by J W Brazier
*
The morning of September 11, 2019, Americans awoke to anger and outright hatred erupting on the morning TV and radio talk shows across the nation. So-called terrorist experts filled the airwaves, and their speaking fees doubled. The pseudo talking heads scrambled for guest airtime on radio and television, hawking poorly written hack-jobs of how-to survival books.
Conspiracy nutcases crawled out of their cesspools with opinions so outlandish they bordered on the insane. Far-left networks seized a golden opportunity to bombard family viewing hours with relentless scenarios and half-truths.
Secular progressive ideology focused blame on the Christian and Jewish communities. The real possibility of religious persecution was gaining ground. Evening news groups slanted their polling data to show support for the growing suspicion to outright hatred toward conservatives in general, Christians and Jews in particular.
Mainstream media, in united assaults, held staged town hall meetings to accentuate their twisted commentaries, further fueling the public’s anger. Progressive propagandists seeded doubt and whipped up public frenzy for a national one-two punch. They questioned the continued relevance of America’s Christian heritage in light of an emerging One World Alliance.
Editorial bylines and Internet bloggers, brazen in their content, advocated that the far right were the new faces of terrorism and a plague on humanity. In Congress, reelection hopefuls and government-institutionalized scoundrels joined the bandwagon, seizing an opportunity to exit their closets and hype their agendas for a proposed national ID.
UN Secretary-General Juan Carlos Hernandez convened an emergency session with the Security Council. He asked for immediate binding resolutions that allowed the International Criminal Courts system absolute authority to hunt down and punish any terrorist regardless of national sovereignty rights. Member heads nodded in agreement, including Ambassador Gordon Adderley.
*
Ian Taylor sat down with a plate of food ready for his morning news fix. Comfortable, stretched out in his cushioned recliner, an urgent breaking news bulletin interrupted his program. He stopped chewing his sausage and biscuit, aghast at what unfolded. Hideous images filled the TV screen with the devastation and carnage from the Ohio River explosions.
He bolted out of his recliner, his eyes wide, fixated on the horrible scenes. The commentator spewed his vile disdain for the terrorists’ actions. His vitriolic monolog implicated Christians, Jews, and conservatives in general as a religious cancer on America needing eradication.
“My God, it’s begun,” Ian whispered.
He pulled his necklace from under his shirt and stroked the attached amulet with his thumb. A thought ghosted through his mind, as if someone had spoken to him: “It’s time, Ian.”
He knew that voice from his experience in Palestine. His appointed time to act had arrived.
Ian turned off the TV and tossed the remote aside. He’d seen enough.
He looked up and stared at his liquor cabinet.
“The world is about to change. It’s been a long time coming.” He grinned. “It’s high time for my sorry soul to change.”
He turned away from the liquor for the first time, breaking his lifelong addiction.
Later, showered and dressed, Ian stepped out of his house onto the front porch to enjoy a moment of introspection. His focus: the small peaceful burial plot between the big oaks. With a renewed sense of commitment, he smiled and then walked toward Charles’s gravestone, thinking he was alone, but he wasn’t. Ian had company. The unseen visitor watched and listened.
“Well, Charles, the time we feared has come, my dear friend. If I had one wish, it would be that you were here with me. You rascal! You dragged me kicking and screaming into a way of life I avoided like the plague. Charles, I’m grateful for your thoughtfulness and dogged determination that pursued the salvation of my soul.”
Ian smiled, put his hat on, and then walked to his truck for his trip to White River.
Chapter 30
Seated at his desk early Wednesday morning, Ben snatched up his ringing cell phone.
“Ben Archer,” Ben said with a lit cigar still clamped between his teeth.
“Ben, Governor Clayton here.”
“Hello, Governor, good to hear from you. I hope you have good news for me.”
“Ben, old buddy, I hope you’re ready for our final phase?”
Puffing harder on his cigar, Ben smiled. “Yes, sir, my operatives are in position and ready.”
