by J W Brazier
“White River is an out-of-sight, out-of-mind small town, a perfect setting for that trial run to answer those unknowns. Our meeting today is about that misdirection you spoke about, and the terrorist exercise is the first step. It’s a disguised test run at public reactions, I believe.”
Joshua looked at his watch.
“Let’s get going, BJ, but keep in mind what we’ve just talked about, and evaluate for yourself what you see and hear. This meeting isn’t by accident. White River is the first salvo into America’s despotism. It doesn’t matter who’s president or in Congress. If Americans sit on their backsides and do nothing, then radical progressives will make unalterable decisions for us and government tyranny will be our end.”
Chapter 19
Sheriff Frazier slowed his patrol car to a stop as GEM-Tech’s property came into view on their right. The scenes from the road were startling, including threatening DANGER! HIGH VOLTAGE! signs posted along a ten-foot-high, chain-link fence topped with coiled razor wire. A series of menacing guard towers stood one hundred yards apart, perched like birds of prey.
“Good Lord, BJ,” Joshua said. “GEM-Tech’s new construction is way more than what I expected.”
Billy Joe nodded in agreement, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the row upon row of rectangular buildings that looked like barracks. Joshua also eyed the structures. The disturbing spectacle reminded him of Nazi concentration camp photos.
Those buildings can’t be what I’m imagining, Joshua reasoned.
“Good grief, Mayor. This training exercise has all the earmarks of an overnight military occupation. It’s way past conventional. I should’ve paid closer attention to Deputy Patterson’s patrol reports on GEM-Tech’s new construction.”
“Gracious, Billy Joe, look over there!”
Joshua pointed a finger, and BJ looked in that direction. Three uniformed foreign nationals in an armored vehicle patrolled the property’s perimeter with an attached .50-caliber machine gun. Each soldier wore a UN blue armband and beret. US and UN flags flapped in the breeze on the vehicle’s hood.
“What in the world is going on out here, Mayor?” BJ asked.
“I’m not sure, Billy Joe, but they’re serious about it. Let’s move on and get to the meeting. We need to see what other surprises await us inside the compound.”
BJ slowed to a stop at the main entrance checkpoint. A convoy of transport trucks rolled past, carrying US and UN military personnel armed to the teeth.
“This doesn’t look good, Mayor, not good at all.”
Joshua stared in disbelief along with BJ, amazed by the odd sights.
“I agree,” Joshua said. “It has all the earmarks of an invasion, and our military is helping.”
A soldier approached the patrol car. BJ rolled down the window and waited.
The soldier leaned down. “Good day,” he said in reasonable English that had a clear Italian accent. “Identification, please.”
“Hand me your driver’s license, Mayor.”
Joshua did so, and Billy Joe handed their licenses to the soldier. The UN soldier check his authorized visitor list and then scanned their licenses with a handheld device.
“Gentlemen, state your names, please?” The soldier extended his arm, holding out a small microphone.
“I’m Sheriff Billy Joe Frazier, and the other gentleman is the mayor of White River, Mr. Joshua Austin.”
Voice recognition … Impressive security, Joshua thought.
“Please state your name, Mayor Austin,” the soldier said.
Joshua leaned toward BJ. “Joshua Austin,” he said.
“Thank you for your cooperation, gentlemen. You’re expected. Please follow the unit on your right. They’ll escort you to the reception area.”
BJ and Joshua looked right and saw a military Humvee. The Italian soldier pointed and motioned for them to follow. The check-in soldier then stepped back, stood at attention, and presented a sharp salute. BJ smiled, nodded, and followed their escort through the main gates.
“BJ, I feel like Daniel entering the lions’ den.”
“You think, sir?”
The Humvee stopped at a large building resembling an airplane hangar. BJ parked next to a shiny new police patrol car. Their escort peeled away back toward GEM-Tech’s main gate.
“Chief Farnsworth beat us out here, Mayor.”
