by Deforest Day
Mason Drubb, Special Assistant to the President, removed his suit coat, and draped it over the back of his chair. He loosened the Backgammon necktie, and rolled his shirtsleeves, then leaned forward, knuckles on the table. He hadn’t said a word, and didn’t have to. When the president wasn’t present, Drubb was.
“The key words in 11921 are, ‘declared by the president’. Without them, we have nothing but sinister pronouncements.”
As he shuffled the cards the National Security Advisor said, “We still haven’t heard anyone address the current status of REX 84. If I remember correctly, and I was in Panama at the time, helping the CIA finance Noriega, wasn’t it originally a joint FEMA-DoD exercise? To prepare for the internment of undesirables and the imposition of martial law?” He knew damn well it was exactly that, and a whole shitload more, but the General wanted to see if the ol’ perfesser had access to the classified data on REX 84. A good commander knows the strengths and weaknesses of his subordinates.
Edge took the bait. “Yes, General, exactly. Reagan signed the Presidential Directive in April of 1984. Since you were out of the country at the time, you may not know the details, but as a historian, one with Top Secret clearance, I do. The object of the exercise was to test our ability to suspend the Constitution, establish martial law, turn over the government to FEMA, and have military commanders run the state and local governments.”
He lined up his chips, ten stacks of a thousand each. The different colors and heights looked like a bar chart. “Of course it leaked. As these things invariably do, in a free society. I think some newspaper in Florida ran a series of stories on it. And then Iran Contra broke, and the whole shebang went down the tubes. Took twenty years to get back on track.”
Edge turned to the AG. “Gabe, I believe your predecessor had a hand in that. Setting up the camps. For ‘enemy combatants’?”
“Absolutely. And he was castigated in the press, branded a fundamentalist lunatic. Thankfully, the public has the attention span of a flea, and the inevitable missing blond captured the headlines. The camps are complete.”
DEERSLAYER toyed with his chips and casually asked, “Any thoughts on these gasoline tanker incidents?”
The General said, “It’s not causing much interest in the White House. Except the impact on gas prices may be reflected at the polls.”
Drubb said, “I put a bug in the president's ear, but he seemed more distracted than usual. I think it’s from the stuff Doc Kellogg has him on. Apparently one of the side effects is confusion.”
DEERSLAYER asked, “How can you tell?”
Drubb laughed. “Touché. I think he wants to concentrate on polishing the legacy of his foreign policy. SHORTSTOP thinks of himself as Wilson’s rightful heir.”
At that moment Edge swallowed an ice cube; used it to turn a loud guffaw into a coughing fit.
General Bainbridge smiled behind his hook, and said, “Speaking of bugs and ears, I slipped one in the ear of our talk radio friend. How curious it is that none of the República Bolivariana de Venezuela's CITGO fuel trucks have been targeted.”
Edge said, “I just hired this hot shot computer geek. Been doing some nice work, sniffing out black sheep and skeletons across the aisle, and crooked enough she’ll toe the mark, in the event of a sudden twinge of conscience.” He chuckled. “Worked her way through college forging IDs for underage kids. Too naïve to see the big money was in Green Cards.” Edge locked eyes with his old college roommate. “Last night she came up with an interesting take on these shootings. Said maybe it was nothing more than two guys and a gun. Driving around, shooting at gas trucks. Is she anywhere close to the truth?”
The vice president fixed himself a small scotch and water. “You asked if your analyst is anywhere near the mark. I have no idea, Edge. The concept came from across the river, and operational details are best left to the people in the field.” His fellow conspirators had no need to know about the H-1B visas.
Gabe said, “Is that a good idea? Could be something I need to know.”
DEERSLAYER returned to his seat. “Don’t be naïve. One, who among us, with the possible exception of General Bainbridge, has the slightest idea of how to execute something like this? And, two, do any of you want to relinquish your deniability of this event? I know I don’t. There's enough risk to all of us without inviting more. So let’s leave the speculation to your little computer genius. Along with all of the other expendables.” He picked up the deck, and dealt the cards.
