by Deforest Day
Teo felt the phone vibrate against his ankle, and paused. The phone was in his trouser pocket, and his trousers were pooled around his shoes.
The dark haired woman looked over her shoulder and said, “La'a'za'zel, aani gommer!” She switched from Hebrew to English, reenforcing the point. “Don’t stop now, if you ever want to use that piece of equipment again.” Her ruby lips twisted into a snarl, and she dug scarlet nails into the back of the sofa. “And I’m not talking about your fuckin’ phone.”
“Find this cunt, and kill her.”
The swarthy man looked at the inch-square image on his screen. Blonde, glasses. Nice looking, for an Anglo. “Give me her cell number, and it is done.”
“If you happen to run into her boss, and an accident can be arranged, make it happen.”
“Her boss?”
“The Secretary of Homeland Security.”
Chinga tu madre! “Sir. Removing this Anglo almeja is said and done; but a Cabinet Secretary is a whole ‘nother step up. I can’t just walk up to this asqueroso and stick a blade in his ribs. Not if I want to continue working for Domestic Ops.”
There was silence in his ear. He had long enjoyed the freedom of fighting Communism for an outfit that did not exist, but he had a feeling some changes, big changes were in the air. When they had last talked at the motel the man had mentioned coming in from the cold. Perhaps that time was near.
“It can wait. Besides, he’s not in town. I just sent him off to the wilds of the Catoctin Mountains.” There was another long pause. Then the acting president said, “In the not too distant future there will be a major shakeup across the river. Senior slots will become vacant. Keep that in mind. José.”
The swarthy man finished servicing the dark haired woman to her satisfaction, and made a call to Tech Services across the river.
She connected the laptop to a magnetic antenna, stuck it on the roof of the plain vanilla Chevy, no bells, no whistles. An NSA image of Metro DC appeared on the screen, and a red dot blinked on the overlay. The black and white image from the school bus sized KH-12, in a polar orbit 200 miles above, had a resolution of six inches.
He watched the traffic and she watched the laptop. “A junkyard, or used car lot. Hard to tell. It’s a block east of I-295, at the Naval Research Laboratory Exit.”
“Murrda.” We’re going the wrong way. How far is the next exit?”
“Two point three miles.”
“Murrda.”
—o—
Poppy's crew loaded the weapons in the Escalade, Nick and Kat towed them to the television studio. He hadn’t seen the streets this empty since the blizzard of ninety-six, and said so. “They measured seventeen inches at National Airport. Shut down the city for days.”
Kat was recovering from finding Al. The bastard who most likely had killed Geneva. If it hadn’t been Ern. That rationalization made her feel a little better; when they had a free moment she would ask Poppy about all this. Did the Technicolor Dolby images fade, or was it like sex? You always remember the First Time.
Dad had hinted at the stuff he’s seen, done, brought back in some locked away place. “Seventeen inches. In Vermont we call that flurries.” She reached across the cab. “I know it’s a stick shift, but you’re a highly trained tow truck driver. Think you could hold my hand for a little while?”
—o—
The barracks slept twenty-five; a dozen bunks on either side of a central aisle, with a private room across from the latrine for the Platoon Sergeant. Twenty five bodies to a building; five hundred and thirty-five men and women spread among the two dozen clapboard clad structures. The one with the AC window units housed the Bearclaw Cadre.
They loaded down each congress critter with a thin mattress, bedding, and a bright orange jumpsuit as they entered their assigned quarters. “Square away a rack, suit up, and fall out in five minutes. GO! GO! GO!”
Five minutes later Congress was caucusing inside their spartan accommodations. They had been sorted alphabetically, and senators and representatives, Dems and Reps, were renewing old friendships, posturing and maneuvering for position. Again, outrageous! was the preferred epithet.
A Bearclaw trooper marched in, hurled a thirty-gallon galvanized steel trash can down the middle of the room and yelled above the racket, “OUTSIDE! NOW! GO!GO!GO!”
—o—
Gunny Talarico swung the ancient yellow bus off Route 17 and slowed. The tires crunched across the gravel surrounding the old bowling alley. When I-70 came through Frederick County, Route 17 lost its will to live, and Randal’s Bowl-a-Rama became Randal’s Beverage Mart.