“Mmm. Yes, and by the number of city administration vehicles, you’d think there’s a convention.”
Joshua and BJ got out and stood beside the patrol car. They adjusted their attire and then walked toward the building’s entrance. Two entryway guards opened the doors and snapped their heels to attention. The scene inside as they walked through stopped Joshua cold. US and foreign military personnel filled every seat in the arena-style area.
Joshua leaned in close to Billy Joe and whispered, “BJ, stay sharp. Listen and watch. This covert exercise really bothers me. You catch my meaning?”
Billy Joe nodded and walked away to join Chief Farnsworth and other law enforcement officers.
Joshua crossed the crowded stage toward the back row of chairs. He waved as he passed his hostile city council members clustered together, like chicks under a hen. None smiled, and only a few nodded, but their grim faces made plain their blatant indifference. He’d foreseen the council’s rebellion during his campaign. His anticipated changes in policies, ideas, and budget cuts rattled their pretentious world. The event looked ready to start as a US Army officer stood and walked to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?”
The audience settled.
“It’s with great privilege and honor that I introduce to you the commander of our joint exercise, General Mackenzie Phillips.”
Joshua gave a polite clap, but the audience applause around him erupted. General Phillips marched to center stage. He stood ramrod straight behind the podium, looking over his apparently captive audience, seeming to feed on the adulation. He raised his hands, settling the crowd.
“Brave soldiers, I welcome you to a new One World Alliance!”
Applause exploded again. The audience and guests on the stage jumped to their feet. Joshua remained seated. He tensed at hearing the words “One World.” After a few moments of hand-clapping praise, the crowd quieted and sat.
General Phillips continued. “I first want to thank GEM-Tech for their generous cooperation, support, and use of their facilities during Operation Chameleon.”
Phillips turned toward GEM-Tech officials and initiated the standing round of applause for their benefactor.
Still seated, Joshua realized that his refusal to stand hadn’t missed the sharp eye of General Phillips. Joshua saw the scowl on the general’s face and smiled at him. Phillips glared at Joshua, then stepped back to the podium.
“You who are assembled here are our first elite units, our One World vanguard against global terrorism. Chosen from around the world, you represent a One World joint military coalition along with global law enforcement. You are the first of many that will take part in a comprehensive terrorism training exercise.”
Joshua swallowed. He keeps repeating “One World”—and not without reason, he mused.
He looked to his left to find BJ. Their eyes met. Billy Joe nodded. He’d heard it too, and understood.
“At great personal sacrifice, you’ve all chosen to become part of a One World peace initiative. I applaud your decisions. Operation Chameleon will prepare you. I’ll now outline a few of our objectives that coincide with your detailed assignments.
“Operation Chameleon has three phases. The first phase has already begun, by introducing target communities to a new world order. Secure financial interactions within a cashless world economy with deployment of new methods in identity verification.
“Many of you have received your biometric chip implantation devices—CIDs for short—or our new OWN card, for One World Network. All transactions and interactions, including currency exchange rates, a
re in real-time and effortless. Your financial abilities and freedom will interchange with all global institutions, as if you were in your home country.
“The NGOs—the non-government officials—operating under UN Resolution 666-689, were our first boots on the ground. They’ve already begun to educate and aid White River businesses, banks, and residents with trial testing of a new cashless economy. The president is very interested in this phase of our exercise, so keep up the good work.”
Phillips paused for a milder round of applause, then continued.
“Phase two deals with networking databases, giving you instant access to local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies and your global counterparts, like Interpol and the World Court.
“Beyond that, you’ll receive further details from your field commanders on phase three when we approach that target date, but for now, I want to welcome all of you. Remember: terrorism can strike anywhere by anyone. Thank you.”
The audience leaped to their feet, applauding and chanting in unison, “One World!”
General Phillips waved and left the stage.
Joshua closed his eyes and bowed his head. Dear God, it’s begun.
