The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  “Later, honey, later. I’ve got to get the kids up and breakfast started.”

  Joshua had no idea what had happened, but Brenda looked excited by her epiphany moment.

  “Brenda, you always do that to me, honey. Now I’ll be wondering about this all day. Come on, baby, play fair. Tell me something so I can chew on it with you.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll tell you later. I just have a few ideas about what it might mean.”

  Joshua put on his best pout. “Oh, that’s just not right. You don’t play fair.”

  Brenda rolled her eyes and laughed again. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll make you breakfast. Go on now and wake the kids for me.”

  And with that, she was off to the bathroom.

  Still seated on the bed, Joshua said, “I can’t, honey. A driver from the governor’s security will be here anytime now.”

  Over the noise of running water in the bathroom, she half-shouted back, “Joshua, you never take the time to eat a good healthy breakfast. I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

  Now Joshua honestly felt flustered. He really wanted to hear more about Brenda’s thoughts on these nightmares. He sighed. Any further conversation about her dreams would have to wait, he knew. Brenda was now in full wife-mother morning mode, and his ride would arrive at any moment.

  *

  Joshua had to admit that his chauffeured ride ended up being a pleasant interruption from the norm. Still unnecessary, but it was a nice change. As he rode along, he paged through a folder, reviewing his proposed budget cuts. The city council had already announced any of his cuts as “dead on arrival,” as they put it. He looked out his window at the passing scenery, his thoughts adrift.

  How ironic, the governor’s and president’s budgets spend billions to trillions every year and never balance. They burden the people with ever-increasing taxes. Yet people keep voting these same types of lying demigods into office, all because of party loyalties. He pursed his lips. I want to cut spending, balance our municipal budgets, and what happens? I’m criticized. Something’s wrong with this picture.

  As Joshua turned away from the window, he eyed the agent driving the car—Sergeant Jeff Crosby. His driver sported a blond ponytail tied neatly below his collar. Crosby seemed rather young, late twenties to early thirties, Joshua figured. Must be new relaxed dress codes, he guessed. Since leaving White River, Crosby hadn’t spoken much, other than sparse chitchat and a few exchanged customary smiles via the rearview mirror.

  Soon, Old Decker’s Grocery, renowned for its fantastic home-styled fried chicken, came into view. Decker’s was Joshua’s favorite “last chance” pit stop and watering hole before the lake. Business must be slow, he thought. The gossip rockers on the porch are empty. The store was also almost exactly a halfway marker to the cabin. Joshua looked at his wristwatch; he’d easily be on time for the 9:00 a.m. meeting.

  After Decker’s, the scenery passed in a blur for Joshua, his thoughts mixed and unsettled about his meeting. The governor had been evasive when they’d last spoke. What’s provoked this progressive liberal to crawl out of his capital lair in Little Rock for a private meeting with a low-level small town official? Joshua wondered. It’s odd … and it smells.

  Joshua looked ahead, and his eyes met those of Sergeant Crosby’s in the rearview mirror. Crosby smiled at him.

  “We’ll be there in about twenty minutes or so, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Crosby.”

  “I’ve been to White River on several occasions. Your town’s a welcome change from the fast hustle of Little Rock.”

  “So you’ve spent time in our growing community, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir, on fishing trips with my father and brothers. We’ve homesteaded our favorite fishing spots around Heber Springs Lake and down your way, along the White River.”

  “My town’s changed, Sergeant Crosby. Twenty years of overspending and corruption has taken its toll—for the worst, I’m sad to say. Your family would’ve liked the way it used to be.”

  “Politics aside, I agree with you, Mr. Mayor. My brothers and I visited last year. There’s a night-and-day difference in White River. It’s changed something awful. They’re downright cynical for the most part. I read once, a rather humorous description that fits White River: ‘a town of sanctimonious pious braggarts on Sunday and heathens Monday through Saturday.’”

  Joshua chuckled. “That sounds like a Mrs. Pearlette Jones quote. Her opinions are infectious. She’s a dear friend of mine, by the way.”

