by J W Brazier
Roger Pauley was the self-acclaimed lead reporter for Channel 13 Eyewitness News and a quintessential far-left liberal. Dean knocked at the opened doorway. Roger had his feet propped on his desk, chewing the last of his lunch.
“Mr. Pauley, I presume.”
Roger peeked over the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as Dean stepped inside the office.
“You presume correctly, Mister…?”
Dean extended his hand. “Dean Cohen, reporter with Global News Daily.”
Roger dropped his feet to the floor and grasped Dean’s hand, but remained seated.
“Well, Mr. Cohen, what brings a New York journalist to White River?”
Roger, then, was aware of the reputable magazine, Dean noted as he took a seat in front of the desk.
“My editor sent me to do an interview. Since then, White River’s terrorist training exercise presented another opportunity. It’s not every day that US and UN army brigades, foreign police, and UN NGOs encamp on American soil like an occupied territory. You don’t often see a cashless system implemented with cards and chip implants issued overnight. This exercise, from my brief perspective, is a big event. I thought it odd when I arrived that none of the big-name media groups were covering this story. You’d think an event involving UN troops would arouse somebody’s curiosity. I’m thinking it’s a government under-the-table exercise, with a bigger agenda in mind.”
Roger gave a little shrug and said, “And your point is?”
“My editor heard about the cashless system experiment, but wanted me to experience it, as if from a local native’s viewpoint. All I can say is, wow, have I had an experience. News of that caliber can’t stay local … unless it has help from telecoms, high-level government officials, and major media moguls.”
Roger toyed with his glasses. “So what business do we exactly have here, because I’m busy, okay?”
“Your commentaries support this UN involvement on American soil, while your mayor’s statements oppose.”
Roger scoffed. “Since you’ve read my opinions, Mr. Cohen, you know where I stand. I’m not sure how I could help you further.”
“Well, from what I’ve gathered so far, your mayor and his supporters appear the only voices clanging the alarm bells, but no one seems to be listening.”
“Look,” Roger said, “like I said, I’m busy. I have a press conference at two o’clock—and the mayor will be there. So I really need to prepare my notes and be going.”
“Of course. I just—”
Roger raised a hand. “Mr. Cohen, the people of White River and the surrounding areas are plain country folk—a mixture of farmers, ranchers, and low-income labor types. They bargain-shop at cheap discount stores. They believe what we tell them on TV and radio. We craft the news in simpleton terms that our listeners can digest. They trust our judgment and respect our truth. Our audience doesn’t make much of a fuss over all this UN stuff. I believe we’ve earned the public’s trust.
“So … you can tell your editor that White River’s military exercise is a ‘much ado about nothing’ story. A simple joint-training exercise against terrorism. The cashless system isn’t a big deal. It’s what it is: another non-story, like an introduction to a new credit card system.” Roger leaned forward and looked at Dean over his glasses. “And I’d be careful, Mr. Cohen. Stay here long enough and you’ll sound like one of those religious conspiracy quacks.”
Dean restrained his rising temper, but still felt like slapping that high-and-mighty smirk off Roger’s face.
“Mr. Pauley, I visited White River before the multinational terrorist training began. Christians and conservatives weren’t targeted then, but now appear as prospective terrorists, while UN directives appear accepted as law. Your ex-mayor burst into a church at gunpoint, demanding the names of the congregation. His reason? The pastor refused to go along with UN and ICC directives. The city is under strict curfews. Foreign police and military are arresting and detaining Americans for questioning. They’ve placed Christians and Jews in a so-called detainment facility on GEM-Tech property that resembles a Nazi concentration camp.
“Oh, and a cashless system is a big deal, Mr. Pauley. It involves the IMF and the US Treasury Department. Cash, checks, debit cards, credit cards … They aren’t banned anywhere else in America, but for White River. You need the OWN ID card or chip implant to do business or to get in or out of White River. That’s big.