“Good. I figured on that. Ben, an FBI agent from their domestic terrorism task force will pay you a visit soon. His name is Jamal Rashid. You’re to work with him, Ben, so let that sink in. I don’t want any problems.”
“Well, okay. But who’s in charge: me or the Bureau?”
“The reins are in your hands, Ben, but Agent Rashid will share responsibilities and report to Washington and my task force in Little Rock. Now you boys try to get along. You read me, Ben?”
Ben heard Clayton, but he didn’t even care. He was in charge, not the FBI.
“I read you, Governor,” Ben finally said.
“Ben, even though you report to your UN bosses, you’ll report to me first. I have to give an account to Abram, so let’s stay on the same page.”
“No need to say more, Governor. I won’t let you down. You can count on me.”
“I’m counting on that, Ben. I’ll be in touch with you soon. Take care now.”
“Good-bye, Governor.”
Ben ended the call. He frowned. Yes, he was still in charge, but he felt uncomfortable working with an unexpected FBI agent.
Just then, Angela burst into his office yapping a mile a minute and pointing at Ben’s television.
“Ben! Quick, quick! Turn on the TV and listen to the news. Oh my word! Terrorists! Terrorists attacked three locks on the Ohio River and then some bombed a Muslim mosque in Israel!”
Without waiting for Ben to respond, Angela rushed to turn on the television set, but the screen appeared before she even flipped the switch. She turned. Ben sat there, grinning, with the TV remote control in his hand.
“Now, Angela, what in the world’s gotten into you, woman?”
“Shush! Listen!”
Ben watched as live images of horrific destruction in Israel filled the screen. Waves of people were running and screaming.
“Quick! Turn it up, Ben!”
He did so.
Burned and blood-soaked bodies lay among the rubble; others withered in pain. Stretcher carriers hauled off the dead and wounded. Piles of debris could be seen in every direction the camera panned.
“Oh my stars!” Angela whispered.
Ben looked over at her as she covered her mouth with a hand. Then he focused on the screen again and the beginning of a live on-site report.
“This is Henry Osgood with World News One, reporting live from Jerusalem. Behind me, another group of extremist terrorists have struck a deathblow. In this ancient city with a long history of premeditated violence, innocent civilians pay the deadly price.
“Preliminary reports indicate members of an extremist group of fundamentalist Christians from the United States are responsible. They call themselves the ‘Army of God.’ These terrorists attempted to blow up a Muslim holy site, the Dome of the Rock. They’ve inflicted considerable damage. This heinous attack appears linked with three other attacks by the same group in the United States earlier this morning. The extremists there destroyed three major locks and dams on the Ohio River, killing untold thousands as they slept.
“The death toll in Jerusalem is estimated at over three thousand Islamic civilians, thus far. A letter sent by the terrorists to major American networks indicates there will be more attacks worldwide.”
Ben pursed his lips, wondering how all this fit together. The camera then panned to show the horrific destruction and many people scurrying about. The screen zoomed in on an Arab man, his clothing tattered and smudged with dust and blood, wailing in grief while holding the lim
p body of a small child. A woman in the background screamed over her dead baby.
Ben shook his head. The scenes were horrible. Public reactions would be swift and vengeful toward Christians and Jews, labeling them all “terrorists,” he figured. Then an intriguing idea hit him. He wondered if the terrorist attacks were just coordinated luck … or Abram’s premeditated stroke of genius?
He clicked the TV off, and Angela whirled around to face him. He could see that her eyes were red, like she’d been crying.
“Oh my goodness, Ben! Those poor people! Oh my word! What do you think about all this?”
Ben cut his eyes at Angela. “I can tell you one thing: if you call yourself a Christian or Jew, it won’t mean anything but trouble from now on.”
“What? Ben, I thought you were a Christian.”
“No, Angela, I’m not, and the data on my chip implant says I’m not. By the way, what faith choice did you make?”
“I didn’t put down Christian. I said World Church Alliance. I’m not stupid.”
“Good. Then you don’t have anything to worry over.”
“What do you mean anyway about being a Christian?”
