The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

  Governor Baker leaned forward onto the podium and looked directly into the single State House-provided television camera.

  “I believe the walkout by the members of the Boston Carmen’s Union was orchestrated by their union representatives. Their subversive acts directly caused the events of yesterday, from the pointless death of Elijah Jones, to the resulting damage to property, and the ancillary deaths in the Roxbury and Dorchester riots.”

  As Governor Baker paused for effect, Sarge reacted to this bold statement.

  “Julia called it,” said Sarge. “Her source in the union said one word to her before this happened—Vegas.”

  The governor continued. “Today I have executed Massachusetts Executive Order Number 596, which provides in part that all members of the Boston Carmen’s Union and the Service Employees International Union members who abandoned their shifts operating the MBTA transportation buses for yesterday’s parade are terminated for cause. Further, the executive order bars any union officers directly under investigation from government property. Like the nearly identical walkout in Las Vegas, which killed more than a hundred people, yesterday’s walkout was taken straight out of the new union playbook. I will not tolerate it in our state, and I write the rules.”

  “Can he do that?” asked Steven.

  “I doubt it,” said Sarge. “The state and federal laws are very pro-union. He’ll have a fight, but it does send a message about his intentions.”

  Governor Baker continued. “I know this executive action will be unpopular with the government employee unions. But I ask all Bay Staters to keep an open mind as we go through this difficult time. Lives were lost yesterday because of a knee-jerk reaction to an ongoing and publicly supported look into MBTA operations.

  “I leave you with this thought. Organized labor has played an important role in the development of our nation. History has shown that organized labor was instrumental in protecting the rights of workers in private business. I want to emphasize the term private here. With respect to union activity in the operation of government, the public sector, I choose to follow the words of President Franklin Roosevelt, the patron saint of the American labor movement. FDR cautioned about the growing presence of public sector labor unions in 1937. He recognized the special relationship and obligations of public servants to the public itself and the government for which they work.

  “FDR explicitly issued this warning, and I quote, ‘Militant tactics have no place in the functions of any organization of governmental employees. A strike of public employees manifests nothing less than the intent to prevent or obstruct government.’ I believe that the actions undertaken yesterday by the public service unions who owe their service to you, the taxpayers of Massachusetts, was intolerable and beyond belief. I will work diligently to assure you no public employee will ever paralyze our government’s services again. Thank you.”

  “Wow,” said Sarge. “He just laid down the gauntlet. He effectively created a class war between the unions and the taxpayers. Also, he deflected blame for the deaths of the bus driver and the people during the riots squarely on the shoulders of the union management who ordered the walkout.”

  “Where it should be. Sounds like we just got thrown back to the days of baseball bats and busted kneecaps,” added Steven. “I think we need to get out of Boston for a few days.”

  “Why does it sound like I’d rather take my chances here?” asked Sarge.

  “Because you know me too well,” said Steven.

  Chapter 43

  March 19, 2016

  The Mall at Chestnut Hill

  Newton, Massachusetts

  “Look at all of the beautiful coral, Mommy,” exclaimed her daughter Rebecca.

  She is definitely going to be a beach girl. Susan steered the seven-year-old girl toward the entrance to Vineyard Vines. The pink whale awaited. She watched Donald’s reaction, fully expecting him to protest. He was not a fan of the mega shopping malls or going out in public at all. Donald preferred online shopping and spending time at home. Today he appeared indifferent to the “forced” experience, almost nervous.

  “Yes, Becca, the coral is exquisite,” said Susan.

  “Ex-quit?” repeated Rebecca.

  “No, it’s exquisite, dopey,” chimed in Penny, her older sister. “C’mon, guys. I see lots of pink!”

  While Rebecca might grow up to be a seafarer like many of her Lowell ancestors, Penny would be the lady of the ship, awaiting another summer cocktail.

  “Don’t call me dopey, whale breath,” replied Rebecca.

  “Honey, are you okay?” she asked her husband. “We might find a few things in here for you as well. I’ll show the girls around. Why don’t you check out the golf stuff?” Susan picked up a dozen Titleist golf balls, which sold for sixty-two dollars. Isn’t five dollars per golf ball a little much?

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking about stuff,” said Donald. “You girls shop ’til you drop, and I’ll see if I can force myself to buy a polo shirt with a pink whale on it.”

  The two shared a laugh, but Susan wasn’t convinced Donald was in a joking mood.

  “Okay, I love you. I need to catch up with the girls,” said Susan.

  Donald gave her a squeeze and said I love you back, but she could sense he was troubled.

  Susan caught up with the girls while she watched Donald wander over to the men’s side of the store. He stood staring at a large mural of a yacht making a sharp turn in choppy seas. Susan found the image ironic. We are sailing choppy seas, are we not?

  “Look at this gorgeous wave print on this dress, girls,” said Susan.

  She held up a pleated dress with blue waves rolling across it in all directions.

  “It doesn’t have any pink, Mom,” protested Penny. Of course it doesn’t.

  “I like it!” squealed Rebecca. Of course you do.

  “How about this one?” asked Susan.

