Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I

by R A Peters

  Sophie had a change of heart when a separate phalanx of cops came within sight down the block they were trapped on. “Come on Ben, let’s get out of here.” Her boyfriend glanced from his IPhone to her and back again. Gone was the self-righteous bravado he was so well known for. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”

  He tried hollering for their friends but they were all surging forward with the crowd of other youths. Sophie and Ben would have been caught up in it too, if she hadn’t shoved him into a nearby burger joint, one of the few stores still open. When tear gas canisters flew past the windows and their eyes watered, they didn’t hesitate. The two bolted out a back service door and onto a parallel street.

  They continued this half-mad rushing through alleyways and random open businesses until they finally hit a quiet street away from the trouble. A too quiet street, in fact. Sophie and Ben rushed to a bus stop and checked the schedule. Only five minutes to wait. They shared a laugh of relief. It never crossed the minds of these suburbanite children that public transportation might be slightly interrupted by such wide scale civil unrest.

  It took a moment for the pair to notice there was no traffic on the road, or even anyone on the sidewalk. Well, not completely true. A clusterfuck of skinheads (the grammatically correct term for more than one) stood over a barely moving, dark-skinned kiosk owner across the street. They were staring up the block with their arms full of booze and cigarettes. Sophie followed their gaze.

  Two dozen locals solemnly marched this way. From the Indian gas station clerk with his double-barreled shotgun, to the Hispanic furniture storeowner wielding a Berretta, not one of them looked like they were in the mood to talk. Which was just as well, because neither were the punks.

  The only thing more shocking for Sophie than the shooting was that no one got hurt. The wannabe Nazis weren’t exactly expert marksmen, even the few of them that weren’t drunk or high. For their part, the locals were way too excited and fired wild and high. For most of them, it was the first time ever firing the gun kept for years behind the counter. Had she been at home watching this on television and not close enough to smell the powder, she would have had a good laugh. At the moment, her sense of humor was stretched thin.

  About two minutes into the Looney Tunes version of the OK Corral the cavalry arrived. The skins scattered as two Humvees blocked the road and a squad of soldiers dismounted. That should have been the end of it, but some of the punks decided to shoot blindly behind them as they ran. A lucky shot from a spraying Uzi struck a soldier in his bulletproof vest. Fine or not, the close call pissed the troops off…and changed the rules of engagement (ROE). The professionals soon silenced all the crazed shooting with controlled bursts from their M16’s.

  It was simply bad luck that Ben had shaved his head in support of his passion-of-this-week charity: cancer survivors. It was also bad timing when he pushed Sophie to the ground just as a dying skinhead dropped his weapon nearby. To the young soldier searching for targets through the limited visibility of his gas mask, it sure looked like another asshole reaching for a gun.

  All Sophie would remember was her boyfriend’s head exploding as he tried to protect her. Before she blacked out from screaming, she saw two of the president’s henchmen, in the heat of the moment, high-fiving over their victory. She never noticed the unit patches on their sleeves were from the California National Guard.

  Santa Monica, California

  5 February: 1000

  The cemetery was busy for a Monday. Which wasn’t surprising after three days of rioting in LA, put down only by a massive deployment of state and federal troops. There was simply too much business happening for the funeral homes to stagger the ceremonies. Some burials would have to go on at the same time. Even if that created a few awkward situations.

  Sophie couldn’t understand how her boyfriend’s mother could be so sympathetic with the other family nearby. That young soldier being laid to rest over there helped kill her boy. Oh, he might not have pulled the trigger, or even been in the same unit as the killers, but in Sophie’s eyes, he was just as guilty of shooting Ben. Just another hired gun for the rich.

  The wind kept kicking up from the other funeral’s direction. Every time she heard their minister mention something about the meek inheriting the Earth, she would catch a “defending our freedoms” from the other funeral a hundred yards upwind. The rival preaching would have disgusted her…if she wasn’t already sick with anger. She couldn’t even focus on the family and friends in front of her standing up to say a few words. Her cold gaze kept drifting over to those flashy uniforms laying a casket in the ground. The folded flag, the whole shebang–so much for a thug!

  The poor girl couldn’t even get a good cry in. She wouldn’t allow the enemy the satisfaction. Sophie tried to force that strange E-word from her mind, but it wouldn’t leave. She was a rational, partially college educated modern woman. Her social consciousness ran deep. Borderline hippie, her father would say, but she had seen where that gets you.

  All the talking and singing in the world was so childish when the rich bastards have an army to do their bidding. If only there existed an army that fought for the regular people. Of course, she assumed, that would be a contradiction in terms. Regular people had to fend for themselves.

  When the 21-gun goodbye blasted off, she was the only one in her circle that didn’t jump. The melody of gunfire inspired her more than any Bon Jovi song. Her rage ashamed her, but not enough to forgive. Not by a long shot. She thought she knew what hate meant, but then came something that made her lust for vengeance seem mild.

