Martial Lawless (Calm Act Book 3)

by Ginger Booth

  “OK,” I said. “Why?”

  Slowly, Emmett replied, “I think people here are spooked. By the storms. But even a few hundred twisters probably wouldn’t affect more than 5% of the land. Less. People here just aren’t used to it. Like back in Connecticut, you know how freaked people got by the ball lightning. But winter hurricanes and snow cyclones? Nah. Those spooked me. Twisters, I’m used to. Pittsburgh needs to chill out about the tornados. Our troops, too.”

  “You’re not spooked by tornados?” I said in surprise. “Really?” I’d never seen a tornado. With a little warning, I rather enjoyed hurricanes and blizzards. I suspected he might have a point. Tornado hysteria might be fueling the unrest in Pittsburgh.

  “No,” he said. And I believed him. “It’s just what you’re used to, darlin’. Numbers help. Make it more objective. Yeah, a tornado is powerful. But it’s small. Not like a hurricane. Those are huge. Terrifying.” He mock-shuddered and grinned at me.

  So I enlisted my GIS – graphical information systems – specialist back in Connecticut again. Reza was eager for the commission, as usual. We tried and failed to characterize ‘a tornado trail’ for pattern recognition. But that we could work around, by doing a landscape comparison between satellite surveys from different years, provided we had the old data. Leland, my Amenac sponsor from Canadian intelligence, was happy to supply us with intelligence-grade surveys again, and seemed honestly intrigued by the project. Tornado weather didn’t stop at the Canadian border, after all.

  I was studying a landscape change test run on the big screen, with before and after years side-by-side. August’s summer growth. Unchanged land with a magenta tint. Possible tornado scars marked out with yellow boxes by our latest recognition pattern.

  Apparently Emmett was watching me. “Hey, darlin’? Could you keep all the landscape changes? Just sift them onto different layers? Tornados. New buildings. Agriculture. Unknown. Whatever.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “That’s a lot of data, though, Emmett. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  He shook his head thoughtfully. “Just making it objective. This is the land. This is how the land changed. Yeah, this a lot more helpful than just the tornado coverage. Thank you.”

  I wondered what he saw that I was missing. But he wasn’t telling.

  -o-

  “I wonder if the Apocalyptics were framed,” IBIS agent Kalnietis concluded over lunch. He and Gianetti were filling us in on their progress of the morning. “And the Shakers, too, with the original misdirection into Green Tree. For local consumption.”

  They’d succeeded in meeting with the Apocalyptic leaders Reverend Hollywell and Captain Sykes. The two confirmed what the militia had told them, and said that the rally ended peaceably. There had been a ruckus in the back that caused the forward surge of the crowd, and Dane fell backward into the fountain. Captain Sykes simply offered Dane a hand back up onto the fountain’s edge after the end of the video clip. Reverend Hollywell ordered the people causing the upset removed. After that, Dane finished his point, and Hollywell gave a sermon. Dane lingered to socialize after the service, but the captain and pastor left. They hadn’t heard anything of further events.

  Reverend Hollywell dismissed Dane’s purported mystery last words as part of a straw man. Dane’s full statement was something like, “There are some sects – perhaps even some of you – who claim that we know what God demands of us.” As Dane’s handyman Paddy Bollai had implied, these were fighting words to some, and incited the scuffle that knocked Dane into the fountain.

  In contrast, the pastor awarded Beaufort points for style. Dane successfully incited an emotional reaction from the crowd. Good public speaking technique, in the preacher’s view.

  Both Apocalyptics reported that Dane was there trying to rally support behind his re-industrialization initiative with Ohio, to get the steel mills up and running again. A fair number in the Apocalyptic community – including the pastor – considered this pointless at the end of days. But their leadership, Hollywell and Sykes chief among them, ‘treasured’ their standing with the Resco, and ‘galvanized’ their followers to support him.

  I got the impression that Agent Kalnietis detested them, especially the pastor. Though not as badly as Gianetti did. Hollywell kept pointing a finger at her and talking about ‘whoring ways.’ Preacher Hollywell seemed incapable of sticking to the topic at hand when there was a ‘whore’ in front of him to ‘reproach.’ Gianetti gave up and waited in the car for the end of that interview.