  Sergeant Crosby flashed a wide grin. “I know her, sir, from their restaurant. My brothers and I were passing through White River around the time her mother died. I had the privilege of listening and talking with both her and Gus.” Crosby looked in the rearview mirror again, now frowning. “I have to say, Mr. Mayor, after meeting folks like Pearlette, it was a sad and bizarre scene to see people at your city park dancing around a stone statue. They bowed and prayed to their New Age mother earth goddess Gaia. It was a sight I’d never seen and hope to never see again.”

  Remembering all too well the scene that Crosby had described, Joshua just shook his head and listened. Crosby was on a roll and Joshua didn’t want to stop him.

  “I understand what you’re up against—you being new to politics and all. Your town’s made dramatic changes, all right, and like you said, it’s all for the worst. It’s a real shame. I liked its personality and qualities of past years. The people honored God and country. A person felt welcomed. Those qualities are disappearing fast. I’d say the politically correct flag waves high and proud in White River. Although, maybe it’s just the same way across America these days.”

  Joshua could only nod at all he’d said. “You’re right, Sergeant Crosby. But I’m not surprised. White River’s another reflection of similar towns all across America. Contrast those olden days with the present. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize America is on a downward spiral into the abyss of a secular-humanist society.” Joshua paused and then continued. “I ran for public office in part because of what we’re talking about. Don’t think I’m an idealist or crusader. I just wanted to try and effect a change in some small way. Unless citizens get involved and stay vigilant, we’ll never turn the tide on anything and we’ll lose our children and our freedoms to boot.”

  Joshua felt himself on a roll now, so went on: “Politics is a dirty business, Sergeant Crosby. You can’t be afraid to get down in the trenches. I sometimes wonder if running for a public office wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life.”

  Sergeant Crosby gave a little nod, then said, “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Austin?”

  Joshua smiled, realizing he’d gotten pretty far up on his soapbox. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Crosby, I didn’t mean to preach. Please, ask away.”

  “Not a problem, sir, and I agree with you. Your local newspaper stated that you intend to celebrate Christmas the way it used to be enjoyed, including nativity scenes, without the chains of secular restraints. Did you mean that?”

  Joshua grinned, reminding himself, Don’t preach at him, Joshua.

  “Yes,” Joshua said, “and I’ll be brief and explain why. Last year, a single professing atheist filed a complaint with the ACLU and that is their right. The ACLU used their standard tactics—‘separation of church and state’—and threatened a lawsuit. Former mayor Archer and the city council members cowered like whipped cur dogs. They canceled a longstanding tradition despite one hundred years of prior precedence, all because of an implied threat. Thousands of families disadvantaged by one person’s complaint. I see it as political correctness run amuck, because I’d say most of White River’s citizens aren’t opposed to anyone practicing or displaying their religious faiths. Government should never promote nor infringe upon one faith over another. People can worship a rock if they want.” Joshua snickered. “And they do. That mother earth goddess statue in the city park is a good example, but I digress.

  “So, this year, I plan to call that bluff and fight in
court if pushed. The ACLU will just have to do what they think best, but to answer you, yes, yes we will. So, please, if you’re in town, I hope you’ll enjoy the celebration and spirit of Christmas with us.”

  “That’s great news, sir. Good for you. I’ll do that and tell my brothers and sisters the good news. Thank you.”

  As the conversation faded and the sound of the open road took over once again, Joshua realized that his anxieties had melted away during their lighthearted but engaging conversation. He hadn’t even been his usual apprehensive self when discussing specific topics with a stranger, but rather felt quite comfortable talking unguarded with Sergeant Crosby.

  Soon enough, Crosby made a hard right turn onto a gravel road. After a few twists and turns through the woods, Joshua saw the compound coming into view. The young sergeant stopped the car and turned around toward Joshua, beaming.

  “It’s been my great pleasure meeting and talking with you this morning, sir,” Sergeant Crosby said. Then his expression grew more serious and he leaned toward Joshua and whispered, “Joshua, don’t be afraid of what you’ll see and hear in your meeting. His Spirit abides in you. You’re not alone, my friend.”

