by John Brown
“Back to the Dark Ages.”
“We were told these things are necessary in a time of war. It would apply only to foreigners and radicals; to them, not us. It would be temporary.”
Darting the car down a side street, Franklin accelerated rapidly.
“In the beginning we had a few minor, if questionable, successes. We found unhinged psychotics, trained and funded them, and then arrested them just before they were supposed to blow something up. But as these and other secret programs grew, as their missions broadened to collect all public and private data on every citizen, they’ve been turned against the people. What begins as simple data collection and invasion of privacy, as bad as that it is, inevitably turns into something much worse — secret arrest, ‘enhanced’ interrogation, indefinite detention. I’ve seen this unfold with my own eyes.”
“I’ve seen it unfold as well,” Benson said.
“The new powers we were handed haven’t prevented any attacks. Criminals make it their business to evade detection; they know where the weaknesses exist. You can’t inspect and spy upon everything and everyone. Any collection of facts and figures, even if it’s a massive collection, is fairly useless. Motivation and evil intent can’t be put into a database. It’s the average person who thinks he has nothing to hide, who naively expects his innocence to protect him, who is caught up in the snare. His innocence will be no protection. The State doesn’t need to prove his guilt and he won’t get a chance to defend himself in court.”
“If you’re arrested then you must be guilty.”
“But still I told myself it couldn’t happen here, not in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. We’d learned from the horrors of the twentieth century; we wouldn’t follow that path. We’d seen the terror, the torture, the starvation. We knew of the midnight knocks on the door, the mass deportations by cattle car to parts unknown, the Gulags, the camps. We were too jealous of our hard-won freedoms to follow the old authoritarian playbook. We were much smarter than that. I was wrong.”
Descending a steep ramp, the car entered a garage beneath a narrow four-story townhouse.
“Americans wanted to sacrifice for the cause, to contribute whatever was asked of them. They believed — and I was one of them. I helped make it happen. I thought of going public but no important media outlet would take it. They were afraid of getting caught up in sedition or treason charges, both punishable by execution. My own life wouldn’t have been worth a nickel, either.”
They exited the car. Franklin removed the blindfold. Entering a security code, they took an elevator to an unmarked floor. Franklin led them into a conference room filled with people. Upon seeing him enter, everyone took their seats around a large, polished wood conference table. Franklin stood at the head with Benson sitting off to the side. Behind them loomed an enormous Betsy Ross flag, the symbol of the American Revolution, with its 13 red and white stripes and ring of 13 white stars on a blue field — except for a “II” situated in the center of the stars.
Franklin looked down the table. Silence came over the room.
“Sitting next to me is someone I want you to meet. If he looks a little beat up — excuse me Tom — it’s because he just escaped from a Homeland National Security Administration black-site prison. These super-maximum security facilities were recently added to the existing stock of ‘supermax’ prisons throughout the country. Some 600 of these prisons are standing by in the event martial law is declared.”
A slideshow of the facilities began playing on a screen behind Franklin. The exteriors featured extensive guard towers and razor wire. The interiors were all painted the same glossy, medium gray on the inside, with two floors of exposed interior corridors visible from open-air atriums extending to the roof, each corridor having long rows of identical steel doors fitted with observation portholes.
“National Security Presidential Directive 20/51 gives the president vast powers once he declares a national emergency. It gives him effective control of Congress, the courts, the Internet, and private industry. The president alone decides what qualifies as an emergency and determines when it’s over — if ever. The National Defense Authorization Act authorizes arrest and indefinite detention without charge or trial. HNSA prisons are currently being used as secret interrogation centers by authority of the Military Commissions Act. They are staffed with Civilian National Security Force personnel and contractors, in cooperation with DHS and other intelligence and law enforcement agencies. Prisoners are called Unlawful Enemy Combatants. No one has ever escaped — until now.
“Tom Benson was a senior executive, the chief information officer for a major bank. He was my commanding officer in two tours of duty.”
Franklin looked at Benson with genuine admiration.
“He twice saved my life at great risk to his own. He needs our help and we need his. Tom?”
Benson rose. He took a moment to compose his thoughts while everyone stared at him in silent curiosity.
“What I have to say would shock any true American; anyone who loves the founding ideals that America represents. I am guilty of no crime. The State did not have to prove its case in any court. I was not allowed to contest the accusations against me. There was no judge, no jury, no legal counsel. Until a few days ago, I was held captive for seven months.”
The horrifying memories came flooding back; the sleep deprivation, the water torture, the freezing cold, the mock execution. He cleared his throat, fighting back the emotions.
“I was whipped, sleep-deprived, and slowly starved. I was drowned and frozen. I was locked in total isolation and put in stress positions to drive me mad.”
He took a deep breath before continuing.
“I was arrested at my house. The street was filled with cop vans and SWAT police. It was even filmed for the evening news and a TV show. They said I laundered drug money to finance terrorism — a hopelessly stupid case, relying on hearsay from paid informants. I was to be their poster boy for the Terrorist Next Door, the idea being that if an average person like me could be a terrorist, then so could anyone — your neighbors, the grocery clerk, your kid’s teacher. The first time I tried to escape I was nearly whipped to death.”