“Well, well, our distinguished new mayor. We meet again, Mr. Austin.”
Joshua looked to his right and saw Ben Archer strutting toward him. The former mayor sported a new Armani suit, brandishing a long, unlit cigar between his stubby fingers. The fat-cheeked little man reeked of cigar smoke and bad cologne, with a hint of liquor on his breath.
“Mayor Archer. Good to see you again, sir.”
“Ex-mayor, Mr. Austin, no thanks to you, but that’s history. Time to move on, and I have, in spades. My current position is better than I’d hoped. It’s official. I’m one of those NGOs the general spoke about.”
Joshua felt his gut tighten, fully anticipating the arrogant little man’s next statement.
“During the exercise, you’ll report to me, Joshua. I’m the real power in White River. I’m your boss. Nothing takes place without my authorization. You and your council members will filter all decisions through my office. Do you understand?”
“Oh, I understand, Ben, more than you know. Now you understand me. I’m the elected mayor of White River, not you. Civil liberties and the Constitution aren’t suspended. Our nation isn’t under martial law. Neither the United Nations nor this pretense at military rule through Operation Chameleon has any legal jurisdiction over the citizens of White River. Now, you can tell that to your UN friends, the governor, president, or whomever you want.”
Ben smirked. He jabbed a stubby finger at Joshua. “Mayor Austin, we won’t tolerate insurrection. Abram will—”
Ben stopped short, apparently realizing he was crossing a line—and Joshua knew in that moment that Ben feared the man who’d set his boundaries.
“Abram, you say?” Joshua said. “Mmm, yes. Now I understand, Ben. It makes sense. Mr. Abram Solomon is pulling your strings—and the governor’s. I’ve met Abram, and you’d be wise to watch your back. He isn’t a man I would consider trustworthy. But … perhaps I should be speaking with him instead.”
“I’ll see you back in White River, Austin.”
“I’ll leave the light on for you, Ben. Have a nice day.”
Chapter 20
Dean’s return to Arkansas ended up having to wait. His workload kept him in New York City longer than anticipated. Before his first trek to Arkansas, he’d been working on three commentaries he’d investigated: immigration reform, government, and IRS abuse. All awaited publication. And all three needed a final revision with updated research. Glenn agreed that the unforeseen delay was necessary.
Three weeks evaporated like nothing, when finally on a Friday afternoon, Dean’s commentary pieces passed Glenn’s sharp editorial eye and were deemed ready to print. Eager to resume his White River assignment, Dean planned to stay cloistered all day Saturday and prepare for his Sunday trip to Arkansas.
Absorbed in thought at home now, Dean finished a third slice of supreme pizza and ambled aimlessly about his tenth-floor loft. While back in New York all this time, he’d wrestled with two strong unsettling attractions. The foremost was renewing the intriguing assignment in Arkansas. Then, there was that other thing, the one that confounded him the most: an unexpected, almost yearning attraction for Ann Taylor.
Before White River, he kept his journalism work all business and professional. His focus always remained the assignment, keeping his personal passions restrained. His number one rule had worked well: Don’t get involved, period—and when in doubt, refer back to rule number one.
Ann Taylor, though, had changed that rule and altered his perspectives. Keep it professional. Stay focused, Cohen, he’d chide himself again and again while at home or in his office. But, try as he might, self-denial wasn’t working.
By Saturday night, he’d finished packing, talked with Glenn, and gotten to bed early. His flight back to White River departed Sunday morning.
*
As the plane descended, Dean’s window view of Arkansas reminded him of his first impressions from his previous visit. The people and charm of the South had captivated him—a welcomed change from the fast hustle of New York.
He arrived in Little Rock well before lunch, so he’d already decided to spend the night near the airport and drive to White River at first light. After checking into a nearby hotel, he went to work opening his investigation with random local interviews. He first decided to speak with service personnel at the airport. If anyone would have the inside scoop on what might be developing in White River, people dealing with the public would know. By late afternoon, he’d spoken with police officers, baggage handlers, bartenders, and waitresses, but came up short every time.