  Joshua could only stare into the young man’s penetrating jade-green eyes, feeling totally bewildered by Crosby’s comment. Just then, Security Chief Baker opened his door.

  “Mr. Mayor, a pleasure to meet you,” Baker said. “The governor is waiting, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Joshua said.

  He got out of the car and heard Sergeant Crosby doing the same, so he turned to thank him for the ride and the conversation.

  At the sight of Crosby, though, Joshua’s breath caught in his throat and he froze in place, completely seized—body and soul. He reached out to hold the car door for support. The big man exiting the driver’s side wasn’t the same man he’d laughed and talked with.

  No, Joshua’s driver—Sergeant Crosby—was a black man of immense size, at least six-four, Joshua figured, and built like a house. As Joshua stood there, staring up at the giant man, Agents Baker and Crosby looked at Joshua, then at each other, and then Joshua again.

  “Mr. Mayor, is there something wrong, sir?” Baker asked. “Are you feeling alright?”

  Joshua could only point a trembling finger at his driver. “You—You’re … Sergeant Crosby? Why … you—you’re a black man … and big at that!”

  Crosby gave a side glance to Baker, then looked at Joshua and said, “Yes, Mr. Mayor, I am at that.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been with you the entire time since picking you up at your home this morning. Is there something wrong? Are you okay, sir?”

  No, Joshua wasn’t okay, and, yes, everything was wrong—but what would or could he say to make the two security professionals believe him?

  They wouldn’t believe me—and would most likely think I’m a bona fide nutcase, he thought.

  “Uhh … No, Mr. Crosby, nothing … is wrong,” Joshua said. “I apologize. I meant no offense, Sergeant, by my ‘you’re a black man’ remark. Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Oh, none taken, sir, and thank you. I appreciate you saying that. It was my pleasure. I’ll be here when you’re ready to leave and I’ll drive you back to White River.”

  “Great, Sergeant. Thanks.”

  Baker and Crosby looked at each other again. Then they grinned and shrugged, clearly bemused at Joshua’s behavior.

  Joshua walked toward the cabin and his meeting, his mind still stuck on what had just happened. He paused several times to look back at the real Sergeant Jeff Crosby standing by his vehicle, awaiting Joshua’s return. Joshua wasn’t delusional; the two men weren’t the same. What he’d experienced with the other “driver” had been real, without a doubt.

  “Okay, suck it up and deal with it later,” he whispered to himself.

  This suspicious meeting required his immediate attention, so he had no time for solving mysteries right now.

  Agent Baker led Joshua to the front door and motioned him inside. Just inside the door, Joshua stopped. His body shuddered. Nerves, he guessed. But the disquieting sensation of someone or something watching him felt so strong. The encouraging words spoken by his mysterious driver came to mind: “You’re not alone, my friend.”

  As Joshua walked into the expansive foyer, he saw Governor Clayton spring into action without hesitation, his cheerful beaming face a practiced façade, Joshua knew.

  “Mr. Joshua Austin. Thank you for coming. I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

  Joshua grinned and took Clayton’s outstretched hand. Invitation! Ha, Joshua thought. As if I had a choice. It was a command.

  Governor or not, Joshua didn’t want to waste time with platitudes. He’d be respectful, but assertive. He continued to smile but kept the hand-pumping interlude brief.

  “Governor Clayton, I appreciate the invitation, but I’ve a busy schedule today. I’d like to keep our meeting as brief as possible. Why don’t we speed it up and cut to the chase?”

  The governor’s smile evaporated. Joshua’s direct and abrupt approach had apparently surprised him, but then Clayton recovered and continued, seemingly undeterred.

  “I like a man who gets right to the point, Mr. Austin. Please, have a seat and we’ll cut to the chase, as you say.”

  Joshua followed him toward three leather chairs arranged in the middle of the room. Wood burning in the fireplace added a comforting ambiance—off-setting the pall cast by the contingent of Clayton’s security detail spread around the room.

