State of Terror

by John Brown

  Representative Rankle stepped forward. He cleared his throat, followed by an uncontrollable cough. He hacked into a tissue, examined the foul discharge, and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Those who love this country have a patriotic obligation to defend this country,” Rankle said, holding the microphone so near to his mouth that his croaking voice reverberated with shrill feedback and loud echoes, rendering him barely intelligible.

  “So we’re calling on all our young men and women to join hands and defend the Homeland. Draftees must reflect America. All must participate — whites and minorities, the educated and the uneducated, the privileged and the underprivileged, the disenfranchised and the disadvantaged.”

  He fished the tissue out of his pocket and hacked loudly into it, wiping off his mouth.

  “For those who say the poor fight better, I say give the rich a chance.”

  He waited, but the reporters had no questions.

  “And also, some economists, they’re saying this’ll help reduce youth unemployment and give the economy a big shot in the arm while they’re serving their country.”

  At a separate press conference, Defense Secretary Trumble held court. He leaned forward in his chair until his lips brushed the array of microphones in front of him, jabbing his finger in the air for emphasis as he spoke. He wore his signature navy-blue suit and red power tie. Standing behind him were aides wearing similar suits and ties.

  “Since 1980,” he told the assembled conference, “the Selective Service has required — under penalty of a five-year prison sentence — those who are 18 to 26 to register in order to furnish us with a pool of fresh, young resources for a national emergency. Now is the opportune time to empower those national resources.”

  Trumble narrowed his eyes, looking around at everyone without blinking. It unnerved people and helped close big deals.

  “According to the SS, 25.8 million young men and women are eligible to assist the 1.5 million active service members and 900,000 currently in the reserves. Those unsuitable for military service will be inducted into the Citizen National Service Corps under the provisions of the Universal National Service Act.”

  The mail carrier had Benson sign a receipt, and then he rummaged through his bag, pulling out a manila envelope addressed to Daniel.

  “Thank you, sir. You have a real nice day.”

  The only markings on the envelope were Daniel’s name and address, the lasts four digits of his REAL ID, and “For Official Use Only — Unauthorized Opening Subject to Severe Criminal Penalties.” With a warning like that, Daniel was scared to touch it. Except for the occasional birthday and holiday card, it was most unusual for him to get any kind of letter in the paper mail; rarer still to have it hand-delivered. He sometimes received credit card solicitations offering low introductory interest rates. They often came in phony, official-looking envelopes like this one so that they wouldn’t be thrown away, unread. On the other hand, he had been waiting anxiously for an acceptance letter from the University of Virginia. The whole family had gone on a tour of several universities. Daniel had finally settled on his father’s alma mater. Perhaps this was the letter.

  “For me? What is it?”

  “Open it and find out.”

  Benson didn’t like the look of this. It reminded him of Internal Revenue Service notices, none of which ever bore glad tidings.

  Daniel tore apart the envelope. He read the letter silently, his expression transforming from mild curiosity to wild-eyed horror.

  “Dear _____,” it began. “Congratulations. You have won a special lottery and been given the opportunity to defend the Homeland in its time of need. You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination (AFPE) to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) named above by reporting at 6:58 a.m. on the indicated date to your Local Office.” It was stamped, dated, and auto-signed by some petty local official with an obscure title.

  Shocked, Daniel held the notice from the Selective Service, Order to Report for Armed Forces Physical Examination, loosely in his hand. He watched it flutter to the floor, staring after it in silence. Benson picked up the letter and read it for himself, hiding his alarm.

  He put his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

  “I know you’ll serve your country with distinction.”

  “They didn’t fill in my name. It’s a mistake, I don’t have to go.”

  “Your name is on the envelope. They know who you are.”

  “You don’t even know me! You don’t know…” Daniel looked away, his eyes beginning to tear. “You don’t know who I am, you have no idea. I’m not brave and tough like you. I’m not a black belt like you. I’m no fighter.”

  He stared off into space.

  “I’m no war hero.”