  But, obnoxious as the IBIS agents found the Apocalyptics, they believed them. The agents found a couple other people on the list of names supplied by the militia the night before, and the stories remained consistent.

  Dane Beaufort used a florid phrase while asking for support at a religious rally. In return, he fell into a fountain and got wet. No big deal. And still no leads on how to find Paul Dukakis, the man who delivered the body. Reverend Hollywell and Captain Sykes confirmed that Paul Dukakis wasn’t one of theirs. Dukakis also obviously wasn’t Matt1034. Or at least he wasn’t the person who held the phone that recorded the video, since he appeared in front of the camera.

  And if Paul Dukakis was involved in Dane’s death, it was clear as mud why he would take pains to deliver the body, and try to frame the people of Green Tree. Why didn’t he just toss the body into the Monongahela River?

  Emmett asked doubtfully, “So now your angle is who framed the Apocalyptics?”

  “No.” Agent Kalnietis sighed. “Now I have a verified crime scene, and persons of interest I can’t seem to find. The frame is just a theory. Two frames, counting Green Tree. Your turn. Was your morning interesting?”

  “Uh-huh,” Emmett said. “Dane was a liar and a mutineer. And with a few tweaks, Pittsburgh should be a level 9 community.” He sighed.

  “Level 9?” Kalnietis inquired. “That’s the best there is, isn’t it? Isn’t that good? Beaufort was a good Resco?”

  “Uh-huh,” Emmett allowed. He smiled wanly. “Mostly.”

  Chapter 13

  Interesting fact: Military governor-general of a super-state was a three-star posting. The U.S. system for ranking generals was peculiar. Three-star was not a permanent rank, but rather conferred by the job. That said, Sean Cullen, Charles Schwabacher, and Seth Taibbi were three-star generals in their prior posts. Ivan Link was a one-star general before assignment to lead New England.

  “I don’t understand, Colonel,” Seth Taibbi complained, military general of Pennsylvania. We were holding a video conference with Taibbi and Governor Sean Cullen of Hudson on the big screen. “Pittsburgh was level 5 on the Resco scale.”

  “Yes,” Emmett agreed. “Technically, it could qualify as level 5 due to lack of power and communications. But there is power capacity. They’re just not distributing it. Likewise communications, likewise suppressed. Major Beaufort was…misreporting his situation.”

  “Emmett?” Sean Cullen interjected. “Out with it.”

  “Sir. Major Beaufort chose to go dark last Thanksgiving in response to General Tolliver’s plan to invade New York. They couldn’t do anything to stop Tolliver. So they cut themselves off.”

  “They,” Cullen repeated. “Other Rescos nearby went along with this?”

  “Beaufort may have been the instigator,” Emmett said. “I haven’t spoken to the neighboring Rescos yet.”

  Taibbi objected, “But I ousted Tolliver in January, eight months ago.”

  “Yes, sir,” Emmett agreed.

  I wasn’t clear on why Emmett was being so cagey. IBIS agents Kalnietis and Gianetti, professional bureaucrats native to the D.C. region, sat bland and sphinx-like in their unreadability.

  Cullen glowered. “Seth, who’s lead Resco out there? Beaufort’s commanding officer.”

  “All the Rescos report to Colonel Schneider in Harrisburg,” Taibbi replied. “I believe they always have.”

  “Oh,” Cullen said sadly. “Emmett, do you know this Schneider?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, sir.”

  Cullen growled, “Don’t make me play twenty questions, Emmett.”

  “The local Rescos mutinied for cause, sir,” Emmett replied. “I request permission to offer amnesty. Before we can go forward in a productive direction. In the meantime, I suspect they hoped to transfer the Pittsburgh area Resco districts to Ohio.”

  Sean Cullen gestured that he go deeper. “Schneider,” he prompted.

  Emmett shrugged. “Schneider was Tolliver’s man. Trust was broken. I reviewed Major Beaufort’s emails with Schneider. From this end, the coup didn’t appear to change anything. According to Schneider, Taibbi capitulated and Penn was making reparations. No change in policy was communicated.” Cullen was frowning harder. “I’m sorry, sir. But, I have to report a break in the Penn chain of command. Beaufort and the other local Rescos were acting independently. Again, I request permission to assure them of amnesty. Governor Taibbi?”

