The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  Joshua said nothing, wanting to see where the agent would take all this.

  “I’ll ask you again, sir,” Rashid said. “What was your involvement with Jack Cook? Our information indicates you worked with him on several occasions on the Ohio River during your active license period.”

  Joshua thought for a moment. Cotton? Maybe that’s the guy.

  “I honestly don’t know about a Jack Cook, but maybe you’re talking about Cotton, or Slim Jim, or Arkansas Jim. Those were his nicknames. A tall guy, about six-one or -two, blond, almost white hair, and a pockmarked face. The crew called him many things. All were unpleasant, as I recall.”

  Agent Rashid checked his notes and nodded. “Yes, those are Jack Cook’s aliases.”

  “Yes, well, Cotton was an independent trip pilot when I knew him,” Joshua said. “The few times we worked together, years ago mind you, he was a little—no, an extreme religious and environmental fanatic, and self-proclaimed preacher. He bragged how his church followers would dig escape tunnels and stock bunkers, and had buried black-market military ordnance in their backyards. Cotton held to warped perceptions of the world. I think he was missing a few critical brain cells.”

  Rashid only nodded.

  Joshua assumed the agent’s visit wasn’t a social call, but a fishing expedition to link him with the suspect terrorist.

  “Now, Agent Rashid,” Joshua said, “you started out making an overt remark pointing out my political and religious views. Your posturing is offensive. Has the FBI, or maybe it’s you, classified and categorized me as religious and a possible dangerous terrorist?”

  Agent Rashid’s eyes glared at Joshua. “Christian radicals, Mayor Austin, struck a deadly blow against the American people.”

  “Agent Rashid, Muslim radicals are doing the same things. You don’t throw out the baby with the dirty bath water. I’ve made no derogatory remarks about your political or religious beliefs. Yet you come into my office with preconceived notions, suspecting me of terrorist affiliations. You’re correct, I am a Christian, and I respect the FBI’s work in domestic terrorism. Your tasks are difficult enough on their best days, but it’s ludicrous to lump people’s religious preferences in with terrorists. Intimidation tactics from government agencies roll off me like water off a duck’s back. Now, either arrest me, or get out of my office. Good day, sir.”

  Agent Rashid stared at Joshua, but said nothing, then he whirled about and walked out of the office alone.

  Tom stepped forward, nodded his head at Joshua, and grinned a smile that said, I agree with you, then followed after Agent Rashid.

  Shelby burst into Joshua’s office, rushing past Tom and Agent Rashid. “Joshua, there’s this rather large—No, I mean, yes, a tall man at my desk. He said—”

  Before Shelby could finish, a giant of a man filled the door frame of Joshua’s office.

  Joshua had already had about enough. “And you are, sir? Your business had better be earth shattering; otherwise, make a proper appointment, please.”

  Joshua didn’t wait for an answer, but turned his back and walked around his desk.

  “You’ve wondered many times why Operation Chameleon came to White River,” the man said. “You’ve listened to certain tapes making bold proclamations. It’s time to hear the rest of the story. I’m sent to answer both of those questions.”

  Joshua stopped midstride and turned to face the man. “Sent? Sent by whom?”

  “A rather distinct man who said he drove you to a meeting in Heber Springs. I think you know the rest.”

  Joshua felt the blood in his face drain away. Shelby looked at him, clearly concerned.

  “Joshua! Should I call … you know, Tom, back to the office?”

  Joshua swallowed. Brenda had been the only person he’d told about his mysterious driver to Heber Springs.

  He gave a quick shake of his head to Shelby and walked toward the man, speaking as he went.

  “You’re Ian Taylor, aren’t you?”

  Ian smiled. “Yes, that would be me.”

  Joshua stared at Ian. He didn’t look at Shelby when he said, “Hold all my calls, Miss Shelby. I have urgent business with Mr. Taylor.” He turned back to Ian. “Mr. Taylor, would you like something to drink?”

  Ian turned back toward the door, and Joshua realized Shelby was still standing there.