—o—
The expendable computer genius parked the Bug in front of the place she’d recently called a hellhole, and sworn never to return. She tilted the rearview down, gave her lips a quick Revlon swipe, and ran a comb through her hair.
The same old guy in the same dirty coveralls was watching the Trafficams and yelling at Rush Limbaugh. “You see that?” He pointed to one of the little screens. She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her, or the radio. “Pizza guy stops in a bus zone. Means the bus stops in the street. Means traffic backs up, blocks the intersection. Whole damn downtown will be in gridlock because some kid can’t walk fifty feet with his friggin’ pizza delivery. Oughta outlaw it.”
Kat saw that everybody had their own little world, and everything that happened in it was vitally important. To them, if nobody else. She said, “What? Walking, or pizza?”
Noodles noticed he had a live audience for his rant, and faced it. “Both. Cup of ramen in the microwave never caused no traffic jam. You here to pick up a vehicle?” He gave her a closer look. “Wait a sec. Weren’t you in here the other day? Tell me you didn’t get towed again. After I said your HomSec sticker wasn’t no hook repellant.”
“No, I’m looking for Mr. Paloma. To return something.”
Noodles thought for a moment, said, “He ain’t here.” After yesterday’s mishap, the suits grabbing Nick, followed by some kind of crazy ass ruckus across the street, he was wary of strangers asking about the big guy. “Let me see if I can find him.” He disappeared into the office, called Nick on his cell. “Hey, Miss Tushie’s here, looking for you.”
“Who?”
“Yellow panzerwagon; gal with the nice can. Says she has something to return. You two got something goin’, eh?”
“Not exactly. I ran into her at the Department of Homeland Security. Send her over.”
Kat gawked at the cavernous space. Ominous shadows were pierced by shafts of weak sunlight descending from filthy skylights. She pictured the Giger drawings, for the Alien movies. “What is this place?”
“It’s called the Cannon Works. During World War Two—”
“Don’t tell me. They made pies. What’s all that stuff?”
He followed her finger to the long steel workbench. “Gun parts. I also build cannons. Just smaller ones.”
“I guess that explains why you had a pistol in your pants.” She reached in her carryall, found the Kel-Tec. “I figured you’d want it back.”
He took the pistol from her, popped the magazine, worked the action, caught the little bullet as it ejected, thumbed it back in the magazine, shoved the magazine back in the gun. Racked the slide again, stuck the weapon in his hip pocket.
“What was that all about?”
“Just making sure it was coming back the way it left. Cocked and locked.”
“Cocked and locked. You pistoleros sure have a way with words.”
“Uh huh. We say things like reboot the hard drive because the software crashed.”
“Point taken. But my geek speak is King’s Eng, compared to the way they converse at HomSec. ‘Duality of responsibility.’ ‘There’s an adjudication problem with the situationality of the incident.’ So far my fave is, ‘we’re trying to effectuate a non event’.”
“It’s the way you people hide your incompetence.”
“Thanks. So, do you shoot your guns in here?” She placed her Glock box on the work bench. “Since you're the expert, how about showing me how this works?”
He removed the pistol from
its foam cradle, looked at the slide. “.40 cal S&W.”
“It says Glock on the box.”
“It is a Glock. Forty caliber is the size of your whatchamacallits. Why do you carry a boxed Glock in your computer bag?”
“Whatchamacallits. And here I’d just about decided I was wrong, about you being a prick. They gave it to me, the day I started. Where else should I put it?”
“Probably the safest place would be locked in a desk drawer. Why the hell did they issue weapons, and then not include training? Don't answer that.” He pointed to the side of the filing cabinet. “Hit that switch, will you?”
He removed a box of Federal 10mm ammunition from the filing cabinet. “These are the reduced velocity loads, made for the FBI.”
“HomSec is staffed by reduced velocity people. What does the switch do?”