  Jane was out of town, doing her monthly stint in Senator Dixon’s home district office, a place the Honorable Senator herself hardly ever visited. Jane’s new job was not exactly what was promised, mainly involving the recording of constituent’s opinions of pending bills and handling angry complaints and even threats. They came in by the hundreds every day, by email, letter, and telephone. Benson was on his own.

  Although Daniel said he wasn’t hungry, Benson persuaded him to go with him to Daniel’s favorite restaurant anyway. He thought it would aid conversation, but Benson had to prod Daniel to say anything. They placed their orders and Daniel fell to brooding. They sat in silence for a while.

  “War won’t settle anything, it’ll just make new enemies,” Daniel said at last. “Meanwhile, I have to sacrifice my life to the State.”

  He put his head down on the table.

  “Cannon fodder. I’ll be a war slave.”

  “Daniel, don’t look at it that way, you’re being too dramatic. It’ll all be over quickly enough. You’ll come out of this a new man.”

  Daniel suddenly sprang to life. He looked at his father with new hope.

  “Dad, what if I go to Canada and sit this out? I could go to college there and return when it’s all over.”

  “I’m afraid you wouldn’t get past the border wall. Once you’re on draft notice your REAL ID status automatically changes. The security checkpoints are heavily fortified. They’re inspecting everyone trying to leave — you need a valid reason on the exit form. They wouldn’t let you out.”

  “Then I’ll get a fake Canadian passport. I’ll walk and talk like a Canadian and say I was just visiting the U.S. for a few days and now I’m returning home — you know, to Canada.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Benson said. “Others have tried.”

  “So I’ll just borrow someone’s ID, someone who looks like me. They never really check those things anyway.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It can’t be done, not anymore.”

  “Then I’ll be a conscientious objector — for religious reasons.”

  “They don’t allow that anymore. What you’d really need is a personal waiver from the president or secretary of defense or someone like that.”

  Daniel brightened.

  “Hey, you have connections to powerful people in D.C., right? You had that picture of you shaking hands with the president. That must count for something. You could get me a deferment or reprieve or whatever they call it, right?”

  “That snapshot was just a photo-op thing. There were probably thousands like me. After the election, they wanted nothing to do with me. I didn’t raise enough money or maybe they didn’t like my attitude, I don’t know.”

  “Let’s call Mom tonight at her hotel,” Daniel said. “She works for one of those senators, maybe she can work out a deal.”

  19

  Welcome to National Airport

  JANE WAS PREPARING ONE OF HER ELABORATE ITALIAN OMELETS for their Sunday breakfast. As she whipped the eggs and sautéed the vegetables, Benson relaxed at the kitchen table with the Sunday news. Once they sat down to eat, though, he put it away. The results of Dr. Filbert’s Relationship Inventory Survey clearly showed th
at he needed to work on “communication skill sets” and “supportive engagement strategies.”

  “Jane, you outdid yourself. This frittata — sensazionale. The eggs are fluffy and the peppers are crisp and delicious. That’s goat cheese inside, isn’t it? Il caffè espresso è la perfezione. Congratulazioni — tre stelle. Sono in fiamme per te. Ti desidero ora.”

  “Thanks — I think. You know, you don’t have to do this.”

  “No, no, I want to. The news can wait. So how’s your new job going with what’s her name, the senator?”

  “Well, I did want to tell you about something strange that happened on Friday. A man walks into the office, maybe 20 or so I guess, a skinny foreign guy. He’s wearing a black suit — a bit too small — with dirty running shoes. Something just looks wrong about him. He goes to the front desk and says he wants to see Senator Dixon right away. ‘You can’t just see her,’ I say to him, ‘you have to make an appointment, she’s very busy, but you can fill out the form and put it in the basket over there and they’ll get back to you in 10 to 14 working days.’ He leans across the front desk to see down the hallway, and I tell him she’s not in. He’s really creeping me out now. I ask him his name, and he says, ‘Barber,’ or something like that. So I ask him what’s his business here, and he gets in my face and starts telling me all about the peace process in rapid-fire, broken English.”