  She held up a tunic-style dress covered in pink sailboats. Both girls squealed with delight. Compromise.

  “Good work, Mom,” said Penny. How old are you?

  “Now, girls, we need to find you something appropriate for Easter,” said Susan. “We can’t wear a sailboat dress to church.”

  “Why not, Mommy?” asked Rebecca. Legitimate question.

  “Well, honey,” started Susan, “you know how we like to put on our Sunday best for church?”

  “Yes,” replied Rebecca.

  “Okay. The sailboat dress is beautiful, but it’s really a little too casual. What do you think?” asked Susan.

  “She’s right, Becca. Let’s keep looking,” said Penny.

  The girls thumbed through the racks while Susan searched for Donald. He was still wandering through the men’s section—empty handed.

  “Mommy?” asked Penny, holding up a long white seersucker dress complete with a pink ribbon belt.

  “That’s much better, girls,” said Susan.

  “This is our Sunday much better dress,” said Rebecca.

  Susan heard a loud commotion from the mall concourse outside of the Vineyard Vines store and turned in Donald’s direction. She spotted him walking swiftly toward the front doors of the store. Her husband stopped next to the wide opening and peered into the mall concourse. As the voices grew louder, Donald gestured for her to stay back while the rest of the store’s customers walked toward the front of the store.

  “Black lives matter! Black lives matter!” she distinguished from the angry discordance of yelling.

  The girls dropped their dresses and grabbed Susan around the waist.

  “Mommy, what’s happening?” asked Penny.

  “I don’t know, my baby, but your daddy will find out.”

  The chanting seemed to get louder. She wrapped her arms around the girls and ushered them toward the front of the store, where they could be together as a family.

  “What’s going on, Donald?” Susan asked.

  “Protesters,” he replied, never taking his eye off the approaching mob. �
��I was afraid something like this might happen. I could feel it somehow.”

  Susan followed his gaze until she found the source of the noise. The lower level of the Chestnut Hill Mall was filled with black protestors wearing white tee shirts that featured a picture of Pumpsie Jones, the victim of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade killing. The protestors were rapidly climbing the escalators stairs, spilling onto the upper level—headed in their direction.

  “What do we do?” asked Susan, her voice trembling.

  “This has been happening all over the country,” said Donald. “The last two days have been volatile everywhere.”

  “Where are the mall police?”

  Donald laughed. “Moving quickly in the opposite direction, I would presume. They’re not equipped for something like this.”

  “Somebody has to do something,” said Susan.

  She craned her neck to look further into the mall. Protestors now outnumbered shoppers twenty to one on the concourse.

  “Do you remember a year or so ago when the Black Lives Matter protestors invaded the first floor of the Mall of America in Minneapolis?” asked Donald.

  Susan nodded.

  “They staged a similar demonstration, but the Minneapolis police were ready. They anticipated trouble and uniformed officers closed off the upper floors for the benefit of the mall shoppers. The protestors were confined to the lower floors. Eventually they left without incident. Let’s just wait it out and let the police get things under control.”

  “But look, they’re all running up the escalators now,” said Susan, pointing to the right of them. “I don’t see any security or police.”

  As soon as she finished her sentence, the mall’s public address system squawked.

  “Attention! Attention, please! This demonstration is not authorized and is in clear violation of the Mall at Chestnut Hill policy. We expect all participants to disperse at this time. Those who continue to demonstrate will be subject to arrest. I repeat, you are ordered to disperse. The mall is now closed.”

  Shouts immediately echoed off the walls and the ceiling of the mall.

  “This is our freedom of speech.”

  “We have a right to be here!”

  “Black lives matter!”

  “You will not silence us!”

  The panicked order to disperse repeated itself, now barely audible over the growing crowd of chanting protesters. A man holding two shopping bags slid into view in front of Vineyard Vines and started shouting at the protestors.

  “You people need to shut the fuck up!” he shouted. “We are sick and tired of this bullshit. Go back to Roxbury.”

  This brought a roar of profanities from the mob.

  “What do you mean by you people?” one protestor shouted.

  “You heard me! You people need to shut the fuck up. This shit’s getting old and we’re done with it,” the man shouted back.

  He looked around him as if to seek support or comrades-in-arms. There were no takers.

  “This isn’t helping,” said Donald, easing back from the edge of the opening.

  Susan looked beyond the man to the other side of the upper level. Three teenagers dumped their soda cups on the crowd below, igniting a fury of shouts. The protestors sprinted in their direction, tackling them to the ground. The protest had taken one of its final steps toward spiraling into a full-scale riot.

  “We need to shut these doors,” said Donald. He turned to look into the store. “Where are the employees?”

  “I don’t know,” said Susan.

  Earlier, Susan didn’t bother to look for any store employees. She and the girls could help themselves. Besides, on a Saturday night, the employees were probably young girls who wouldn’t understand the needs of a seven- and ten-year-old anyway. They sure wouldn’t be of any help in a situation like this.

  “You are hereby ordered to disperse,” announced a voice from a megaphone below. “This is unauthorized and you must disperse immediately!”

  “The cops must be here,” said Donald.

