.

  “No. But this is the man who put us on to Wolff and the domestic shooters. Maybe he’s opened a new link.”

  “We’ll be ready, General,” Castro said.

  “Right then. Hop to it,” Pug said. “I expect everyone to be up to speed on Domestic Tranquility and Trojan’s analysis by our staff meeting at 9:00. I’ll keep it short, about thirty minutes, so we can get ready for the following meeting with our Irish friend.”

  The Washington monument was a central icon in downtown Washington D.C. Thousands of tourists visited the site every day of the year. Ironically, in the nearly three months that random shootings had dominated the American landscape, none had occurred anywhere near D.C.

  Trojan had considered that intentional and determined it was not an oversight, but perhaps preparatory to the D.C. area being the target of a much larger, coordinated attack similar to the nationwide baseball park shootings which had kicked off the Wild Bunch. An attack such as the Overland Park Mall or the aborted attack in San Antonio was imminent and was a constant threat. The absence of shootings, however, had not lessened the presence of security. Capitol police had been augmented by regular Army forces and BDU-clad soldiers were visible on every street in the downtown area. The outside mall from the Capitol Building to the Lincoln Memorial reminded him, as Lieutenant Holcomb had once exclaimed, of the penalty quad at Annapolis after a particularly rough weekend of miscreant behavior by midshipmen, with dozens of uniformed personnel walking punishment tours. Holcomb admitted that he had been among the throng during his first year at the Naval Academy. Pug had admitted to a few laps himself during his academy days.

  At 10:30, Pug strolled casually from his office toward the needle-shaped obelisk-some called it missile-shaped-pausing on the corner to buy a hot dog and a Sprite. As he approached the monument, he sat down on a bench and began to eat, watching the tourists stroll by, or enter and leave the monument. It was a brave soul who ventured forth to climb the 897 stairs to the pinnacle, which, some years earlier had been closed due to safety concerns. In about ten minutes, Kevin Donahue quietly slid into the seat next to Pug.

  “ Top ‘o the morning to you, General.”

  “Good morning, Kevin. Did you come in through customs, or slip across from Canada or Mexico with the illegals?”

  “Which method will allow me to stay and draw retirement pay?” Donahue asked.

  Pug laughed. “The latter, I think. Both are entitled to health care and are safe from politically incorrect ethnic jokes. So, what brings you to America… this time, Kevin?”

  “From the news broadcasts, the information I gave you in Ireland seems to have been accurate.”

  Pug nodded. “And it was appreciated. You called, I came, and I’m here listening. You didn’t make the trip to confirm earlier information. What’s up?”

  “Given our friendly, cooperative association, I thought some of the facts needed to be corrected. I may have left you with the wrong impression and I didn’t want you to think I misled you, at least not intentionally.”

  Pug raised an eyebrow, turning to look directly at Donahue. The older man continued.

  “We’ve both been misled, lad, and I don’t want to leave that impression.”

  “I’m listening,” Pug repeated.

  “Did I ever tell you about me sister, General? A beautiful lass she is. But a bit obstinate. Never would listen. She married a fellow from Donegal. Kilpatrick was his name. Sure now the Kilpatricks are a sturdy lot, but a bit inclined to skite, if you know what I mean. They shoot off their mouths too often, taking the mickey out of anyone they think less fortunate.”

  Pug knew enough to keep quiet. Donahue would get to the point soon enough, but in his own Irish, literary way.

  “Anyways, Maureen, that’s me sister’s name, by the way. Maureen and Kilpatrick had a young lad named Sean. Sean was too young to become involved in the ‘business,’ if you get my meaning. He didn’t have the benefit of years of experience. And when my lot, the old timers, smoked the peace pipe with the bloody Brits, Sean was unable to find local work, so he had to find suitable outsource work, so to speak. Do ya understand, General?”

  “I’m with you, Kevin. The IRA was no longer recruiting disaffected lads, but other causes were always in the market.”