  “Oh, I can take it from here, Miss Shelby, thank you,” Joshua said.

  Shelby smiled and walked out.

  “Ian,” Joshua said. “Wait, may I call you ‘Ian’?”

  “Yes, you may, and make that drink a coffee with cream?”

  Joshua smiled and walked to his coffeepot to pour two cups. “Ian, please take a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Chapter 31

  Unaffected by the stacks of unfiled folders in the floor next to her desk, Angela Newberry polished her fingernails—a job she’d perfected over time while in Ben Archer’s employ. Her bored look now, though, was for show. Angela actually was polishing her nails while toying with ideas, planning her escape from what she’d referred to as “poo-dunk” White River, something she’d started thinking about of late. She needed money for her escape and a little more time to prepare. The timing for her exit was crucial.

  When a new idea would drift past and coalesce, she’d pause, scribble it down, giggle, and continue manicuring her long fingernails. She sensed her gravy train with Ben ending. He’d already lost his job as mayor, and his new NGO job would soon disappear.

  Time to move on for greener pastures, she mused.

  She folded her paper list of getaway ideas and stuffed it into her purse just as the interoffice telephone rang.

  “Yes, Ben?” Angela nearly snapped, aggravated at his interruption.

  “Angela, get a hold of Farnsworth and tell him to call me on my private line!”

  The front door opened then, and Angela laughed. “No need, Ben. He’s walking through the door as I speak.”

  George Farnsworth marched up to her desk, decked out in his new solid-black uniform. The UN armband made him look like a fresh gestapo cadet.

  “Well, dang it, Angela! Tell him to get in here!” Ben shouted, loud enough that she could hear it through his door as well.

  “Okay, Ben! Geez, we can hear you.”

  Angela slammed the phone down and then looked up at Farnsworth.

  “Well, hello, Chief—I mean, Mr. Farnsworth.” She looked him up and down. “I love a man in uniform. Mr. Archer is waiting for you. Go right in,” Angela said with a playful giggle, a sensual wink, and a drawn-out tongue lick of her Botox-inflated lips.

  Farnsworth ignored Angela’s antics. Angela knew that he detested her, and he just shuffled his bulky frame past her desk with a look of exasperated contempt. Angela saw the look and rolled her eyes after he’d passed her desk.

  “Hello, Miss Newberry. Good morning, Miss Newberry,” Angela mocked. “Good-bye, jerk!”

  Angela resumed filing her nails. Whatever!

  *

  Farnsworth entered Ben’s office, wading through a thick cloud of smoke.

  “George, talk to me! I need to know the public’s reaction to our final phase of this operation. What are folks saying on the streets?”

  Farnsworth deposited his bulk into a chair in front of Ben’s desk and said, “Well, sir, from what I’m hearing around town, the people’s anger toward politically conservative Christians is growing. Their focus is on Mayor Austin.”

  Ben couldn’t help but smile. “And how strong is that anger?”

  “Let’s just say very strong. My brother-in-law Edgar—You know him, Ben. Austin closed down two of his profitable honkytonks outside of town. Anyway, he told me he’s got men who’d take care of our problem real fast, if you catch my drift.”

  “Really? Edgar said that?”

  Farnsworth gave a slow nod. “Yep, and he’s got like-minded friends ready and willing, for a price of course. The mayor’s made a lot of enemies in his ‘Clean Up White River Campaign.’”r />
  “Good, good. That’s what I was counting on. So tell me more. What’s the public’s reaction over these Christian terrorist attacks?”

  “Well, the Muslims are lying low, but still milking public sentiment, claiming they are the martyrs. The Church of Satan over on College Street and those New Age followers of Gaia are having a field day. They’re shouting ‘Told you so’ loud and long.”

  “What about the mandatory gun registrations?” Ben asked, curious but hopeful.

  Farnsworth shrugged. “Eh … Mixed emotions when it came to confiscations because of the Christian terrorist attacks, but those attitudes may change.”

  Ben stroked his chin. “Not hard to figure there. I counted on that, but restricting their OWN card motivated them to change their attitudes, I suspect.”