  “Yikes. You really should be able to defend yourself at work. There’re a lot of suspicious characters running around. A little gun would do the trick. I’m thinking maybe a Beretta Nano.”

  “You know we can’t defend ourselves — weapons aren’t allowed — but they say not to worry, they have really tight security. So anyway, this goes on for a few minutes. He starts to get really worked up, something about his parents killed in some war with America when he was little, I couldn’t really tell what he was saying. I picked up the phone to call security and he ran like a shot. I don’t know how he got past—”

  Just then the phone rang. Benson answered it, holding the phone to his ear, saying hardly anything to the caller. He grew increasingly agitated and paced the room, speaking in hushed tones.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, quietly. He put the phone down.

  “What is it? What happened?”

  “Jared Morris, our old friend from college. He went out for a run in the park and dropped dead. His wife is in shock.”

  “That’s terrible — how awful.”

  Although they hadn’t seen much of each other in the last few years, they were still good friends with the couple. Benson had roomed with Jared at the University of Virginia.

  “He was our age,” Benson said.

  He looked sadly at Jane.

  “No warning. The funeral is Tuesday.”

  “Welcome to National Airport — You Are Entering a Federal Security Zone,” warned the sign. “All Persons and Property Subject to Seizure.” Guided into inspection lanes similar to those at the borders, drivers presented their REAL IDs for scrutiny. Armed Transportation Security Administration officers patrolled up and down the lanes and between the cars, walking tightly leashed Dobermans. As the cars crawled through the checkpoint, signs exhorted them to support their country in its time of need: “Buy Stimulus War Bonds — Support Our Troops and the Economy — Major Credit Cards Accepted.”

  A TSA security officer came over and rapped on the taxi window with his knuckles. The driver rolled down his window.

  “Who are these people here?” the officer asked the driver.

  “These people are my passenger, yes? Very fine people, no trouble. Okay, so I take to airport, yes?”

  “Roll down the rear windows, please.”

  The officer peered into the backseat. He examined the footwells and the seatback pockets. His dog stood up on its hind legs and eyed the passengers within.

  “Open the trunk, please.”

  Moving to the rear of the taxi, the officer rummaged through the luggage, flipping the cases and bags over, inspecting everything with an electronic scanning wand. He examined the spare time compartment with a flashlight, then slammed the trunk lid closed and returned to the passengers in the back seat.

  “What’s the purpose of your travel today, folks?”

  “That’s private,” Benson said.

  “We’re going to a funeral,” said Jane, giving Benson a scathing look.

  “What’s the final destination on your ticket?”

  “That’s private, too,” Benson said.

  “Providence,” said Jane.

  “Tom!” she whispered, “you’re not going to change the geopolitical situation today. This hired goon can arrest us for noncompliance.”

  “You got your tickets? Let’s see ’em.”

  “No,” Benson said. The Doberman gave a low growl. “I didn’t print them.”

  “So you got ’em on your phone, or what?”

  “No.”

  “A’right, let’s see your identification.”

  “You don’t have any r—” began Benson, but Jane stopped him mid-sentence with a sharp jab in the ribs.

  The officer swiped their cards through a reader on his utility belt. He stood up and mumbled something into his shoulder radio, out of their line of sight.

  He bent over and eyed Benson and Jane for a few seconds, looking at their faces in silence.

  “You need to show some proof a’ where you goin’, a’right? I’m gonna let you travel today, but jus’ so you know next time. You have a nice trip, folks.”

  He tapped the taxi roof twice and they were off.

  They stepped out of the taxi to the curb, where they were greeted by yellow-and-black striped barricades manned by soldiers in fatigues and sunglasses, rifles looped over their shoulders. Attack dogs jumped up and down with excitement, intently staring at all the travelers.

  They made their way through the airport to the extensive screening line. Every 10 minutes, a blaring loudspeaker broadcast in a flat tone, “Attention, citizens. Your attention, please. Today’s threat level is Brown — or moderately serious risk of terrorist attack — for all domestic and international flights.”