  “You’re telling me they’re guilty of mutiny,” Taibbi said. “I have no reason to doubt Schneider.”

  Emmett sat silent. Cullen sighed, and went to bat for him. “Mutiny would be up to a court martial, Seth. Whether they’re guilty of anything. Their suspected ringleader is dead. If I were in their shoes, I’d request a court from outside Penn. Back in my own shoes, Hudson would grant the request. Your Colonel Schneider failed to notice the mutiny for – ten months? Emmett’s giving you good advice, Seth. Don’t go there. And whatever Schneider’s good for, it isn’t supervising Rescos.”

  “I could send Schneider out there right now,” Taibbi growled. “Make him clean up his own mess.”

  To me, this begged the question of why he hadn’t done so in the first place, and saved us the trip.

  “Governor Taibbi, I request a sidebar,” Governor Cullen said mildly. “Please excuse us, Pittsburgh. I’ll get back to you.” A dark blue background with white ‘Stand By’ message replaced the governors on the screen. Just to be on the safe side, Emmett also pressed a mute button.

  “How nasty are the politics here, Emmett?” Kalnietis asked. “Is there really any chance of western Penn transferring to Ohio?”

  Emmett sighed. “Or eastern Penn to Hudson,” he suggested. “Taibbi is Air Force. But the border garrisons and Rescos are all Army. If Taibbi is this standoffish with the border garrisons, too, he’s not in control. Schneider’s a desk jockey, not a Resco. That’s not how New England or Hudson does it, that’s for sure.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The ranking Resco in New England is Niedermeyer, and he’s Coast Guard.”

  “Uh-huh. He’s Coast Guard,” Emmett agreed. “Actively, busily running the Coast Guard. And he coordinates the other Rescos. John knows he’s not Army. He’s made that an opportunity instead of a problem. Coast Guard, Navy, Merchant Marine, even Air Force – John brokers those forces for the Rescos in New England and Hudson. Huge advantage.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I never realized you reported to John in New England.”

  “I didn’t,” Emmett said. “I reported to Carlos. Carlos reported to John. Carlos has Connecticut. John’s got three Army light colonels reporting to him. Plus the Coast Guard. Penn’s Colonel Schneider is nowhere near John’s league. Or Pete Hoffman’s. Colonel Hoffman is my CO, out of New Jersey,” he reminded the IBIS agents. “Penn, though… I don’t see the Air Force doing Penn much good. Taibbi’s forces aren’t integrated.”

  “The scope of your recommendations, Emmett,” Kalnietis probed, “does it extend to Penn’s martial law government?”

  “Uh-huh,” Emmett said unhappily.

  The screen re-awoke, with only Sean Cullen on it. “Alright, Emmett, Schwabacher’s dealing with Taibbi. I’m too busy today. Amnesty approved – he’ll send it in writing. Anything else urgent? No? Good. Call me tonight, one on one, Emmett. Thank you all for your good work.”

  Emmett hadn’t even clicked off the mute button before Cullen was gone.

  “Did that help us?” Kalnietis asked.

  “Helped me,” Emmett replied. “Now I’ve got four other Rescos to draw on. And with the amnesty, they won’t need to lie to me.”

  -o-

  “Two percent tornado damage,” I reported to Emmett in mid-afternoon, astonished. “Maybe more in agricultural land, but we can’t tell that from maps.”

  Emmett nodded. “Perfect, thank you.” At my inquiring look, he clarified, “Tornado damage to a field is temporary. Hail is more trouble. That’s not a fault in your methodology. I wanted real damage.”

  “You were right,” I said. “That number does put the scary number of tornados into perspective.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Emmett, eyes already back on his computer screen. “Still. Don’t get sloppy. Sirens go off, get into a basement. Or best you can find. Oh, hey – do we have Reza on retainer yet? Or do I need to pay her?”

  “No retainer,” I murmured. He didn’t pay me anything. I was a managing director on PR News and Amenac, Resco assistant extraordinaire, leading consultant on the meshnet, and more. But without my farm anymore, I didn’t earn anything. I just lived off Emmett. As a mistress? No, certainly I was his partner in his work, not just domestically. It still rankled. I needed my own work. But with my location up in the air, pending his next assignment, I was reluctant to start anything in New York. And here I was, in Pennsylvania.