“Anyone who checked Christian will be tracked and questioned.”
“They can throw away their cards, Ben.”
“That won’t last long. We’re taking extra measures to, shall I say, enforce complete compliance.”
Angela cleared her throat, then paused. Finally, she said, “Ben, I don’t want to pry or anything, but what about your wife, Olivia?”
Ben slit his eyes at Angela. “What about the woman?”
“Well, will they bother me? I mean, you and I’ve been seeing each other and all. I mean, Olivia is a Christian. Won’t that implicate us somehow, by association?”
Ben understood what she meant. Angela took care of Angela, and that was the bottom line.
“Angela, you don’t have anything to worry about as long as you’re working for me. You understand what I’m saying?”
Angela nodded. “I understand, Ben.”
“Good. Now, let’s get busy. I have phone calls to make. See if you can locate the whereabouts of Mayor Austin.”
“Sure, Ben, and thanks for the heads-up. A girl has to know where she stands. You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure, Angela, I get it. Don’t you worry. We’ll talk more tonight. Right now, I’ve got to take care of business.”
Looking reassured, Angela smiled and winked, and left his office swinging her sensual hips in a provocative fashion, knowing Ben loved it. And Ben did enjoy the view, but his smile melted away into a contemptuous stare as the door closed.
*
Outside his office in the waiting area, Joshua clicked through television channels hoping for a fair and balanced news report on the Ohio River attacks, while Shelby sat behind her desk and looked on. He found none that didn’t sensationalize the death and destruction in vivid detail.
Commentators spewed their disdain. Government bureaucrats lambasted and politicized the disaster. They promised congressional investigations and quick retaliatory actions. Joshua turned the television off; he couldn’t stand listening to liars.
He walked past Shelby and into his office, thinking. He’d once worked on Ohio River towboats when he and Brenda first married, so he was familiar with those same locks and dams.
“Phase three,” he whispered.
He walked to the large window behind his desk. Street activity looked busier than usual. UN patrols had definitely increased. He thought of the shouting match he’d had with General Phillips on the phone less than an hour ago. He’d admonished the general that a terrorist act on the Ohio River didn’t justify unlawful detainment of White River citizens. From what he was seeing, it appeared he’d lost the argument.
Could these just be coordinated random acts of terror by deranged zealots … or is it something more? Joshua looked down at the street. Could it be they’d planned all along for phase three to be a terrorist act? He just couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Why kill thousands?
Joshua went back out into the waiting area and sat down again. He picked up the remote and turned toward Shelby.
“I’ve got about ten minutes before my next appointment, Shelby. Shall we try again?
She frowned. “It’s hard to watch, but yes, it’s important to know what’s going on.”
Joshua clicked the television on, hoping once again to hear sane and balanced reporting.
But nothing had changed. Scene after horrible scene flashed across the TV screen. News groups showed no mercy in their editing. Film footage focused on the charred bodies of men, women, and children—a few covered, others lying on the ground near the destroyed locks, smoldering.
Vivid, grotesque imagery was journalistic sensationalism at its worst in Joshua’s mind. News media left the viewers no doubt as to their twisted analogies. One anchor in a shameless diatribe phrased his text for the highest impact: “Your neighborhood church could house the next terrorist.”
The telephone rang, startling Shelby so much that she nearly jumped out of her seat. She stood and started to reach for the phone, but Joshua looked at the caller ID, then smiled and raised his hand.
“I got it, Shelby.”
She smiled and he ran into his office.
“Hello, Ben,” Joshua said. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, well, Mr. Mayor. I’m debating on whether to be surprised or angered. I hope I’m not that predictable.”
“Ben, I don’t have time for this nonsense. Just state your business. I’m busy.”
“Temper, temper, Joshua! I’d hoped you would embrace me as one of your allies. Think of me as your calm port from the stormy sea of controversy … since your so-called Christian brethren murdered thousands.”
Joshua rolled his eyes. “Ben, that’s a warped assertion. Not everyone will lump people of faith in with those lunatics.”