No one, not even transit travelers, knew of anything out of the ordinary occurring north of Little Rock—that is, except for one lone cabdriver. The driver had overheard more than one passenger talking about a strange oddity that kept reappearing in White River. The driver, though, had ignored the ludicrous gossip, thinking it the acts of pranksters. Someone had apparently defaced White River welcome signs and other city-owned property—with graffiti written in blood. Dean made a note to check deeper into the allegation.
Monday morning at 6:00 a. m., rested and away from a desk, Dean felt energized to be back in his element. The hunt was on to locate and interview the mysterious Mr. Ian Taylor. He called Glenn at 7:00 a.m. with an update of his preliminary work while scarfing down a stack of buckwheat pancakes at a local mom-and- pop diner. Dean explained to Glenn that, except for that one peculiarity mentioned by the cabdriver, he’d not seen or heard any other suspicious chatter—nothing mentioned or reported on over the Internet, in local newspapers, or on local television stations.
Glenn’s voice betrayed his amazement upon hearing Dean’s revelations. He also found it hard to understand why those interviewed hadn’t heard about the strange military exercises in White River. It was as if a covert web of silence had swallowed up the small town, like a Machiavellian fog.
*
Dean hit the interstate driving north, following GPS directions to White River. The drive would take a little over an hour. Sally had prearranged his hotel reservations at the same hotel where he had stayed during his first visit.
He’d pre-entered general area directions on the GPS to Ian Taylor’s property location. The exact location, he decided not to worry about until later. After an hour on the road, he passed a road marker on his right: White River 15 miles. Dean topped a hill and steered out of a hard curve. The road began descending again into a long, flat stretch. A quarter-mile ahead, the traffic had slowed to a stop. The four-lane flow had narrowed to single lanes north and south.
He felt his pulse quicken. Ahead, military units had set up a roadblock. Two UN flags waved in the breeze, surrounded by armed vehicles and soldiers. Wide-eyed, Dean gripped the steering wheel and slowed to a stop to wait his turn while observing the unnerving sights.
Three vehicles a
head, soldiers aimed their weapons at two civilian men in a green pickup truck. A decal of a Confederate flag covered their rear window. The soldiers ordered the two beer-bellied bubbas to get out, with hands behind their head and then knees on the ground.
Biting his lip at the display of military force, Dean watched foreign nationals check both men’s IDs and then search their truck. The soldiers confiscated a rifle and released the irate men. Truck tires squealed as the men drove away. They extended their arms out their windows as they passed, giving the foreign soldiers a middle-finger salute.
Soon, the drivers of the two cars in front of Dean extended their right hands out their windows. A soldier scanned their hands with a handheld device. He saluted and waved them through without incident. The soldier then beckoned for Dean to pull forward.
He rolled his window down as two soldiers approached his car with weapons in hand. He wondered if there’d be a repeat of the green truck fiasco. Looking right, he saw a menacing armed vehicle with a machine gun turret. The man behind the gun had it pointed at him. He took note of the vehicles’ UN and US flags on its fenders.
“Your ID card, sir,” the soldier asked.
Dean noted the soldiers’ nationalities by their uniform patches, which displayed their country’s flag. One was German, the other British, and the machine gunner, American. Dean reached into his coat pocket for his wallet and handed his driver’s license to the British soldier.
“Open your trunk,” the German soldier said. “Any weapons in your car or on your person?”
Dean pushed a button that opened the rental car trunk and said, “You men are a long way from home. Why the muscle? Have I slept through an invasion?”
The British soldier scanned the driver’s license with his handheld device and gave it back.
“Mr. Cohen,” the Brit said, “you’ve presented a driver’s license. You’ll need to follow us and register at our command center. They’ll issue you a temporary ID while you’re in White River.”