“And here’s another issue your TV reporting and written opinions have neglected. A biblical word appears written in blood in more than one place in town, over several days. Now, you tell me if that isn’t clanging alarm bells. Or maybe I’m deaf and blind, or maybe it’s just the state and local journalists.”
Roger shifted in his chair. “I don’t know how you got past my secretary, Mr. Cohen. But if you want to continue our little roundtable here and have an official interview, I suggest you make an appointment. Now, excuse me, I have to prepare for my two o’clock engagement.”
Dean smiled and rose from his seat. “Mr. Pauley, my apologies if I’ve disturbed you. I thought that, among professionals, this wouldn’t have to be so official. Thank you for your time. Your response has answered my questions.” Dean started to leave, then turned back to face Roger. “I’ll be sure to mention your station in my article. You see, my editor arranged this short time with you through the owner, who, by the way, gave me permission to come here—in spite of whatever government blackout blanket has been placed over all media reporting in this area. Good day, Mr. Pauley.”
*
Dean returned to his hotel room and rang Glenn Boyd’s private number from the phone in his room. It was time to call in the troops. Glenn himself needed to see and experience White River firsthand. He lived for any opportunity to get out of the office, and White River was just the primetime event to draw his boss out of New York.
“Please be there, boss,” Dean muttered as the phone rang.
“Boyd,” the terse, all-business voice answered on the fourth ring.
“Hey, boss, it’s Dean. Glad I caught you. I know it’s short notice, but I’ve discovered that great fishing and getaway spot we discussed.”
“Talk on, buddy.”
“The spot is incredible. You should rearrange your schedule and join me, so what do you think?”
They both waited for the faint sound they’d expected: Click. Another line had joined theirs.
“Dean, you old river rat,” Glenn said. “I hope it’s not another wild goose chase for that perfect rainbow trout. You’ve led me around on wild fishing trips before—three, I remember.”
Dean laughed. “Boss, trust me on this one. This spot is a winner. Now what do you say?”
“Okay, sounds like a plan. I’ll see you in a couple of days. I know where you are by your flamboyant expense account, which, by the way, I need to talk to you about when I see you, old buddy.”
“Ah, yeah, I figured as much. Anyway, hurry down here. I’ll expect you soon.”
“Don’t press it, Cohen.”
“Ah, yeah, sure, boss. I’ll see you soon.”
Dean knew that their devised code had given Glenn all the info he needed: it was urgent, and Dean needed help.
It was close to two o’clock, Dean noticed. He put on his suit jacket, straightened his necktie, and checked his appearance in the mirror. A thumbs-up: he was ready for the press conference.
Inside the hotel elevator, he mulled the facts of his interview with Roger Pauley. Roger had bragged White River received what they needed in news—his way. Roger’s an arrogant piece of work, a product of political correctness on steroids. I wonder if his boss—or the owner—feels the same, he mused.
Dean stepped out of the elevator and checked his watch. He was early. Halfway to the main lobby, Dean saw five black suits converging in military quickstep toward him. The menacing entourage’s behavior looked odd. Four were large men, and the smaller one in the center must be the leader, he guessed.
Oh, h
ere we go. From Ann’s description, those men might be the same GEM-Tech goons that paid her a visit.
The four large men surrounded him when Dean stopped. He felt the adrenaline rush accelerate his pulse. Without thinking, he positioned his body, hoping his defensive posture wasn’t obvious. Their blatant show of muscle wasn’t a social call, he knew. The men looked like dangerous mercenaries who made their own rules.
The leaner fifth man with a sardonic grin sauntered closer and removed his sunglasses, looking confident in his total control. His men had pinned their quarry.
“Mr. Cohen?” The man extended his hand. “John Hirsch, Mr. Cohen. Head of GEM-Tech security.”
Dean grasped Mr. Hirsch’s hand, thinking how spot-on Ann had described Hirsch. He certainly looked the part of an evil slimeball.