  Sourly, I suggested he give her a month’s meal ticket. He did so, and made a note to bring our GIS consultant up during Hudson’s next budget cycle, to put her on retainer, possibly split with New England.

  He seemed more subdued now than he was right after the talk with the governors. “Everything OK, Emmett?” I asked. “Could we take a break? Talk?”

  He blew out slowly, but acquiesced, closing his laptop screen. “Uh-huh.”

  “We didn’t finish that discussion the other night,” I began ruefully. “I feel like it’s still hanging over our heads.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Emmett, I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I complained. “Not just Pittsburgh. I used to have a life, a career, a farm. Well, for half a season, I had a farm. You seem to think we’ve been together long enough. That I should know by now whether to marry you. Emmett, I love you. I don’t think it’s about you. But I’m not sure who I am, in all this.”

  “My partner?” he suggested. “Dee, we’ve been partners for a year and a half. We do good work together. Millions agree.”

  “But that’s your job,” I pointed out. “You’re a Resco. I’m just an unpaid assistant.”

  He nodded and reached for his phone. “You should be paid. That’s fair.”

  “Emmett, that’s not –”

  But he held up a warning finger and tapped out a message.“One topic at a time,” he reiterated. He was a stickler for that, when we argued. Besides, numbers and management were his forte, far more comfortable than a domestic argument. “Resolve this, then go on. Just asking Dave what his salary is… Wow. You need a raise, Dave.” Dave wasn’t really the boss of our Internet empire, but he was more involved than me as a managing director.

  More tapping. A snort or two. Then Emmett blanked the phone and put it aside. “Dave gets two meal tickets – and needs a raise – and Amiri Baz gets four as your media star. So for your work on PR and Amenac, I think you should get three full meal tickets salary. Dave should, too. The farm would have netted you what, three more this year? You already got half the proceeds.”

  “Yeah, about that,” I agreed. I frowned in consternation. I hadn’t started this conversation to ask for a salary. But disconcertingly, I found it mattered to me quite a lot. My unpaid non-spouse status left me in limbo, and I didn’t like it.

  “Plus random Resco assistant services,” Emmett said. “Invaluable. But part-time. So, one more? Seven total.” He paused and thought it over. “Yeah, I could pay you that. Don’t know what you’re going to do with it, but. Is that fair?”

  I felt I ought to tell him that money wasn’t important to me. But to hell with it, money was freedom, m
oney was power, security. I gulped. “More than fair. I’m part-time on all of them.”

  Emmett shrugged. “You’re highly effective on all of them.” He sighed. “Of course, if I’m paying you, I ought to deduct half of the household expenses.” He pursed his lips at me. “Five.”

  “You pay five meal tickets for the house in Brooklyn?” Wow, that was a lot. But guiltily, I had to concede, he’d taken that palatial brownstone, with all the trimmings, to coax me into living with him in the city. Left to himself, he’d still be in a cruddy one-bedroom somewhere.

  “No, I pay ten,” Emmett clarified. “Your half, is five. We have the nicest place in the entire city. Second-nicest, maybe.” He gazed at me through narrowed eyes. “Dave suggested a spouse gets half of my income. But that doesn’t mean anything. I get 75 meal tickets, but that’s intended for seed capital, not personal expenses. I’m probably drawing more in salary than any other Resco in Hudson.”

  I nodded and said quietly, “Two meal tickets in salary would be good. Thank you.”

  He looked like he was calculating something in his head. “If you leave, you still get two, I think,” he said. “You’d have your farm back. I wouldn’t contact you for help.” He queued up the payments.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Where did that come from?”

  Emmett blew out unhappily. “We’re not moving forward, Dee. I’m not OK with living together indefinitely. I don’t want to break up with you. I want to marry you. Maybe we should take a break.”

  “Emmett, what the hell?” I cried, furious. “Take the damned salary back, if you resent it so much!”

  “I don’t resent the salary.”

  “Awesome. You resent something!”

  “No, I don’t,” he claimed. “Alright, maybe I do. Dee, I’ve bent over backwards trying to please you. Apparently that doesn’t work. I want to be married. You don’t. Or not to me anyway. I’m not OK with this limbo.”