  “Correct, and when martial law took effect, the number of our confiscations increased, even the unregistered weapons.”

  “You mean those good ol’ boys didn’t complain?”

  “No, sir. I figured those farm cowboys would be the first ones to give us a hard time. I’m amazed myself. Oh, here’s something you may already know: the mayor filed a lawsuit for violating the people’s Second Amendment rights.”

  Ben sneered and shook his head. “Yes, I heard. It won’t do him any good. The president signed an executive order this morning. He claimed national security breaches because of the Christian terrorist attacks and their serious effect on the country’s power grid.”

  “Seriously? How can he bypass Congress like that without raising a ruckus?”

  “Well, for one, media executives are in his pocket; he controls them. The White House is trying to keep a tight lid on our activities as long as they can. So the public is quiet for now. By the time those old scallywags in Congress get wind of Operation Chameleon and get off their well-padded backsides to intervene, it’ll be too late. Martial law will be in place. I’m sure they’ll turn on him quicker than a rabid dog. They’ll blow a lot of partisan hot air for the cameras making the talk show rounds, but they’ll do nothing.”

  “Sounds too easy, Ben.”

  “I know, and you’re right. Imposing martial law nationwide is serious business. The president might be on his way out the door, meaning impeachment. There’s one thing conservatives are forgetting, though: he’s got powerful supporters championing our same agendas. Unless the news gets out too quickly, he might be able to pull it off and be reelected a third time if he doesn’t steal the election anyway.”

  “Ben, conservatives are fighting mad and got behind their Republican candidate. Their party pick is like Austin: a troublemaker quoting the Constitution from memory.”

  “Patience, George. Any conservative backlash is like bugs on a windshield, just like Austin and the Tea Party types. Hang in there. Our time is coming.”

  “Uh, Ben, can this president really suspend our Constitution just by an executive order of martial law?”

  “He’s the president, and, yes, that’s what it means. Under the current regulations, even FEMA can do it in a national emergency. The bright side of Operation Chameleon, it pre-sets the tone, if you will, at least here in White River.”

  “How so, Ben?”

  “People are getting used to our one-world framework. The ID security … added monetary incentives … price of goods and services in White River has declined and stabilized … The people are warm and fuzzy with the One World Alliance idea.”

  Ben waited while George processed everything. Farnsworth was smart and excellent at following someone else’s orders, but slow to grasp politics.

  “Ben,” he finally said, “back to the other thing we talked about a long time ago?”

  Ben smiled, remembering their plans discussed over a few drinks at Miss Kitty’s Bar. “Do you still have those guys on a tight leash, George?”

  “Oh yeah. Like I said, Edgar and his friends are fired up and more than ready to go.”

  “Good. Maybe it’s time to let them out of their cages. Don’t you think?”

  “Maybe so, Ben, but what about those security guys I see with Austin every so often.”

  “What security?”

  “Well, old Edgar had a dead aim bead on Austin one morning at his ranch. Edgar wanted blood after Joshua had his clubs closed. He said Austin’s security spotted him and were on him before he knew what happened. They didn’t hurt him or have him arrested, but he got their message loud and clear.”

  Ben shook his head, having no idea what Farnsworth was talking about. “I’ve never heard anything about security.”

  “Well, they’re big guys, Ben, at least six-four or taller. You couldn’t have missed them. I spotted them with his family on several occasions and talked to one of them before I came over here with you. He talked to me, like … well, like he knew me.”

  “What? What did he say? Did he mention my name or threaten me?”

  “No, no, your name didn’t come up, nothing like that. And he was rather nice. He smiled and said that I still have time to make a choice, but that I was on the wrong side. I figured he was warning me—you know, like ‘Lay off the mayor.’”

  “Odd. Very odd. Well … keep an eye out for his security, then. I have a plan. You and I’ll be the only two who know about it. And now is our best opportunity to make our move. We may not get a second chance. Are you ready?”

  “Sure. Let’s do it, Ben.”

  “Good, good. Now call in those men of yours. It’s time to take off their leash.”