“Ah, yes, the infamous Mr. Hirsch. The man who bullies women. I’ve heard of you, and it’s all bad. Sorry I can’t stay and get acquainted. I’m headed to an important press conference, and I don’t want to be late.”
Dean started to move, but felt the hand of the burly man at his front slam into his chest like a brick. He reacted on instinct, grabbing the man’s thick club wrist and thumb, and then twisting hard. The large man groaned and grimaced in pain. Then the big man collapsed to his knees when Dean applied more pressure to the thumb and wrist. He’d isolated one threat and prepared to react further with his feet as the others started to close. John Hirsch, though, raised his hand to stop any counteractions by his men.
“Please, Mr. Cohen, I’m not here for a free-for-all in the hotel lobby. Would you step over to the reception area? I’d like to speak with you in private.” Hirsch pointed to a secluded corner.
Dean released his vise hold on the big man and stepped back. “Mr. Hirsch, I have no patience with heavy-handed tough guys. If you ever want to speak with me again, I suggest you rethink your tactics.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cohen. My apologies for my men’s behavior.”
“I’ll allow you two minutes, Mr. Hirsch, so be quick.”
“Your acquaintance with Miss Ann Taylor has brought you to our attention, Mr. Cohen. She has in her possession valuable documents that don’t belong to her. We want them back.”
Bingo. Just as I thought. Mr. Hirsch has added me to his list of targets, Dean thought.
“Mr. Hirsch, I’m a reporter, not a detective, and have no knowledge of what you’re referring to. I would suggest that you go to the proper authorities and file a complaint. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He started to leave, but now Hirsch himself stepped in his way.
“Now, you listen and listen well, Jew boy,” Hirsch said. “You two characters are trying my patience with your games. Her mother tried … and failed. A mysterious death—you get my drift. Next time, I won’t play nice. You and Miss Taylor give me what I want or you and your newfound playmate will not like the consequences. Are we clear?”
His threats directed at Ann upset Dean; his innuendo about her mother’s death was offensive; but the “Jew boy” remark infuriated him. Fists clenched, Dean started to haul back to punch him, but then reconsidered. His options were few and the outcome questionable. He relaxed, exhaled, and smiled.
“I’m late, Mr. Hirsch. Conversation over. Good day, sir.”
Hirsch’s face turned red, his eyes glaring, jaw tight. Dean brushed past his shoulder. As Dean exited the hotel, he turned to see Hirsch slap on his sunglasses and storm back toward the lobby with his goons.
*
Dean parked his car and crossed Main Street toward White River’s new four-story municipal building to attend the press conference. As he climbed the steps toward the front entrance, he noticed that military security had added a new screening device. What now? he wondered. The device looked like the OWN card machine but without the booth and door.
“Please walk through the portals, Mr. Cohen,” said a soldier with a French accent.
Dean stopped. “Wait, how did you know my name? You haven’t checked my ID yet.”
“When OWN card holders are within range, their information is made available.”
“So what’s the range?”
“That’s classified, sir. Step past the uprights and pause inside, please.”
“I’ll endure a degrading pat-down, but I don’t want to be irradiated.”
“New technology, Mr. Cohen: no radiation or pat-downs. This device expedites pedestrian traffic over handheld scanners. Please proceed.”
Dean sighed and obeyed. Red and green beams bathed him from head to toe as he walked past the uprights and then paused on the other side.
“Thank you, Mr. Cohen, for your cooperation.”
“That was fast. May I ask what this machine checks for?”
“Implants, weapons, explosives … It’s procedure, sir—not to worry.”
“Wow, they need this in New York at JFK.”
The UN soldier grinned. “It’s coming soon, Mr. Cohen. Have a nice day.”
Dean looked at his watch; he was still twenty minutes early. An array of historical pictures lined the corridor walls, he noticed, as he followed blue markers pointing out the direction of the pressroom. The city’s photographic past stood in stark contrast to a present secular-progressive White River under military siege.