  “Mr. Austin, before we come to the purpose of our meeting, I’d like to make a brief observational comment. It’s relevant to our discussion.”

  “You have the floor, Governor. By all means, sir.”

  “Your election, Joshua—May I call you ‘Joshua’?”

  Here comes the butter, Joshua thought. “Yes, please do, sir,” he said.

  “Good, and thank you. I was about to say, I’ve known Mr. Archer for years. Your victory was extraordinary, given you’ve no prior political background.”

  Choosing to play it straight, Joshua only nodded and gave a small smile.

  “The Christian conservatives and independents are what we in politics call ‘armchair quarterbacks,’” Clayton said. “They surprised all of us and managed to pull themselves together. We underestimated their tenacity. Their votes sent a loud and clear message—something I think Mr. Archer hadn’t considered.”

  Again, Joshua only nodded, knowing that the governor was fishing for a reaction.

  Why centralize the issue with “Christian” or “conservative” tags—and who’s the “we”? Joshua wondered.

  “Excuse me, Governor, but you didn’t bring me here to discuss voter types and election outcomes.”

  Clayton chuckled at that. “You are direct, Joshua. Too few politicians are these days. I admire that in you. I believe you’ll come to understand, as I explain further.”

  Joshua motioned with his hand for the governor to go on. The governor, he knew, was a political pro. He didn’t sneeze without purpose. So Joshua waited for the next salvo as the governor continued weaving his web.

  “Americans are well aware that terrorism can strike anywhere, anytime, foreign or domestic,” Clayton said.

  Here it comes, Joshua thought.

  “Joshua, the president wants to make certain America isn’t caught with our pants down ever again, as we were on 9-11. He also wants to leave his successors a workable plan against any domestic terrorist threats, which intelligence indicates is growing.”

  Hmm, stroking my patriotism … but why?

  Patriotism aside, Joshua didn’t care for the president, political or otherwise. Another typical big-government, tax-and-spend, far-left liberal—on steroids. The governor’s words sounded worthwhile and noble, but Joshua’s gut instinct screamed that Jim Clayton was setting him up for a one-two punch. And he still couldn’t shake the sensation that someone close by was watching and listening.

  “Joshua, the purpose
of our meeting today, then, is to discuss aspects of that workable plan. White River is ground zero for implementing parts of those plans and I’ll explain.”

  Joshua blinked and then nodded again. Now, though, Clayton had his attention. This had to be about the UN coming to White River with their new test-stage monetary system, Joshua figured, but he said nothing.

  “The president has asked me to help with a training operation within our state, and I’ve agreed. A terrorist training exercise—in fact, the first of its kind—will take place in White River. Its purpose is multifaceted, but it will confront domestic and international terrorism head-on. Our authority, I assure you, is within the limits of the Domestic Terrorist Act and presidential executive orders.”

  Okay, that was not what Joshua expected to hear. Not at all. Joshua bit his tongue, even though his guts were twisting at what he was hearing.

  “Military commanders picked your town because of its location, terrain, and population. This particular type of training, by the way, is a joint venture with the UN. The operation is called ‘Chameleon.’”

  Joshua had heard enough—more than enough. “Governor, are you saying that UN troops will have free rein to run roughshod in White River?” He paused for a moment but had no intention of letting Clayton respond yet. “First of all, our budget can’t support the logistics!”

  Clayton’s mocking grin stopped Joshua from going on. Joshua knew he’d found his one weakness: his temper.

  “Joshua, I understand your concerns, but you shouldn’t worry.”

  Easy enough for him to say, Joshua thought. The Devil’s in the details.

  Joshua took a deep breath and said, “Governor, earlier you made a point to mention Christians, independent conservatives, and domestic terrorists. There’s a reason, I suspect? So … please explain.”

  Now Clayton’s cocked eyebrow twitched. “Joshua, FBI profiling links domestic subversives in general as conservative, Tea Party types, and Christians of varying flavors. White River has a high concentration of various religions and churches of every denominational flavor you can name, bar none. Thus, White River is an ideal test area, should there be any citizen insurrection occurring during our martial law exercise.”