by J W Brazier
Bingo! Joshua thought. He had his answer. They’re probing population control and government seizures under martial law.
“Seriously, Joshua, not to worry. White River won’t bear the logistical nor economic burdens of Operation Chameleon. Quite the contrary, your town will reap the benefits of an economic windfall. Allow me to explain further. Part of the exercise will be to test a new experimental cashless monetary system. In theory, it’s supposed to enhance security worldwide—eliminate financial bank fraud, hacking, and so forth. White River will be the first US city to go cashless. That is, as an experiment. Some citizens will choose the new global card; others will prefer our chip implants. You may already be hearing about it.”
Joshua gave a small nod, but held his tongue again. I’m listening to a nightmare. One more nail in America’s coffin.
“The Treasury and Federal Reserve, because of our currency devaluations and national debt, have partnered with Canada and Mexico to trial-test a new three-nation currency. They’re calling it an ‘Amero.’ The currency, for now, is strictly for use in White River and tied straight into the IMF under the NAFTA treaties.
“Beyond that, in the days and weeks to come, a UN military contingent along with UN NGOs—non-government officials—will join the exercise. They’ll participate with our active-duty Army, Marine, and Arkansas National Guard units. General Phillips will head up the operation. He’s in complete—and I do stress this point, Joshua—complete charge of this operation.”
Now Joshua felt completely speechless. The governor had dumped a ton of information on him, most of which he’d had no knowledge of previously. His first thoughts went to his family and the impact on the community.
Joshua steadied his mind and looked at Clayton. “I know the business owners already have been briefed on the new monetary system, but when will you announce all of this to White River residences, Governor? They need to prepare.”
Before the governor could respond, though, Joshua heard another voice.
“There will be no announcements of any kind, Mr. Austin.”
From Joshua’s peripheral vision, a figure emerged from the shadows. Joshua looked up to see cold, haunting eyes staring down at him. Joshua glanced over at Clayton, who appeared as though he’d shrunk back in his seat. Joshua looked back to the mystery man and then stood.
Clayton pushed himself up out of his chair and said, “Uh, Mr. Mayor … Joshua, may I present Mr. Abram Solomon. He’s our direct liaison with the United Nations during Operation Chameleon, and reports direct to the president.”
Joshua grasped Abram’s outstretched hand, but immediately wished he hadn’t, feeling lifeless flesh. For a split second, he noted Mr. Solomon’s fretful expression. But Abram recovered, let go of Joshua’s hand, and settled into a chair to the governor’s right, like some monarch. Joshua, though, remained standing. He’d sensed from the beginning that the meeting was an elaborate pretense. But he’d listened enough; now it was his turn.
“Governor,” Joshua said, “I’ll ask you again. Your pointed remarks earlier about independents, Tea Party types, Christians, and conservatives … that wasn’t idle talk, but a probing question in my mind. You’re concerned conservatives will be a problem during this Operation Chameleon, a so-called terrorist training exercise. So please explain your reasoning for the remark.”
The governor cleared his throat, glanced at Abram out of the corner of his eye, then looked at Joshua. “Yes, I did say that, and for good reason. We do not want any trouble or insurrections. This is a terrorist exercise, nothing else. However, there’ll be times, I suspect, that the population will endure stringent military rules and regulations. Whatever security measures or methods they use to achieve our goals will benefit our nation’s domestic security as a whole.”
Joshua stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the governor’s worthless political double-talk. Instead, he kept plowing forward: “Governor, on the surface, your words sound convincing. But my gut suspicions scream something else. I’ll agree I’m not as astute with the politics, but I’m not a country hick. It could be as you say, but I’m thinking it’s all window dressing—a devised scheme for another purpose. There’s a gathering storm, Governor. Americans are thinking our government has an insatiable appetite towards tyranny and this operation has that same smell. America is on its knees. I’m thinking someone powerful, or a group of power brokers, envisions an opportunity to cut the jugular while we’re weak.”
