by John Brown
Daniel’s face rushed into Benson’s head. Daniel as a toddler, Daniel as a young boy. The last time he laid eyes on his only son. The horrible way he must have died.
“That’s tough, I’m very sorry. It’s the nature of our, ah, business, Benson, but he did his duty. Turns out, we spent American lives and money freeing those people to vote and what do they do? They go and elect another dictator — and not a particularly friendly dictator, either; can’t do business with this one. That’s just how it goes sometimes. Well, we’ll fix that. Anyway, your country is proud of you. You’ve earned the Medal of Freedom for your valor, you know. The president himself would normally decorate you personally, but he’s not free.”
General Jerrick walked over to a metal bureau, pulling out a case from the top drawer.
“Speaking of medals,” Jerrick said, presenting a small wood and leather box, “this is posthumously awarded to your son, Private Daniel Steven Benson.”
In embossed gold letters, the lid was inscribed “GWOTEM.”
“From field reports, Colonel, we believe he must have served his country with distinction. You should be so very proud of him.”
“What is it, sir?”
“Go ahead, open it and find out.”
His stomach churning, Benson slowly opened the lid. Inside was a gold-colored medallion of an eagle clutching a snake, set on top of a shield and two crossed swords. The satin ribbon attached to it was boldly striped against a pale blue background.
The Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal.
Benson closed his eyes in silence, his pulse pounding. He snapped the lid shut, looking at General Jerrick, his eyes tearing. He rose and abruptly left the room.
“Colonel Benson!” General Jerrick shouted after him. “You are not dismissed!”
The free-for-all had taken a more violent turn. The packs of rioters turned their unfocused rage on random objects, shooting their weapons, smashing shop windows, and torching and overturning small cars as they went. Reflected in the sparkling shards on the pavement, the fires lit up the street in the late afternoon sun.
The rioters didn’t notice the advancing columns of military police in black battle gear peeking over their ballistic shields, creeping forward in a flying wedge formation. A cluster of Stryker MGS armored vehicles came from the opposite direction, boxing the rioters in, one of many Stryker brigade combat teams hastily deployed across the District. Undeterred, the rioters hurled Molotov cocktails at the vehicles. The explosions lit up around the Strykers, rocking them. Their gun turrets spun around slowly to face the rioters. The big guns fired, jolting the vehicles back. Coordinated rounds of explosive phosphorus charges instantly destroyed a cluster of looted stores, turning them into white-hot firebombs. The flames quickly consumed the apartment building above, the occupants within desperately trying to escape the intense blaze.
The rioters dispersed, screaming and rushing right into the advancing police. In alarm, the police fired away. As the front lines of rioters were cut down, the rest of the screaming mob confronted a unit of LAV-300 personnel carriers waiting for them, shooting at the armored vehicles with handguns. The bullets made pinging sounds off the armor. The LAVs switched on their acoustic sound cannon. Rioters within three city blocks were crippled with excruciating pain in their eardrums, scattering frantically from the source of the piercing noise.
“Turn back,” boomed the loudspeakers on the street poles, the deafening warnings coming from all directions. “Your attention, please. Turn back now. All noncombatants are hereby directed to disperse immediately.” Tear gas canisters concealed within the poles popped open, spewing clouds of toxic gas into the fleeing crowds.
Hoods pulled over their heads, a gang of rioting youths threw rocks into the massive windows of a magnificent old building. Once housing a powerhouse financial institution founded in the 1800s, it had been merged out of existence years before. It was now office space and a discount furniture emporium. The jagged holes in the plate glass let the gang see into the building. The occupants cringed in fright.
“Come on out, you cowards!”
One of the youths hurled a burning Molotov cocktail inside.
“You stole our money and now you’re gonna pay!”
The fireball blew furiously out of the building and back into the gang, cutting them down with razor-sharp glass and thick, flaming gasoline. Inside, choking smoke wafted through the ground floor. Interspersed among the dead were the screaming survivors.
“Attention, citizens,” blared the street loudspeakers. “Today’s threat level is Purple. Curfew is 2200 hours. All non-uniformed persons must be off the streets by 2200 hours. That is all.”
33
We Cannot Afford to Wait
THE BLACK HAWKS HOVERED OVER THE WHITE HOUSE in a diamond formation, their blades kicking up fierce winds, rustling the magnolias, maples, and elms dotting the estate. President King heard all the commotion from his office. Sitting from his desk, he peered out the windows, but he couldn’t see anything unusual from that vantage. He shot a quizzical glance at an aide, who responded with a shrug. Helicopters, after all, were a common sight on the grounds.
Stryker armored vehicles moved to surround the White House in a defensive formation, their big guns aimed outward. Gripping machine guns, paramilitary police and troops streamed out of scores of Bulldog X SWAT trucks. Wearing bulky bulletproof uniforms and helmets with full face shields, they took up their positions to secure the perimeter.
King continued his speech from the Oval Office. His eyes had become accustomed to the bright camera lights. He no longer squinted, appearing natural and at ease.