“I rigged up an air bag in there. From a car? Some unauthorized person pulls open the drawer, they get a big surprise.”
“Oooh, a devious mind.” She opened the Federal carton, studied the shiny copper bullets. “So. How do I effectuate these whatchamacallits into my thingie?”
Nick showed her how to load the magazine. Then he showed her how to field strip the pistol, and put it back together. “After we shoot, you’re going to clean your weapon. Because a dirty gun is more dangerous than a dirty mind.”
“Given that I don’t agree a dirty mind is necessarily dangerous, give me the dirty gun lecture.”
“Misfire. Jam, stovepiped round. The one time you need it to absolutely, positively work, it won’t.”
“This is getting to be more complicated than I thought.”
He decided a little payback for yesterday was in order. “We’ve just begun. Are you heading into work from here?”
“Why?”
“The federal buildings have been installing explosive detection equipment. What they call ‘sniffers’. Looking for bombs, but if you go in there with powder residue on you clothes, it could set off the alarm.” He waited to see her reaction. “And then they'll sic the killer canines on you. Not pretty.”
The explosive detectors made some sense, but she was fairly certain the dogs were a tease. “I guess not. Are they worse than the Morans?”
“Who?”
The two men who picked you up yesterday.”
“Morans, eh? I'll remember that name.”
Something in his voice made her ask, “What happened after last night?”
“They took the midnight train to Baltimore. You want to shoot your gun, or not? If you do, go in the locker room. There’s a jump suit in the first locker.”
She came back, twirled for him, modeling the shapeless coverall. “Rosie the riveter, reporting for duty.” She pointed at the rifle parts on the workbench. “You have more guns than the O.K. Corral. What’s up with the arsenal in the locker room?”
“They belong to the Metro SWAT guys. I’m supposed to put laser sights on them.” He handed her a plastic shopping bag. “Put this on your head. Unless you want to wash your hair when we’re finished.”
“There better not be any photography involved in this deal.” She tucked her hair up in the bag, worked the handles down over her ears. He handed her safety glasses and ear protectors. “You give me a rubber nose and clown shoes, I’m outta here.”
He wheeled a rusty cart loaded with old tires into the firing line, taped a silhouette target in place. “Aim for the center of mass.” She gave him a look. “His chest.”
“He’s kind of close, isn’t he?”
“Most gun battles take place at less than seven yards. And most cops get shot with their own gun.” He moved to one side, watched the girl. The tip of her tongue crept out as she got ready to shoot. Her chest heaved.
Her first shot was in the white paper, outside the silhouette. The second whanged off a steel beam somewhere overhead. The third would have hit the villain in the lower leg, if there had been one on the paper target. “What am I doing wrong?”
“You’re doing fine. In real life gun battles, eighty percent of shots fired by trained police officers miss the bad guys. You probably would do better, if you kept your eyes open.”
“My eyes were open!”
“No, you closed them, just as you pulled the trigger. Plus that stance looks like something you saw on TV.”
“Maybe it’s because I saw it on TV.”
He moved behind her, reached around, took her small hands in his big ones. Hooked her instep with his heel, pulled. “Gun foot back, knees locked. Both arms toward the target. Lean forward, so your shoulders are ahead of your pelvis. It’s called the Weaver Stance. Remember those isosceles triangles in geometry class?”
She became engulfed as she settled against him. “Is that your Glock, or you a happy camper?”
“You going to shoot, or are you going to fool around?”
“Maybe when I get to know you better.”
“Concentrate on your own weapon. Ignore the sights; let the weapon become an extension of yourself.”
“Yes, Yoda,” she muttered, and pulled the trigger.
He released her hands, stepped back. “Very good, Grasshopper. Now fire the other nine.”
She cleaned the pistol, reloaded the magazine, put it in the weapon. “Now what?”
“I’m guessing you don’t want to follow my advice, stick it in a drawer. For concealed carry you’ll need a belt clip like mine, or a pancake holster, then wear a jacket to hide it.” He checked out her very nice legs, figured that cop brogues and cuffed trousers weren’t part of her wardrobe. “Your Model 20 is too big for an ankle holster.”