  An attractive woman at the head of their security lane hesitated before entering the body scanners.

  “Okay, c’mon, let’s go, into the scanner,” a TSA security guard on the other side of it said to her. “You’re holdin’ up the line, darlin’. Stand with your bare feet on the yellow shoe outlines and make sure there’s nothin’ in your pockets.”

  “I don’t think I should go through the scanner.”

  “And why’s that, honey?”

  “Well, I — I think I might be pregnant,” she said, quietly.

  “Baby Shower Opt-Out, Lane 2!” the guard yelled in a booming voice. “Fanny Pack, Lane 2! Okay, darlin’, why don’t you stand over to the side, right over here.”

  The woman was ordered to spread her legs and stand with her hands over her head. A female security guard donned some flimsy latex gloves and frisked her up and down, putting her hands on the woman’s breasts and squeezing at different spots. Another guard came over and waved an electronic wand over the woman’s crotch and wherever weapons or drugs might be concealed on her body.

  “This yours?” the guard at the x-ray asked her, pointing to her suitcase, whereupon it was flung open, exhibiting some rather intimate garments to the subtle amusement of bystanders. Finding nothing further of interest, the woman was allowed to repack her belongings in embarrassed silence.

  An elderly gentleman with shoes in hand was next in line. He wore a charcoal pinstripe suit and burgundy tie, standing out from the more casually attired people waiting placidly, most of them dressed in jeans, sweats, running shoes, T-shirts, and even a few in pajamas and slippers. Benson and Jane stood barefoot right behind the gentleman, their keys, shoes, belts, coats, wallet, handbag, computers, watches, and phones having already been deposited in gray plastic bins. They removed the toiletries from their luggage, placing them in clear bags and then into separ
ate gray bins. Overhead signs displayed illustrations of shoes, underwire brassieres, and bombs with a red X drawn through each.

  “I remember a time,” the elderly man blurted out, “when you just went onto the airplane with your ticket, simple as that. And your family meeting you, they’d be right at the gate, soon as you stepped off the plane.”

  He spoke to a muscular security guard cradling an Uzi submachine gun.

  “You can find all this stuff, whatever you’re looking for here, in all the jails, you know that? Jails, you know, and they have all the best security there, too.”

  The security guard stared at him blankly and then glanced at the wall clock. He checked his wristwatch.

  “Now, we could have just allowed the pilots to carry guns, see, and I wouldn’t have to stand here waving my arms around like a flaming jackass. Those fellows know how to shoot, too. They’re ex-military, same as me. We fought to preserve our freedom, and now look at this. Are you guys ex-military, too?”

  The guard now expressed a sudden interest. The vast majority of passengers went through the lines without making so much as a peep, not even a “hello.” They kept their heads down and studiously avoided eye contact. It was never a good thing to be conspicuous at a security checkpoint.

  “Did I hear right?” The guard spoke in a harsh voice. “Did you just say, ‘pilots and guns?’”

  “No, I just meant that—”

  “You makin’ threats? ‘Cause that’s what I think I just heard. Okay, step outta the line, gramps.”

  The guard led him to a separate area, snapping on blue rubber gloves as he went.

  “Stand over here.” He pointed to an outline of shoes printed on a rubber mat.

  “Behavior Detection Officer, Area 3, please,” he called out.

  BDO Bob had been busy watching the travelers a few lanes away. When things were slow, he would sometimes engage them in a little light banter, secretly looking for unreasonable anxiety or irritableness, or perhaps atypical facial expressions or body language. The kids would often ask him about his gun, club, handcuffs, pepper spray, and taser, but the adults knew better. In his three years on duty, the only travelers he’d pulled out of the lines for suspicious behavior turned out to be upset about running late and possibly missing their flights. He walked over to Area 3 and watched the gentleman disrobe and get frisked in front of gawking onlookers, themselves in various stages of disrobing for the scanners. No one said anything.