  Those Westboro Baptist Church nuts were at the cemetery, but she hadn’t even noticed before. A curtain of bikers and other volunteers kept them separated from normal people. At least until the ceremonial shots rang out. With the cordon momentarily distracted, several members of the freak show somehow slipped through the human wall around them and stampeded towards the soldier’s funeral. The four psychopaths waved their anti-gay and anti-American signs like battleaxes as they charged into the grieving family.

  There were no cameras around. Too much going on all over the state for the media to be everywhere at once. Perhaps that’s what drove the protestors over the edge. The church members didn’t just enjoy attention; they lived for it. They didn’t feel so insane when in the spotlight. Maybe it wasn’t even as complicated as that, since they weren’t exactly stable to begin with.

  At any rate, they halted around the coffin and screamed incoherently about how “God hates fags” and this poor boy was somehow going to hell because of it. No one stopped them immediately when they began spitting on the casket, because no normal person could have ever imagined such a scenario. The fallen soldier’s father recovered first from the shock. He released his apoplectic wife and ploughed a meaty fist into the face of the closest church member.

  A female protestor looked aghast. “You can’t do that! This is freedom of speech!”

  Another Westboro member unzipped his pants and pissed on the coffin. “Yeah, that’s assault! You’re going to jail. You have to respect different opinions. We’re going to sue you people for all you’re worth! Fag loving Satanists!”

  The last semblance of civilization left the assembled friends and family. Even the bikers hung back in fear. For a few minutes, that cemetery turned into the darkest jungles of Rwanda.

  An old uncle yanked the peeing man back and slammed him headfirst into the ground. Others ringed him, kicking wildly. He wasn’t even unconscious when the sweet young widow of the desecrated soldier snatched the protestor’s fallen sign, yanked down his pants and literally shoved the thick wooden post up his ass.

  From grandmothers to teenagers, everyone got in on the action. Even the minister whipped his cursing, elderly Westboro counterpart upside the head with a thick leather Bible. Almost no one’s hands were bloodless…or feet, for that matter. Of course, it was a different story when the police arrived. A hundred witnesses swore the four unarmed, mutilated bodies had attacked them. />
  Obviously, a simple case of self-defense. The two cops first on the scene saw the crazy signs and remembered when they tangled with these assholes before. They both shrugged, took statements and let everyone go. The cops had far more pressing matters to attend to anyway.

  Sophie took careful note of the whole thing. For years, no one had ever been able to do anything about these insane religious fanatics. More than a decade of lawsuits, court injunctions and physical threats only emboldened them. However, with a little direct action, these people permanently removed that thorn in the ass of humanity. Unfortunately, that was the only lesson she took home that day.

  It was a lesson she couldn’t wait to teach others.

  Manhattan, NY

  6 February: 1100

  It was a scary time to be rich and successful. Something about having everything makes you worry about losing it all. It was also that incredible wealth, that ability to live in a different world, which made it so difficult to comprehend their irrational poorer brethren. So many of these prestigious Ivy League Alumni were scions of wealthy families. Old money, to put it mildly.

  Since they had never experienced having nothing, they couldn’t fathom the frustration and sense of hopelessness the lower classes struggled with daily. Let alone understand how when you have nothing, you have nothing left to lose.

  A room full of conservative-minded money managers set around a television watching the near anarchy in the streets and the true anarchy in the marketplace. All their technical models and analysts weren’t worth a damn in a market controlled by headlines. How do you short Armageddon?

  Still, confusing as things were, you didn’t rise to manage billions in assets by being the type that just reacts to events. That they would do something was a foregone conclusion. The only question was what. They’d already poured hundreds of millions into various Political Action Committees (PACs). Those traditional investments to fund friendly politicians just weren’t panning out. They were paid, and paid obscenely well, to think three steps ahead of the news and one ahead of the competition. It was their job to identify future trends when they existed as mere rumors and isolated events.

  Of course, you didn’t have to be Warren Buffett to realize that the politicians were losing control of the situation. The trick was trying to determine who would be controlling events when the dust settled and how best to influence them.

  With the politicians riding the waves of popular opinion, the highest court being ignored and even the military impotent, there was an obvious power vacuum. The only thing clear was that the next president would be chosen by force, and not the ballot box. Even if the current president went through with his promise of holding new elections, the opposing party and millions on the streets promised to “stop him.” There was only one way to accomplish that…and it wasn’t in the courts or chambers of Congress.

  One of the men stopped reading the proposal and cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I have serious doubts about the effectiveness of this investment. Come on, I trade derivatives. Frankly, I don’t know the first damn thing about running a militia. Maybe we should stick to the PR campaign? That’s definitely shaping public opinion our way.”

  One of the most ruthless females shook her head at him. “How many votes does a million dollars’ worth of advertisements buy us? Who really knows? Now, how many votes does a million dollars’ worth of guns get us?” She paused long enough to assure everyone’s attention. “All we need.” Several heads reluctantly nodded.