The cruel lashing flashed into his mind, its electrifying pain paralyzing his body, destroying his will. The recollection of the unspeakable physical and mental suffering darkened his features. He looked at each person down the long table in the silence, seeing their absorbed, serious expressions, except for an attractive brunette in her 30s, on whose face was a faint smile. She looked directly into his eyes and tilted her head slightly.
“The second time I was successful. I—”
“Excuse me,” said a man, raising his hand. “Are we really supposed to just swallow all this? How did you get out of there with all that security?”
“Gilbert!” said Franklin, but Benson put his hand up.
“No, I don’t blame you,” Benson said. “I was in the interrogation room. An agent pressed a gun to my forehead. I struck back in a rage; I smashed his face in. I kicked the second agent in the head, sending the bastard flying into the wall. His skull smacked the concrete. Two guards came in to investigate but I attacked them first. I made sure they were knocked out or — well, I don’t need to go into the details. I took their guns, IDs and badges; I put on their uniform and hat. As calmly as I could, I walked out of prison as if I were just another guard going on break.”
Gilbert was incredulous.
“Yes, but even if you—”
“Once free, I ditched the hat, tie, and jacket. I tore off the epaulets and badges and rolled up my sleeves. I untucked my shirt and kept my head down.”
“Come on — how do we know any of this is true?”
Franklin nodded to Benson. Gilbert looked around the room for support but everyone’s attention was on Benson. Staring at Gilbert, Benson slowly removed his shirt. He had recovered much of his vigor and strength in the last few days. The incarceration had left him lean but hard. He turned his
back to the meeting. The marks the lash had left across his back were still vivid.
Franklin stood to take control, but he too couldn’t help but stare at Benson’s scars.
“This,” Franklin said, “is why we fight.”
“This doesn’t feel right,” Gilbert said, as he sat down, deflated. “He comes along at just the right time. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Sometimes,” Franklin said slowly, his anger rising, “fortune smiles upon you. Anna? Do you have something to say?”
It was the woman Benson had noticed before. She was looking his way.
“Later.”
“Well, then — do I have a motion to admit Tom Benson into our ranks?”
He scanned the conference room.
“All in favor—”
“Police! Open up!”
The relentless pounding of battering rams shook the house. The Patriots watched the outside surveillance monitors in horror. After many tries and much effort, battle-clad police kicked through the front entrance, scrambling over the smashed remains. The Patriots bolted for a concealed exit in the conference room.
Letting the others run past, Benson stayed with Franklin, who was standing stiffly and sweating, his eyes closed.
“I’ll be all right in a minute,” Franklin said between rapid breaths.
“We don’t have a minute.”
Benson hustled him out the exit. They ran down a dimly lit underground passage. After covering some distance, Franklin stopped to catch his breath. They listened to the Patriots’ footsteps as they disappeared ahead down the tunnel.
“How did they find us?”
“Not us, my friend.” Franklin panted. “It’s you. You’re still wearing a few of those guard clothes. They must be chipped. Take them off. Yes, everything.”
Franklin felt along the seams to the label on Benson’s shirt. “Levi’s 24601®,” it read. “Proudly Made in the USA.” He crunched the label between his fingers.
“There’s an RFID tag in this label. There must be more in here.”
He threw the shirt onto the rest of Benson’s clothes and tossed a lit match on the pile. The fire built briskly, flaring up the corridor before dying down just as quickly.
“It’s the only way to kill those buggers. I’ll go fetch some new duds — now don’t go anywhere.”
He vanished down the passage in the same direction in which the others had traveled. His footsteps grew increasingly faint until it was deathly quiet.
Alone in the dim light and the silence, Benson waited. He had been naked like this before, confined in his cell, cold and hungry, until they had come to get him. He felt exposed and defenseless. It seemed as if Franklin had departed a long time ago. He thought that he could hear far-off voices shouting and arguing fiercely, echoing off the cement walls of the tunnel.
Multiple footsteps approached at a fast clip. They sounded just like those he’d heard so often before, the heavy boots stomping ever closer, slamming the steel door open with a ferocious, ringing clang like a giant gong, the uncontrolled ferocity careening into him, vicious attack dogs knocking him to the floor and tearing at his flesh, ripping his skin off in bloody strips, devouring him alive, fighting over the scraps.
He fought to control his thumping heart and the wild anxiety welling up in the pit of his gut. Finding a corner away from the weak light, he pressed his sweating body up against the cool wall. “It’s all right,” he repeatedly said out loud, breathing deeply.
The footsteps grew louder and turned the corner.
Franklin dropped a large shopping bag on the floor. The sudden noise made Benson jump, but relief immediately flooded through him that it was only Franklin. He closed his eyes and his heart stopped racing so fast.
“Boss, Armani, Zegna?” Benson asked. “You know I’m particular.”
“None of the above. No one will charge you with being a slave to fashion.”