  *

  At 9:00 a.m., Dean knew that Glenn would be a no-show for breakfast. Tired of waiting and irritated by the delay, Dean finished his Western omelet and left the restaurant for the hotel lobby. He guessed Glenn was returning phone calls and messages and just forgot.

  What happened to, “Be here early, Cohen! I want to get an early start”?

  He picked up a morning paper, and found a corner spot in the lobby to read local and national news updates. Days had passed since the attacks, but disturbing color photos of the terrorist attacks continued to fill the pages with aftermath scenes of destruction and carnage. Every exaggerated story byline started and ended negatively. Hack writers, Dean noted, were blatant in their disdain, their words sounding like supermarket tabloids. Each story focused on elevating the public’s scorn, pointing fingers in general at Christians, Jews, and right-wing Tea Party types.

  As Dean read on, reports stated how the nation’s power distribution was still in havoc. The Department of Energy, FEMA, and Homeland Security had coupled Newark’s coal and Russellville’s nuclear power plants into the national grid.

  White River itself had initiated its own emergency power-consumption plans, curtailing unnecessary city and county usage. Residences faced periods of total blackouts, something he’d already experienced while in the middle of a shower.

  With a flat sigh, Dean tossed the paper aside. He ambled over to the lobby’s guest concessions to fix a third coffee before he went outside for some fresh air. The activity on the highways looked busy, with random military vehicles and convoy strings loaded with personnel and equipment. Operation Chameleon appeared as if it were in the throes of a major change.

  The influx of military activity brought to mind what Dean had overheard at breakfast. Customers had vented their pent-up frustrations over the recent weapons registration within the city limits. They’d grumbled that it wasn’t unreasonable, but for others, the house-to-house confiscation of all weapons had ignited tempers.

  Lobby doors slid open behind Dean, and he turned around to see his smiling boss. He wondered if Glenn had gotten any feedback, good or bad, on the story he’d written and submitted to him the night before.

  “From your gleeful expression,” Dean said, “I suspect we got the outside help we needed.”

  “Yes, we did, and better than I’d hoped. I’m sorry for being late, but I’ve been on the phone since 7:00 a.m.”

  “No worries, boss. At least our story will be out in the open.”

  Glenn
shrugged. “Not the exposure we’d hoped, but it’s in the works. Let’s go back inside. I need some java in me.”

  Dean nodded, and the two of them entered the lobby area.

  “What’s the local news reporting?” Glenn asked.

  “Channel 13 and the local papers still see this military exercise as no big deal, like an ordinary National Guard weekend maneuver. Still no outrage in any editorials. There was a small piece this morning about the weapons registration, but columned next to the obituaries.”

  Glenn scoffed, then grabbed a cup, poured his coffee, and added creamer. “Understandable, and what I imagined. That’s why I assigned you to Deborah Holland’s story. I needed unbiased research. Our bonus came when you stumbled into our government’s rogue military operation with the UN.”

  “You said our story got out and is in the works, but you didn’t say where.”

  “Before you get excited, I read your story and I’ve given it front cover in our next issue. I also sent it to Bob Connell, a reporter and friend of mine. Bob will see that it gets to his editor at American Republic. They’ve agreed to give your article the same treatment. Their corporate jet made an unscheduled layover in Little Rock and I had it airlifted to New York to avoid having it floating around out there in cyberspace via email. After all, we’re telling the world about Operation Chameleon.”

  Dean felt his eyes light up, and he started to speak, but Glenn held up his finger.

  “Wait, don’t speak, just listen. We printed your entire piece with no rewrites. You’re the author who broke this story.”

  Dean exhaled. “So that’s where you disappeared yesterday.”

  “Yes, and here’s where it gets better. Bob tapped his Washington contacts. He says the word’s out that this whole fiasco was one of those under-the-table-government-black-ops-nobody-knows-who-sanctioned-the-operation kind of thing. Anyone involved is scurrying for cover. Bob said that key reps on the Domestic Terrorist Task Force Committees are livid.”