  “True enough. Such lads are needed in many places. Young Sean and some of his mates have worked with another of me associates from the old days, Devlin Hegarty.”

  Pug was familiar with Hegarty’s name. “ He didn’t lack experience from the old days, did he?”

  “Right you are, General. Top marks. Anyway, Hegarty took young Sean under his wing and they’ve been working far and yonder, North Africa mostly, sometimes among the Islamic radicals, working both sides, if you know what I mean. My generation called them wild geese. Soldiers of fortune, I think the Americans call them. Mercenaries by any name perform the same function, regardless the paymaster.”

  “Is this going somewhere, Kevin?” Pug asked, his patience growing a bit thin.

  “Ah, General,” Donahue said, removing his pipe from his side coat pocket and knocking it against the sole of his shoe, then beginning to fill the bowl, “sure now you should have been born and raised where your grandfather was so you could understand the Irish way. There’s no need to rush a good story. The ending is just as satisfying with a bit of learnin’ along the way. With peaceful joy running rampant on the old sod, what else have I got to occupy my time?”

  Pug smiled and nodded his assent. “Sorry, Kevin. In your own time, then.”

  “That’s a good lad,” the older man said, putting a match to his pipe. “For the past few years, Devlin Hegarty has been doing the odd job for a private security firm, an American firm, called Strategic Initiatives.”

  Pug sat up straighter, his attention now riveted.

  Donahue nodded. “Thought that might be of interest. Here’s the kicker, General, darlin’. Some of my old associates tell me that Hegarty has been recruiting from among our younger lot, forming a para-military squad. But he has also been recruiting some of the disaffected Islamic lot in North Africa, promising them the pot o’ gold and a chance to meet Allah. And to meet him on American soil after having dispatched Satan’s followers first. If ye get my meaning.”

  “How do the two tie in?” Pug asked.

  “Well, my sister is attending a funeral in Derry this week, seeing to her oldest son, the aforementioned young Sean Kilpatrick, after his body was returned from… San Antonio. He was the Strategic Initiatives team leader who brought down the terrorist squad. He caught the unfortunate bullet in the head. But from what the grapevine in Ireland says, General, the terrorist lot also worked for Strategic Initiatives. Sean worked for Hegarty, Hegarty worked for Strategic Initiative
s. Hegarty also recruited the Islamic lot, both North Africans and American Muslims. Tight little family group it seems.”

  Pug was absolutely silent, his mental gears working overtime.

  “You mean-”

  “I mean, General, that you may be chasing the wrong fox. There’s another point to clarify. The asshole you captured in Indonesia, the illustrious Mr. Wolff-it seems I was supposed to find out about him and to relay the information to the Americans. Someone wanted you to know they were coming. And I was the fool in the middle. Not proud of that, lad, not proud at all.”

  Pug remained silent for several seconds, his thoughts ruminating. “You’re saying the terror teams that hit on American soil, even the larger mall attacks, might have been recruited and planned by Strategic Initiatives? That both attackers and defenders were planned by the same group?” he asked, seeking to clarify his thoughts.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time in history, lad. Al Qaida is certainly having a field day around the world, but are they the real culprit here in America? Even Al Qaida may not know who set this up. They probably don’t care. Americans are getting killed. Allah is being praised. And World Jihad is getting the credit. Remember, for the most part, these disaffected groups work in independent cells. They might have been duped as well, since the objective meets with their stated goals. But who stands to benefit from this new American legislation? As these attacks on American soil increase, and they will, General, who will provide the tens of thousands of security forces and surveillance equipment throughout America? Who was on the scene immediately when the San Antonio terrorist lot were, uh, coincidentally observed in preparation and then overcome by an attack of lead poisoning? And that’s not the end of the issue, lad. From what I’ve been told, there’s lots more to come, what your military calls ‘blue-on-blue’ engagements.”

  Pug thought about the dreaded military term for friendly fire, considering for a moment what Donahue could mean.

  “Are you saying some of our own military is going to turn rogue? Attack other units?”