He opened the bus doors and said, “Rest stop, ladies. Last one before Camp Catoctin.”
“Fuck’s Camp Cock Tin?”
“They ain’t nothing but trees here. Trees, and dirt.”
“Where we at?”
“I ‘spect this is where the farmers live. I seen what looked like some kinda animals a ways back.”
“You figure they grow the crack out here?”
“Let me help you, honey. Watch these steps. But shit. I bet you know more ‘bout school buses than I does.”
Gunny led them into the Beverage Mart. He peeled a trio of hundreds off a roll that drew Randal's eyes. “He'p you folks?”
“A case of cold beer for each of my girls. Mix it up. Colder the better.”
Randal said, “Sir, some of your girls look a mite under age. They have good ID?”
“They’re mules, not drinkers.” Gunny dropped the bills on the counter. “If it will ease your conscience, give the kid a case of soda pop.”
Back on the bus the hoes got into the beer, and handed a Coke to the kid. Five miles and fifteen minutes later Gunny secreted the rest of beer in the kitchen's walk-in cooler, and sequestered the women in the Day Room of the Admin. building.
Liz's stomach heaved, and she hurried to the bathroom, puked up the Coke and the dregs of the time-release Percocet capsule. She flushed the toilet, sat on the seat, and cried and cried.
As her mind cleared her thoughts drifted back to walking in the front door, finding Aunt Patty on the floor, and two big men laughing. Things got fuzzy after that. She remembered the bus ride with a bunch of white slaves who were mostly black. Nothing made any sense any more. She wanted to go home.
—o—
Gunny headed outside with a bullhorn to address a joint session of Congress. “Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen. I am Gunny Talarico, head counselor here at Camp Catoctin.” He surveyed the most powerful deliberative body in the world, and was comforted they were not armed with torches and pitchforks. Glad, too, that he’d locked his sidearm in a desk drawer. Ninety percent of these folks experienced urinary incontinence at the sight of a deployed weapon, and his role here was supposed to be liaison between HomSec and this herd of Nervous Nellies.
“Joke, folks; lighten up. And I apologize for the inexcusably rude behavior of your Protection Detail. Many of them were drill sergeants in their former lives, and have not been adequately instructed on the differences between pimple faced whale shit and duly elected members of Congress. It was not, and is not, the intention of the new Government of the United States to treat five hundred and thirty-five members of Congress with anything but deferential respect.
“We are all Americans here, and I hope we can all be friends. One reason—no way an excuse—for this behavior is the unique situation facing us. Terrorist attacks on American soil.” Gunny glanced at a three by five card for a talking point or two. This bullshit was way above his pay grade, and he’d be letting Woody hear exactly that, the moment Bearclaw's Gulfstream touched down.
“Worse, in many ways, than the War of 1812, when the Redcoats burned Washington.” He looked around at the men and women in a barely discernible formation on the dusty parade ground. Evidently close order drill was not a priority beneath the Capitol dome. “Nevertheless, the situation in Washington is far more serious today than it was when flames licked at the White House.
“So. L
et’s start over. Return to your barracks, get yourselves squared away. Chow Call is in half an hour. And, if what I saw in the kitchen a few minutes ago is any indication, I think we are in for a pleasant surprise.” He pointed to a large building across the parade ground. “That’s the de-fac. Dining Facility; what us old timers called the mess hall.” He looked at his index cards, saw there was one more item. “Friends of Bill meet in the chapel at eighteen hundred hours. It’s the one with the pointy roof. A pastor of some variety from the local community is on call. Please choose a Barracks Leader from your ranks. Whoever you select gets the private room by the latrine. You might want to pick someone with military experience. Or seniority in Congress may well be the deciding factor. That’s the beauty of a democracy; it is up to you.”
Thirty minutes later the Barracks Leaders led their charges down the four wooden steps and marched, walked, or ambled toward the parade ground.
The Annapolis and West Point graduates drew upon their military schooling and natural leadership ability. With a barked command of “Dress Right, Dress!” they assembled their platoons in three ranks of eight. Shorties in front.