  Susan felt a sense of relief. I just want to get my babies home.

  “Hands up, don’t shoot! Hands up, don’t shoot!” shouted the protestors in unison.

  Susan saw Donald searching the faces in the store for its staff. She could not find any Vineyard Vines personnel either. The idiot in front of the store began shouting towards the police.

  “Hey, these savages are attacking three young boys up here! You have to help them,” shouted the man.

  Susan watched as mayhem erupted in front of her. The man was immediately swarmed by at least a dozen people.

  “Who are you callin’ savages?” shouted one woman.

  “Fuck you, honky racist!” screamed another.

  Donald pulled Susan and the girls with him to the side.

  “I’m going to close the storefront grille gate,” said Donald. “Here’s the button. When I give you the signal, you push it here where it reads close. Okay?”

  Susan shook uncontrollably when she reached for the control mechanism. Both girls cried loudly, clinging to her.

  “Are you leaving us?” asked Susan. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s okay,” said Donald. “I have to make sure no one gets caught under the gate when it closes. I also want to make sure nobody gets in either.”

  When Donald started to walk away, the girls screamed.

  “Listen up, my big girls,” said Donald. “Daddy is going to work with Mommy to close the store’s gate. After everything calms down and the angry people go home, we’ll go home too. Okay?”

  The girls’ crying turned into wet sniffles, and they nodded their heads. Donald wiped away their tears and gave Susan a smile before heading toward the entrance. She watched as Donald advised the customers to either step in or step out. All of them chose the former. When everyone was clear, he gave her a thumbs-up. Susan pressed the close button, and the steel-reinforced security gate descended with a loud clanking noise. Susan watched for a reaction outside of the store, but the mob ignored the gate. When the door reached the halfway point, she heard Donald shout.

  “You can stay out there, buddy!”

  “Let me in. They’ll kill me! Please,” yelled the man who had challenged the crowd earlier.

  The other customers stood back as the bloodied man tried to slide under the rolling gate. Two protestors grabbed the man by his feet and tried to pull him back into the concourse. The man desperately pleaded with Donald.

  “Please! These savages will tear me apart!”

  Donald shook his head in disgust and grabbed the man’s wrists. Arms straining, he yanked the guy’s body out of the mob’s grasp and into the store, moments before the gate clanged to a stop against the tile floor. The crowd immediately slammed against the steel gate, ramming it with their shoulders and pounding it with their fists. The bloodied man pulled his wrists free from Donald and rose to his feet, pointing at the protesters through the steel grating.

  “Ha ha, you black bastards,” said the man.

  Donald hit the man in the face, knocking him unconscious with a single punch. “Shut up.”

  Chapter 44

  March 24, 2016

  Harvard Kennedy School of Government

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  “Good morning, everyone, let’s get started on our last lecture before spring break,” said Sarge.

  GLOBAL GOVERNANCE

  and

  ASYMMETRIC WARFARE

  Sarge had enjoyed the first half of the new semester with his students. The more unstable the world became geopolitically, the more interested his students became in the subject matter of his lectures, and it didn’t hurt that his book, Choose Freedom or Capitulation, remained a New York Times best seller. Demand for Sarge to speak on the subject of America’s sovereignty grew to the point his publisher thought he should start charging a fee. A candidate in the presidential campaign even referenced his book during a Republican debate at the University of South Florida in Tampa. Sarge
had a hunger for knowledge and he thought it was incumbent to share what he knew with others. His position at Harvard Kennedy, coupled with his book, gave him a forum and—to an extent—a captive audience. Why shouldn’t I give people the ability to formulate their own opinions?

  “How many of you agree with this statement?” asked Sarge. “Wars can be both economic and militaristic.”

  Sarge planned on counting the hands, but the class was unanimous in its agreement.

  “How about this one?” asked Sarge. “A militaristic war can be fought over economic issues.”

  The show of hands reflected unanimity. Let’s get them involved.

  “Mr. Ocampo, what is a currency war?” asked Sarge.

  This young man continued to shine. He had also become friendly with Miss Crepeau. Now that would be a formidable duo someday.

  “A currency war is the battle between countries as they attempt to destroy the value of their own currency,” said Ocampo.

  “Are you telling the class that a country might deliberately try to devalue their own currency?” asked Sarge. “Why would they do that?”

  “Let me use the United States dollar as an example,” said Ocampo. “As the dollar goes down in value, the price of our exported goods follows suit. Other countries will increase their purchases of American goods, which in turn stimulate our economy. The net result is American business increases its production and hires more employees.”

  “Sounds like a good plan if you live in the United States, does it not, Miss Crepeau?” asked Sarge.

  “That’s true, but it also hurts our ability to purchase imported products when the dollar is weak,” said Crepeau. “For example, the bulk of the household goods purchased by Americans come from China. If our dollar is weak, the price of those goods can skyrocket, resulting in inflation.”

  “That’s a very good point, Miss Crepeau,” said Sarge. “During a currency war, a nation may take affirmative steps to reduce the value of its currency in order to stimulate its own lagging economy. But in the process, its citizens pay a price in the form of inflation.”