“Or stick in my panties.”
“Yes, that just might attract some attention.” He picked up her carryall. “This pocket with the side zipper looks good.” He opened it, removed her cell, sunglasses, a scarf. He jacked a round in the chamber, put the pistol in her bag, slung the strap over his shoulder. With her laptop and the Glock, coupled with the usual feminine paraphernalia, it had some weight to it. He walked downrange. Reached in, drew the weapon. “Pow. Keep it zipped until you’re walking down a dark street, late at night, and start hearing scary music.” He holstered, zipped, handed her the carryall.
“Is that safe? I mean, my gun’s cocked and locked in there. Shouldn’t I have to rack the slide, or something?”
“Rack the slide. That’s movie talk. Makes for a dramatic moment, on screen. In real life, while you’re racking your slide, the other guy is shooting you. If you decide to carry, then you want to do it in what’s called Condition One. Cocked and locked.” He added, “I still vote for the desk drawer.”
“I’ll think about it. Anyway, thanks for the lesson. I feel like a pro. Magazine, not thingie. Bullets, not whatchamacallits.”
Maybe she wasn’t any kind of cop, good or bad. “Now there’s something you can do for me. My daughter has a computer project at school; involving something called Linus?”
“How old is she? Linux.”
“Fifteen. She has to write a program, whatever than entails. Can you give her a few pointers?”
“You got a deal.”
Chapter Sixteen
“When would be a good time to help my daughter with her homework?”
Kat considered the question. “I just pulled an all-nighter, so I'm free for the day. When does she get home from school?”
Nick checked his watch. “Soon.”
“Let's do it. I'll follow you.”
“No; parking on my street is impossible. Ride with me; I’ll bring you back when we’re done.”
The moment he started the engine she knew it was something more than a battered old pickup. She sensed the same power she’d felt when he surrounded her in the Cannon Works, held her hands while she fired the pistol.
“Come on and touch me, babe,” Jim sang. Nick reduced the volume and said, “You like the Doors?”
“Not as much as I dislike Windows.” That drew a blank look, and she explained, “Computer joke?”
“What exact
ly is it you do there?”
“Data analysis. They have me running different search engines, snooping in the private lives of political candidates. Levon, the blond guy, says the White House is afraid of Islamic sleeper cells running for congress.”
“Muslims are the new Blacks. And politically safer than attacking gays.”
Kat turned in the seat to study him. “You didn’t strike me as a political activist.”
“Hell no. That's Patty talking. She’s the lefty in the family, and I guess a bit is bound to rub off.”
“Patty’s your wife?”
“Sister-in-law. She’s infecting my daughter, which pisses me off.”
Kat guessed a Mrs. Paloma wasn’t part of the family. “You don’t think people need to speak out?”
“I don’t give a damn what the people running this town do. Because they’re just two sides of the same coin. I call ‘em Demicans and Republicrats. Only difference is, when you hook their ride, one whines and the other gets mad.”
“Well then, I guess you think you have me pegged.”
He glanced over. “I don’t think I’m anywhere close to having a handle on you.” He turned off Shepherd Parkway onto Blue Plains Drive. “So, what kind of new assault on our freedoms are you working on there? A method of mind control more effective than television?”
“Funny guy. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about something I stole from you. A terrorist shooting out his car window at the gas trucks.”
“That’s as ridiculous as hijacking airplanes with box cutters. Oh, wait.”
She laughed. “Yeah. That’s pretty much the reception I got from the Secretary and Major Machler.”
“Secretary?”
“Mr. Edgerton; Secretary of DHS.”
“You’re hanging out with the high and mighty.”
“I guess. A few, like Levon, are really bright. At least in their narrow field. Most of them haven’t broken a sweat since I signed on.” She watched him drive, eyes flicking between his mirrors, swapping lanes, working the gears.