Clayton began to stand. “Now just hold—”
Joshua raised a hand and kept going. “Sounds to me like it’s payback time for spending seven hundred million buying a presidency for someone who shares their vision and who’ll carry out their wishes. White River is their lab. The guinea pigs: its citizens. They’re the real targets. Will they yield to international control under martial law or fight back? Will these citizens give up their blood-bought freedoms under the Constitution and Bill of Rights, or sacrifice it all for government handouts?”
Joshua glared at Clayton, daring him to respond, but the governor just fell back into his seat. Abram, meanwhile, just sat there with a little smile on his lips. So Joshua continued.
“Propaganda makes a cashless economy sound good, but a vindictive IRS tracks money, activities, expenditures, and people. Oh yes, lest I forget the NSA, FBI, and ATF tracking phone records, gun owners, and radical subversives—which I imagine includes any number of unfortunates labeled as ‘malcontents.’ The first thing tyrants do: they disarm the population. Is that about the size of it, or have I missed anything?”
Clayton’s plastered campaign smile had finally melted away for good. Joshua had zeroed in and pushed the right button. It was time to get down to real business.
Clayton gave a small nod. “You’re more astute than I’ve been led to believe, Mr. Austin.”
Okay, there it is, Joshua thought. Elvis has left the building. The friendly “May I call you ‘Joshua’?” is gone. Now it’s “Mr. Austin.”
Just then, Abram Solomon stood to face Joshua. An arrogant smirk cleft the corners of his lips.
“Since we’re being blunt, Mayor Austin,” Abram said, “you’re correct in one aspect. White River is a calculated risk. Our plan is sound. The method’s unorthodox, but it’s the unpredictable data we need to know. Lest we forget, insane men struck the Twin Towers in New York. They were religious zealots with one goal: destroy the enemies of Islam in the name of Allah. Our White River exercise is to prepare so there won’t be another 9-11. I believe that’s what the governor is—”
“Mr. Solomon,” Joshua cut in, “please don’t insult my intelligence.”
Abram slit his eyes at Joshua’s impudence. “Mr. Austin, cutting to the chase, as you say, is how I will respond in kind, since reasoning with you is at an end. You, sir, will do whatever—and I mean whatever—we tell you to do to ensure Operation Chameleon is a complete success. Years of planning, both in the US and internationally, have gone into this operation, no matter what you perceive. Thus, you and your city council will follow our every directive. This comes straight from the president. Do I make myself clear?”
Joshua clenched his jaw, trying to stifle his emotions. Slapping the arrogance off Abram Solomon’s face crossed his mind, but he reminded himself: Stay calm, listen, and don’t lose your temper.
“Crystal clear, Mr. Solomon. Please express to the president and your UN contacts that the good citizens of White River will follow the laws of our state and the US Constitution. We will not, and I repeat, will not cower nor bow to the United Nations, a military general, the president, or otherwise, nor surrender our freedoms under any fabricated exercise. I hope that’s clear.”
Now Clayton sprang from his chair. His face was so red that Joshua wondered if he’d have a heart attack on the spot. Abram, meanwhile, clenched both fists and turned up the heat of his glare at Joshua. Apparently, it was time to leave.
Clayton, though, cleared his throat and smoothed down his tie, and Joshua awaited his a
ttempt to smooth everything over with some political salve.
“Mr. Austin, as your governor, I can pledge complete unbridled communications during the exercise. No one will suffer violation of his or her civil or constitutional liberties. Nonetheless, to make for a realistic and accurate exercise, they’ll have to endure a brief taste of martial law.” Clayton looked at Abram. “Mr. Solomon, those are the views of the United Nations and the president, I’m sure.”
Abram nodded. “Governor, I concur. However, the training exercise is necessary, but not at the expense of negating the civil liberties of any sovereign nation.”
Joshua listened as both men played up their appeasement cards. When no more was said, he reached out a hand toward Abram.
“Gentlemen,” Joshua said, “I’d say we understand each other. If there’s no further business, it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Solomon. Perhaps we can visit again.”
Joshua shook Abram’s hand and then turned to the governor.
“Governor, I understand the need for a certain amount of secrecy to achieve certain goals, but I hope you’ll keep to your promise. I’ll be inundated with questions.”