A photo of the city’s new earth goddess statue shared space with a disturbing faceless friend. He silently read the granite statue’s chiseled caption: “To the Unknown Gods and Goddesses, we salute you.”
*
Once inside the pressroom, Dean picked his seat in the very back row and finished up some earlier notes. The pressroom had already started to fill, but no surprise that Channel 13 News had the only TV camera. Stage decorations caught Dean’s attention. The UN and European Union colors hung on staffs of prominence, but the American flag … missing.
Aides to General Phillips chatted with what Dean guessed were UN officials. Roger Pauley and other reporters interviewed UN NGOs, Ms. Gonzales among them. City and state bureaucrats, always in perpetual campaign mode, pumped hands and smiled for photo ops.
A gleeful Ben Archer arrived and made his rounds among the UN reps like a Washington lobbyist. The auditorium noise soon diminished as a UN military officer marched to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my great privilege to introduce General Mackenzie Phillips.”
A standing ovation erupted.
Dean strained to find Joshua in the crowd, and then saw him enter from stage left. He walked to center stage, carrying an American flag and stand. Agonizing moments passed as he rearranged the flags, placing the US flag center stage.
Dean watched as Joshua waved at a steaming General Phillips before taking a seat. Whispers and chuckles rippled through the audience. Joshua was late, but his flag planting, although humiliating for officials, made a bold statement they wouldn’t forget. Dean tried to suppress his own laughter.
Joshua certainly doesn’t cower to pompous arrogance, he mused.
Still red-faced, General Phillips recovered and faced the audience with a politician’s plaster smile. He raised his hand to silence the crowd.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I promise to be brief. I want to allow time for your questions, and no doubt, you have many.”
Many in the audience chuckled.
“I’d first like to take a moment to mention a few of the many dedicated individuals that have contributed to our joint operations in White River. My allotted time prohibits mentioning them all, so please forgive me. Their commitments made our venture with the United Nations a success. My deepest appreciations are for Governor Jim Clayton, who due to scheduling wasn’t able to attend today. But please welcome former mayor Mr. Ben Archer, now an NGO with the UN … and White River’s city council … and the UN NGO representatives to my right.”
General Phillips gestured with his left hand to acknowledge their seating section.
“Your tireless efforts and liaisons are an incalculable help in our operations. A special appreciation to our ded
icated men and women of our various UN and US military branches and global law enforcement agencies. Thank you all.”
As the audience again applauded, Dean noted that the general’s attaboy praises excluded Joshua.
“Now,” Phillips said, “I’ll take a few questions and then allow Mayor Austin time to follow up with any further information.”
A hand down in front went up, and then Dean saw his newest friend rise.
“General, Roger Pauley of Channel 13 Eyewitness News.”
Phillips smiled and pointed toward Roger.
“Sir,” Roger said, “you earlier mentioned various phases of Operation Chameleon. Would you describe again their purpose, and are there more to come?”
Dean sighed and thought, The general knows his politics. He’s copying the president’s typical partisan strategies: prearrange a question and select a target individual to present them.
“Excellent question, Roger. In order to combat worldwide terrorism, considerable planning and preparation went into the design of every phase. Contrary to the ludicrous conspiracy theories by religious fanatics, training a global task force is our explicit goal in White River. This town met our criteria because of its diverse and challenging terrains, similar to those we’d find in other countries. Logistical costs and public disruptions also required a rural population. So, Roger, we couldn’t have conducted Operation Chameleon in, say, New York City.”
The audience laughed. Dean, though, saw no humor in the United Nations being given free rein on American soil, anywhere, for any reason.
Phillips cleared his throat and went on. “We’ve introduced new training scenarios along with radical military and financial technologies not yet available to a global community. In so doing, as with any training exercise, you learn to adapt. What we’ve learned will enhance global anti-terrorist training. We’ve established a foundation for future global operations, and will soon produce a user’s manual per se, or training aid.