Minutes later, Benson held his hands out to his sides, looking down at his new outfit with a deep frown. He was dressed in ill-fitting, dirty rags.
“Excellent,” Franklin said, nodding with approval.
They went quickly down the tunnel.
“We didn’t really have much time to prepare for your arrival; besides, this will be useful for a small job I have for you. No one bothers Undocumented Resident Nationals — what we used to call homeless, vagrants, drifters, transients. They don’t have bank accounts, healthcare authorizations, credit cards, or driver’s licenses. No identity cards, housing permits, or employment authorizations. The State doesn’t know where they are or how to find them and it doesn’t really care, anyway. They can go anywhere without arousing suspicion.”
Judging from the zigzag route they traveled, Benson figured that they were moving beneath several connected buildings.
“You will go undercover. I have a mission for you.”
“What if I don’t accept?”
Franklin cracked open the door to the street, had a quick look, then closed it again.
“Not having second thoughts, are we? You’re already in a little too deep for that — a hunted fugitive, an enemy of the State. You won’t escape capture a second time.”
He put a wad of money in Benson’s hand.
“You will use cash, nothing larger than fifties. Larger bills are chipped. This is $5,000.”
They stepped out onto the dark street. A patrolman passed by on the sidewalk, glancing at them from the corner of his eye. After a little while, he moved on.
“This is a microchip scanner,” Franklin said, handing Benson a small black item. “It can read REAL IDs to a range of 30 feet. Good luck, Tom.”
“Wait — what do I do now? How do I find you?”
“You don’t find me. I’ll find you.”
With that, he disappeared into the night.
27
George Has a Job for You
BENSON SAT ON A BENCH in his bum’s outfit early the next morning, holding a hand-scrawled sign. “pleas help Gd bless,” it said. He tried to engage passersby but hardly anyone would even acknowledge his presence. Maybe the startling difference between his station in life and theirs aroused a vague sense of guilt in those with whom he crossed paths. Some registered just the briefest of glances in his direction before averting their eyes, perhaps trying to avoid what could become an unpleasant encounter.
He mulled over his fundraising strategy to this point. He had earned only $10 so far. Maybe the highway off-ramp would be a better venue in which to ply his trade.
“Five dollars for your troubles.”
Someone put a folded $5 bill in Benson’s hand and continued down the sidewalk without pausing. Beneath the money was a crumpled note. “Be at Fourteenth and Pennsylvania by Freedom Plaza in one hour,” it read.
Waiting at the intersection at the appointed time, Benson wore casual clothes that he’d just bought with Franklin’s cash. A BMW pulled over to the curb directly in front of him. The passenger-side window rolled down.
“Looking for a date, sailor?”
It was Anna from the Patriots. He got in. Anna pulled out into traffic.
“I already made 15 bucks, and the day is still young. Where are we going?”
“George has a job for you.”
They drove at a rapid clip, switching lanes frequently.
“If any of the thousands of access points into REAL ID were penetrated,” she said, “you’d have the Social Security numbers, birth certificates, driver’s licenses, and more, of 350 million people.”
Glancing at the rearview mirror, Anna floored the car to get through an intersection before the light turned red. The engine howled; Benson was pushed back in his seat.
“It would be identity theft on a colossal scale,” she said, looking through the rearview mirror again. “Untold riches await the one who cracks it. Someone will find a way. We have to get there first.”
Benson looked through his side mirror to view the road behind, but he didn’t see anything unusual.
“Why? To get rich?”
“No, to restore what America used to be — when we had a Bill of Rights. Before people disappeared, before secret military tribunals and checkpoints. Before surveillance and torture.”
Anna made an abrupt turn at an intersection, cutting off another car, and sped down the thoroughfare.
“Money is the lifeblood of the welfare-warfare State,” she said. “People must be paid, weapons bought, computer systems installed, buildings constructed. What if the State couldn’t pay its police and military, its security agents, spies, and informers?”
“They’d probably quit instantly. ‘System disruption,’ I think it’s called.”
“Grand system disruption. We won’t have to fire a shot.”
Anna pulled up in front of a large, fancy hotel, parking in the circular driveway. Bellmen in white quasi-military uniforms with gold braid on the shoulders, white gloves, and navy blue hats ringed the entrance, loading and unloading cars and escorting guests.
“I’ve already registered us,” she said. “You’ll check in as my husband.”
“You’re staying?”
“You don’t want me to stay?”
She turned to face Benson, obviously hurt. Soft chestnut hair fell in waves around her lovely face.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “You have your principles, yes, of course — but then, your loyalty has been betrayed, hasn’t it. And after all you’ve been through.”
Benson was amazed.
“There are no secrets,” she said, quietly.
She looked at him for a moment, and then handed him a photograph.
“We will follow a key person in an upcoming operation. He could be, let’s say, untrustworthy. We will need to confirm before he’s activated.”
Benson studied a picture of a handsome man in his late 30s. He wore a tailored, expensive suit.
Anna handed Benson a small paper bag.
“We call this ‘fairy dust.’”