Clayton flashed that familiar reassuring smile. “Mr. Austin, you have my word.”
“Thank you again, Governor, Mr. Solomon,” Joshua said. “If you’re in the neighborhood, stop by White River and visit.”
Abram flashed what Joshua could only describe a wicked grin. And with that, Joshua headed for the door and his ride back to White River with the real Mr. Crosby.
Chapter 15
Dean watched the impressive skyscrapers of the Big Apple pass below as his flight made its approach for landing at JFK. He was anxious to meet face-to-face with Glenn and imagined him impatient and restless, waiting for a detailed report. Dean had tried calling his boss all morning, but he couldn’t get through. He’d left a month earlier with little information and was now returning with an incredible evolving story. White River, Arkansas, was indeed in the throes of a sinister and subversive conspiracy.
Glenn’s insistence that Dean go to White River with little information had at first been irritating, illogical, and odd. At the time, Dean just couldn’t understand his boss’s reasoning. Now, though, what he’d seen and learned during his stay revealed that it had been a smart approach—sort of like first impressions on a first date, he’d reasoned. White River hadn’t disappointed him.
Since departing Little Rock, Dean’s mind continued to stew over what he’d discovered. Several unsettling thoughts gave him pause while considering more unanswered questions. Why would UN military units be arriving in White River, unless it was a clandestine operation? And by whose authority? Why would one small town, in all of America, be picked to switch to a cashless system? And then there was his haunting interview with Ann Taylor.
He’d listened to her mother’s tapes, again and again. Her story sounded incredible; her confession, tragic, yet prophetic. Dean just couldn’t put it all together in his mind, though.
The moment Dean left the plane, he called Glenn’s secretary. “Hello, Sally.”
“Hi, Dean. Are you in town?”
“Yes, just arrived at JFK. I’m headed for baggage claims. Sally, do me a favor. Glenn won’t answer my calls or messages. Get word to him—barge into his office if you have to—and tell him I’m in town. I’m coming straight to the office and need to talk with him.”
“Won’t answer messages … Hmm, sounds like someone else I know,” she said with a chuckle. “Alright, Dean, I’ll try, but Glenn seems a little distant today. Anyway, how was your long trip?”
Dean arrived at baggage claim. “Interesting, Sally, very interesting.” He saw his bag on the conveyor belt. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. See you soon.”
*
Sally Elder looked up from her work, hearing the elevator chime. She wondered if it were Dean, since it had been an hour since he’d called. And then, there he was. Dean stepped out and headed straight for Glenn’s office. He didn’t say hello to her, wave … nothing.
“Well, hello, stranger!” Sally said. “Come over here and tell me about your trip.”
Dean, though, flashed a quick smile and went right on by.
Ignoring me? But … Oh no, he wouldn’t just barge in to Glenn’s office, she thought.
“Can’t visit right now, Sally. Remind me to tell you about it later. I have to talk with Glenn first.”
She stood up behind her desk. “But, Dean, let me call and tell him you’re here. I think he’s—”
Her efforts, though, fell on deaf ears. Dean gave one rap on Glenn’s door, then turned the knob, went in, and closed the door behind him. Sally raised her right hand, palm up, and finger-waved good-bye.
“Oh, ah, okay then, don’t ask me. I’m just his personal secretary,” she said. “Go right in. Talk to you later.”
She sighed, then sat down and returned to her work.
*
Dean shut Glenn’s door and saw that his editor was standing by the window, staring down into Central Park while chewing on the familiar unlit cigar.
Finally, Glenn turned toward him. “Have a seat, Cohen.”
Dean just stood there and raised an eyebrow at his boss’s tone and behavior. Staring out his window again, Glenn looked … adrift … almost forlorn. But … whatever. Glenn would share what he wanted when he wanted. Dean couldn’t wait anyway. He was about to explode with all he’d learned.
“Glenn, you’ve grabbed a tiger by the tail on this one. This White River story is morphing into something enormous and complex. I could use your help—and more information.”