  A futures trader waved at the TV. “We can’t afford to be so naïve. The traditional political process died along with Terry Scott. This violence at the polls is going to happen regardless of what we do. Too much is at stake.” He added the magic words for this crowd. “I just want to make sure we get in on it during the startup phase. If we don’t, the competition will.” He tried to sound funny, but he was dead serious.

  “This is an emerging market. We could be locked out pretty quick if the other guys dominate it. Let’s face it; the consequences of failure are a little bit more severe than missing our bonus targets.”

  A famous bond manager spoke up. “The competition? Things are worse than that. The takers are trying to turn America into some type of socialist paradise. It’s everything Ayn Rand warned us about. Cynical as it sounds, we have to defend ourselves.”

  There weren’t any further holdouts.

  The great irony about using anonymous PAC money to recruit, train and arm a paramilitary force to “help ensure the constitutional transfer of presidential power,” was that it’s perfectly legal and even tax-free. Not that taxes would be much of a worry if they were successful. Simplifying the tax code, at least for job creators, would be a top priority in their New America.

  In a 50th floor office across the street, their liberal counterparts met and reached similar conclusions. Major conglomerates around the world also independently accepted the realities of the new business environment. Most of them were apolitical and saw themselves merely responding to the threats around them in the most cost efficient way possible. Regardless of motivation, the results were the same.

  Some would hire private security contractors to defend their interests and others would help fund existing, armed “constitutional protection” groups. A few founded their own private armies to have a chip in the new political game. Regardless of the method used, the nation would never be the same.

  The random violence gripping the country was such a mild danger compared to the much greater threat entering the arena: corporate sponsorship.

  Chapter 5

  Washington, DC

  7 February: 1800

  “Mr. President, I must caution again that these are preliminary findings, at best. It’s only been a few days. So much can still change. Just because the serial number matches the Florida Guard’s armory records doesn’t mean the weapon wasn’t stolen recently. Perhaps in the chaos at Camp Blanding?” The head of the FBI looked more embarrassed than conciliatory.

  “Between the so called ‘protective detentions’ of federal law enforcement personnel in Florida and the sealed borders, we’re finding it rather difficult to get cooperation with this investigation.”

  “And fingerprints or any forensic evidence?” asked a junior aide, almost absentmindedly.

  “Well, quite a few, as a matter of fact. All current members of the Florida Guard…” Several aides nodded and moved on to other matters. He ignored them and raised his voice. The president was already walking away.

  “Again sir, you shouldn’t base any course of action on what’s really circumstantial evidence.”

  Another aide rushed in with something Oh-So-Important and bumped the FBI chief out of the way. This wasn’t his first time in the situation room. He’d seen the Administration pissed at him and pleased with him, but he’d never seen them uninterested in what he had to say. He caught a glimpse of a draft speech on the table. There’d been a few memos generated by his office with the same subject, but this just wasn’t in the same league. He couldn’t suppress the chill in his bones at seeing that one magic word repeated multiple times:

  Terrorism.

  The director tried to catch the president’s eye, but he was deep in quiet conversation with someone from the CIA and several new generals. He didn’t recognize any of them. There’d been a hell of a lot of personnel shakeups, resignations and transfers out west or overseas, among the senior military staff since the Florida fiasco last week.

  Working his way closer around the big table, he caught a “…very high confidence, sir.” over the humming voices. The president whispered something about wanting to see a “target package” and then spun around suddenly.

  “Yes, I heard you, Steve, but our course of action has been set by the rebels’ other provocations.” The FBI director raised an eyebrow at the R-word. While it was bantered about by some news organizations, this was the first time he heard that dangerous label from any official source.

  “Sir, I underst
and your frustration, but please be careful with such catchphrases. They can influence your staff’s thinking and have a habit of becoming policy.”

  “It’s a simple statement of fact. I’m afraid I don’t have the time now to give you a rundown. Watch the speech tonight. That will clarify everything.”

  The nation’s senior cop used up every last ounce of his patience to keep from screaming. “Sir! With all due respect, when is the chief law enforcement officer in America left out of the loop on a matter of so-called terrorism?”

  One of the new generals answered while the president tried to form a diplomatic response.

  “When it’s a military matter. We’ll let you know if we need anything.”

  While the president avoided eye contact with anyone, some Secret Service agent rested a firm hand on the FBI chief’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to leave now. We’re about to start a classified briefing. Essential personnel only.”

  Tampa, Florida

  10 February: 2000

  Ever since the genius politicians closed the border, the state of Florida was on a war footing. There was an armed man behind every Palm tree. That paranoia grew as much from internal threats as from fear of Washington’s response. According to the opinion polls, ¾ of the population supported the acting governor and Senator Dimone. So many people so fired up, it was a classic case of the tail wagging the dog.

  Of course, in a state of 19 million people, that left millions of potential agitators. Within their own borders existed an enemy far more numerous than the combined Federal Armed Forces.

  You also had to reckon with the Floridians’ love of lawlessness just for the fun of it. For every IRS office burnt or ransacked during the first few days of heady “freedom,” a local county tax collector’s office went the same way.