Other leaders, ones with skills more political than military, simply pointed at the flag pole, and said, “I guess they want us over there.”
Those who had experienced enlisted life as draftees during the Vietnam Years made their way to back of the ranks; wisely following the first dictum of military life. Never Volunteer.
The pleasant surprise promised by Gunny Talarico was Boeuf Bourguignon and Haricots Vert avec Pommes Frites, accompanied by an exquisite Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon. Followed by the grand finale: Crème Brûlée de Homsec, a concoction whose very existence had hitherto only been whispered about in the halls of Congress, a deliberative body whose complaints evaporated as the meal progressed and the quantity of empty wine bottles increased.
—o—
“She’s moving. North, on South Capitol Street.”
“Murrda.”
The dark haired woman’s scarlet talons flew across the keyboard, and the orbiting digital camera scanned a hundred mile-wide swath. “She stopped.” She typed again and a new satellite photo appeared on the screen. “An industrial park, near the football stadium. And what looks like a TV studio.” She turned the computer toward her companion. “A helicopter.” She hit the + key, hit it again, and the image doubled in detail. “Sky Six.”
The swarthy man glanced at the screen, swerved at the sound of a horn, and cursed at a driver trying to beat the curfew out of town. “Jodete y aprieta el culo!” He made a left turn. “Five more minutes, we got her.”
—o—
Half a dozen cars and a pair of production vans sat in the Channel Six lot. The newsroom was an expanse of empty desks and dark screens. An intern ran B Roll, and kept an eye on the bank of monitors, in case the other networks went live.
Poppy led them down a long hallway, its walls lined with framed promo posters for long-gone shows. My Three Sons. My Favorite Martian. My Mother the Car.
He headed toward the muted sounds of humanity. He found the Station Manager in his office, along with the Production Manager, the Technical Director, and an Audio Engineer. They were sharing a bottle of bourbon with the News At Noon Talent. The bottle shared the desktop with a pair of laptops and a quartet of cellphones. A monitor in the corner ran a soundless Baywatch.
“Poppy,” the Station Manager said. “Ran the gauntlet, eh? Waste of time. News is off the air. Direct orders from 30 Rock. Who’s the Wild Bunch?”
“You know Nick, my son-in-law. His daughter got caught up in this mess, and we’re gonna find her. Using Sky Six.”
The Technical Director refilled his coffee cup from the dwindling supply of liquid distraction and eyed the gun-toting group. “Hogan’s Heroes.”
“F Troop.”
The Audio Engineer offered his opinion. “I’d say they look more like the Dirty Half Dozen.”
The Talent asked, “Are those real guns?”
The Station Manager said, “Of course they are. And we were powerless to stop the raving maniacs who hijacked the news helicopter.” He pointed to the bottle. “Don’t suppose you want one for the road?”
Poppy smiled. “We wouldn’t want to intrude on your farewell-to-reality festival.”
The Technical Director said, “Microwave signals are dead, but the new HiDef trucks with a sat link can go direct. There are a few renegade news crews in the field still reporting.” He pointed at one of the laptops. “YouTube, of all places, has turned into a news blog. Go live from lift off, Poppy; bounce your signal off a KU-Band bird. We can use it as Breaking News or B Roll, depending on the situation.”
Talent raised his cup. “To paraphrase Pogo, ‘I have seen the future, and it ain’t us’.”
One of the cellphones played Ricki, Don’t Lose That Number. Audio picked it up, listened. “Awesome. Since I don’t have tickets, I’ll go prep the control room for all of the reporters and techies undoubtedly rushing back to work.” He stood, clipped the phone on his belt. “Seems the NFL got the curfew lifted in every city but ours. So eighty thousand season ticket holders, well lubricated with malt beverage, marched on the White House.” He pumped a fist in the air. “Curfew lifted, and they’re tailgating at the stadium as we speak.”
The Technical Director turned to the Station Manager. “So. Do we seek a permission slip from 30 Rock? Or do we go Pirate?”
The Station Manager put his coffee cup in his desk drawer, tightened his tie, and slipped on his suit coat. “I’m six months from retirement. And I also went home, as soon as the curfew was lifted. You couldn’t reach me.” He turned in his doorway. “Play nice, children.”