Glenn wheeled around and marched to his desk. The big Havana in his mouth moved from side to side. In spite of his himself, Dean stood there and just waited. Glenn’s tone and expression had flipped from glum to all business.
“I said, take a seat, Cohen. You’ve made a broad, provocative statement, and you’re excited. Now back it up, and give me the details. Start with your first impressions.”
Dean sat, and Glenn did the same.
“My first week was typical scout work to get the lay of the land—people, industries, economy, and surrounding towns. I loved the people’s Southern charm and hospitality, their genuine—”
“Don’t get lost in the weeds, Cohen.”
Dean nodded. “Sorry, boss. Well, as for the rest of my stay, I spent part of it chasing political campaigns for mayor. White River elected a new face: a conservative independent named Joshua Austin. He’s candid and unpretentious, and he beat a progressive three-term ultra-liberal Democrat. The man will no doubt shake up the status quo.” Dean waved his hands as he spoke, unable to channel his excitement into his words alone. “Boss, remember that series of articles we published last year, titled ‘Will the real America please stand up?’”
“Yes. What’s your point?”
“The core of the articles, as you remember, focused on the sleeping behemoth of middle America, the unsung heroes and villains. Well, this Joshua Austin is one of those unsung heroes. As in other small towns we’ve reported about, Mayor Austin is taking a stand against what’s perceived as government assaults on liberty. Anyway, our articles showed how the Internet and cell phones are middle America’s pipeline to news, social interactions, and entertainment. Awareness is raised by emails, Tweets, blogs, and uploaded videos. They’re not as dependent on their cable or sat TV anymore for truth in news.”
Glenn quit chewing his cigar. “You’re losing me, Cohen. Get to your point already.”
“Yes, sir. Awareness is my point. In White River, there isn’t any awareness to speak of, and that’s what’s curious. Avenues of communications are sporadic, as if White River is methodically being monitored to stifle information flow.”
Dean waited for a response, but only got more cigar chewing, so he went on.
“Bloggers are relegated to conspiracy nutcases. Uploaded videos are censored on social networks. Area newspapers and television stations are silent. The screws are tig
htening, and I’m thinking it’s because something big is about to go down. I expect at some point there will be a total blackout, sooner than later.”
Again, no response from Glenn.
“Here’s what’s really disturbing,” Dean said. “When it came to using cash, I encountered something I’ve not seen anywhere else in the US.”
Finally, Glenn leaned forward on his desk on his elbows. “Come on, man! Don’t leave me hanging here. Cut to the chase already! I want details about what you discovered.”
Again, Dean raised an eyebrow. His boss’s odd and impatient behavior seemed telling. Glenn knew more than he was revealing.
He’s holding back something, I know it, Dean thought.
“Okay, well, from what little I’ve learned, White River is transitioning to a cashless system. The question is, why? Interviews with several banks were pointless. They repeated their press release garbage. They did verify, though, that they’ll issue a new form of plastic—not your ordinary debit or credit cards. But here’s the really scary part. You have just two choices: the card—or an implant. I’m thinking that the Federal Reserve and Treasury are up to something. Couple that with UN involvement, and the IMF has to be a sanctioning player. It’s just too drastic of an all-encompassing project.”
The big Havana stopped moving again. Glenn clasped his hands and focused his eyes on Dean. “And you’re telling me communication’s stagnant. Nobody’s getting the word out?”
“Yes, sir. I believe censorship and disruption of this magnitude has to be coming from high up in government. Telecoms I checked with say it’s major cuts in fiber lines, but no way. That sounds too convenient. And it doesn’t explain the media’s lack of coverage. This small town is the only one suffering the inconvenience. Communications are good outside of White River.”
Glenn nodded. “Did you have any trouble using cash anywhere else besides White River?”
Dean shook his head, feeling his energy level rise even higher at the question. “No, sir. In fact, I went out of my way to verify, checking a fifty-mile radius. What alarmed me most in all my interviews was community indifference. It was as if they didn’t care … or they liked the idea and were good with it either way. But whenever the authority behind this escalates its agenda, they’ll lock White River down. Forget about using cash or checks.”