“You can’t be sure of that, Joshua, now can you?”
Ben had a point. Joshua wasn’t sure.
“Again, Ben, please just state your business.”
“I’ve scheduled a meeting in my office on Friday at 10:00 a.m. sharp. I’ll go over our final phase of operations in White River. I want you there. Oh, and another thing, it’s about your little cowboy standoff with the UN soldier in the park. My meeting won’t be a repeat of your OK Corral grandstanding, I promise you. You’ll take orders from me. I’m the one in charge.”
Joshua knew that reacting in anger was useless on someone like Archer. “Okay, I’ll be there Friday. Was there anything else?” he said, as calm as he could manage.
“No, Mayor. Guess I’ll see you then.”
Joshua slammed the phone down.
There’s got to be another way around the communication blocks to let the world know what’s going on here, he thought. And then an idea struck him.
“Senator McRamsey!” he whispered.
That’s it! Jeremiah could help blow the whistle on Operation Chameleon. He sighed. I need some fresh air.
He pushed away from his desk and left his office thumbing through the contacts list on his cell phone. Without looking up, he spoke to Shelby as he walked past her desk.
“Miss Shelby, reschedule my appointments, please. I’ll be back in a while. I’m going for a walk.”
*
For the better part of his hectic day, Joshua made and received a flurry of calls. He felt confident his phone call to Senator McRamsey would pay off with forthcoming help. The senator was astounded at hearing the extent of Operation Chameleon’s intrusions, and those involved—the governor in particular.
Shelby knocked and stepped inside Joshua’s office. He didn’t look up, but kept writing in his notepad.
“I hope it’s not another complaint, Shelby. I’m up to my eyeballs with them now.”
“No, sir, but when you’re done with those, I’ve more on my desk. Anyway, your new chief of police, Mr. Jefferson, and an FBI agent are here to see you.
He says, I mean, they say it’s important.”
Joshua stopped writing, looked up, and smiled. “Send them in, Shelby.”
Tom Jefferson entered first, followed by a tall, slender, dark-haired man who looked to be of Middle Eastern decent. Joshua stood and came around his desk to greet his new police chief and guest.
“Hey, Tom, I had you on my mind and was about to call you. Fancy that.”
Tom grinned and shook Joshua’s hand. “Mr. Mayor, may I introduce Agent Jamal Rashid with the FBI’s domestic terrorism task force. I apologize for barging in without an appointment.”
“No problem, Tom. My door’s always open. You know that.”
Joshua understood the formal way Tom used “Mr. Mayor.” Tom’s attention to protocol was his way of saying, “Be careful.”
Joshua reached out and shook the agent’s hand. “Mr. Rashid, Joshua Austin. Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand, Mayor Austin.”
Joshua nodded and leaned back on the corner of his desk and folded his arms. “Very well, Mr. Rashid. How may I help the FBI in White River?”
Joshua glanced at his new police chief, the first ever black man to hold that title in White River’s history. Tom’s tight facial expression showed that he was in a tight spot.
“Mayor Austin,” Tom said, “the agent and I have a few questions about a riverboat captain named Jack Cook. Does that name mean anything to you, sir?”
Joshua guessed Tom’s implied question meant someone in FBI research had discovered he’d worked on riverboats.
“Jack Cook?” Joshua searched his memory. “I’m sorry, guys, the name escapes me. I may have met him, though, back in the day. Why do you ask? What’s this about?”
Agent Rashid opened his small pocket notepad and looked down at it. “Mayor Austin, you once worked on riverboats.”
“Correct, as a chief engineer, but I stopped renewing my Coast Guard license years ago.”
Wait a minute! Jack Cook … riverboats … the terrorist attacks … He’s fishing for an association.
“Mayor Austin, it’s said you’re a man of strong religious and conservative convictions.” Agent Rashid referred to his notepad again. “‘You walk your talk’ is how some put it. And your speeches and written opinions draw a hard line against government intrusions, which sets you far apart from mainstream America.”