Poppy said to Nick, “Take the crew to the break room. I’ll grab our flight data, and we’ll work up a plan of attack.”
Fred tried his BlackBerry again. “I can’t figure it out. Not a single member of the Congressional Black Caucus is available. The cell system is back up, right?”
Kat was focussed on rescuing Liz, and had delved deeper into Geneva’s Camp Catoctin folder. “Here’s the reason.” She turned the laptop so Fred could see the situation for himself. She summarized for the rest. “This REX 84 operation dictates that when martial law is declared, Congress is taken into what they call ‘protective custody’. At Camp Catoctin, which was conveniently constructed in a dead zone. Other people on those HomSec lists I was helping prepare a few days ago are probably in other camps, all over the country.” She walked around the table, looked out the windows at the nearly empty parking lot, and wondered how many of the Washington media elite were sleeping under the stars.
“You’re the only one here who has a day-to-day relationship with the government. What’s this all mean?”
Fred scrolled to the end of Major Machler’s SNAKE 8R file. His mind went back a quarter century, to the Pentagon Papers. The ones no publisher would touch with a barge pole, until Ellsberg found an obscure religious outfit in Boston. “It means,” he said, “The shit has hit the fan.”
Nick said, pissed, “All this crap is beside the point. My daughter is at this camp, entertaining the troops. And I want her back. I don’t give a rat’s ass about martial law, about a bunch of politicians getting treated like the common criminals they are.” He grinned at Fred. “No offense.”
Kat reclaimed her computer, looked at the camp’s particulars, and the Bearclaw Security Force assigned to it. “Nick, I know how much you want to go in, guns blazing, but there are twenty-five ex-Marines up there. With what did you say? Machine guns.”
“You forget we have the element of surprise. They’re not expecting a helicopter to appear out of nowhere.”
“Bullshit.” While the rest of the crew was beating their gums Howie was steadily loading Full Metal Jackets into thirty-round magazines. “Me’n Poppy dropped into more than a few hot LZ’s, with a heapin’ helpin’ of combat vets on board. Ask him how long your element of surprise lasts.”
Poppy returned
to the break room with weather and flight data. He’d put on his flight suit and carried his helmet under his arm. He handed a second one to Kat. “Howie’s right. I wouldn’t want to go up against twenty-five PJ Charlies, with just one Huey, and a squad of battle hardened soldiers on board. But, like someone said, you go to war with the army you got. Kiddo, you’re flying left seat. I don’t trust any of these bozos to keep their fingers off the machinery.”
She took the helmet, looked at all the wires, microphones, drop-down sun shield. Peacock decal on the side, SKY SIX on the front. She smiled. The Smell of Napalm in the Morning. “Well, Howie, to coin a phrase, you been there, done that. Poppy, that guy in the office? He told you to bounce your whatsits off a thingie. What if we dropped into Camp Catoctin, for a live TV interview?”
Poppy thought about it. Anything was better than a guns blazing LRRPs insertion. “Kiddo, you may have something.” He stuck his head out the door, yelled for the Technical Director and the Audio Engineer.
The one showed her how to use a Sennheiser wireless microphone, the other gave Howie the rudiments of operating an HPX500 camera. Then Audio took Kat into a dressing room with a gold star and STORMY SKYZ on the door. The Washington Weather Babe had a movie star’s makeup mirror and a rolling rack of on-air outfits, all with velcro panels above the butt, for the wireless transmitter. Kat picked out the least revealing dress, kept the combat boots. He said show some cleavage, and they'll talk your head off. She said she’d think about it.
Back in the break room he told them DC isn’t the biggest market, but it sure as hell is the most important. “If you do find Congress there, I can damn well guarantee Emmys and Peabodys all around.”
—o—
The swarthy man swerved left and sped into the industrial park. The roads were sweeping curves past manicured landscapes surrounding designer buildings. With four-way stop signs at each intersection. With the curfew lifted traffic was heavy; workers were trying to either go home or get to work. He pounded the steering wheel in frustration. The dark haired woman said, “Murrda. Blin. Kaki. Shit shit SHIT!”