“And so, my friends, we are in a transnational war against an enemy who intends to wipe out Western civilization, no doubt motivated by poverty, inequality, and social injustice. These zealots — who, I am given to understand, represent only a tiny fringe element of their religion — have been raised from birth to hate us and everything we stand for, and they hope to go to their heaven or whatever it is through our complete annihilation. Intelligence sources say more of them may already be here awaiting orders from abroad. Make no mistake, the enemy doesn’t wear a uniform. You can’t tell by — just by — looking.”
The glaring lights had suddenly gone dark, leaving the office lit in its normal warm, soft glow. King looked around; seeing nothing otherwise out of place, he gamely continued on.
“Our responsibility to history is already clear — to answer these attacks and rid the world of evil. Freedom and fear are at war, and there will be no quick or easy end to this conflict. It will be fought on many fronts against a particularly elusive enemy over an extended period of time. The struggle begins now. We cannot afford to wait until millions of our citizens die in a big, smoking mushroom—”
Paramilitary police burst into his office, positioning themselves on either side of the door. Startled, King fumbled with the loose papers he was holding, scattering them all over the floor. An officer in a black overcoat sauntered in from the hallway, stopping just inside the entrance. All power shut off. The soft hum of air conditioning died; the sudden quiet interrupted only by scuffling somewhere outside in the corridor and the muted roar of helicopters overhead. Soft daylight filtered in through the partly curtained windows, casting long shadows across the darkened office.
“What the fuck is this?” King said.
He slammed his heavy chair aside, coming out from behind the desk.
“I didn’t send for anyone. I’m in the middle of my goddamn speech.”
Seeming to realize the implications, he suddenly quieted. He moved a step closer to the windows and cautiously peered out, seeing the helicopters and a flurry of activity on the grounds.
“Are we under attack? Terrorists?”
The officer strode further into King’s office, taking in the ornate furnishings, the artifacts and expensive gifts from world leaders. The film crew was furiously tearing apart their equipment and jamming it into bags and boxes, avoidin
g eye contact. The officer picked up the Twin Towers statuette on King’s desk, examining it from different angles. He gently placed it back on the desk.
“Uh, yes. Yes, sir, that’s it exactly, Operation Northwoods, sir. We’re at REDCON-1. The vice president is already waiting for you in the Naval Observatory bunker. For your own protection, sir.”
“Operation Northwoods?”
Nothing remotely like this had ever happened before. King looked around at these silent, intimidating paramilitary police standing at the ready in their black battle gear with weapons drawn.
“Never heard a’ that one.”
King looked doubtfully at the officer, who stared back at him in silence. There was more scuffling outside the office, and then a shot was fired.
“I — I was just on my way to Mount Weather.”
“Mr. President, you will please come with us. We’ll explain on the way.”
Packed with rioters and protesters, convoys of retrofitted school buses made the short drive over to RFK Stadium. The rolling stadium doors were flung open and the processions drove inside to park in tight, end-to-end formation on the field. Other buses streamed in from opposite directions in long lines. As they passed the gates, National Guard Internment/Resettlement Specialists checked them off, radioing directions to the teams shepherding the multiple streams of traffic. The passengers were catalogued, relieved of any possessions, unshackled, and herded into makeshift, cramped quarters located throughout the complex. The buses then drove off to pick up more internees.
A column of M1 Abrams battle tanks equipped with the latest Tank Urban Survival Kits rumbled through the center of town. Meeting with abandoned cars, the tanks rolled right over them, the windows cracking and bursting, the cars crushed and flattened under the heavy metal treads. The roar of engines thundered through the streets as the tanks advanced. Sporadic fires amid roiling clouds of thick black smoke lit up the darkening sky.
Turning a corner, the column came within sight of the main mass of rioters.
“Your attention, please,” broadcast a warning from the tank’s loudspeakers at earsplitting volume as the column rumbled forward. “Disperse immediately. This is a Code Purple. Noncombatant evacuees must leave the bridgehead line at once.”
Benson ran in front of the column. The tanks slowed their advance at the astonishing sight of a senior officer in dress uniform blocking their way. Waves of exhaust heat and noxious diesel fumes washed over him. The booming growl of unmuffled gas turbine engines thundered in his ears. His heart thumped in his chest as the huge tanks loomed over. He held up his hand for the tanks to halt.
The mobs stopped dead in their tracks, astounded by this unthinkable confrontation between a lone man and fearsome military power.
The column lurched and halted; the engines switched off and the racket died down. The lead tank commander opened the hatch and climbed out partway. Leaning over, he stared down at Benson from his high perch, thunderstruck.
Benson stared back, his eyes steely, his face set hard and resolute.
“I am Colonel Thomas Benson.”
He spoke through a special bullhorn that broadcast wirelessly through the network of street loudspeakers. Tremendously amplified, his voice rang throughout Capitol Hill and beyond.
“We soldiers swore a sacred oath to support and defend the Constitution against all enemies — foreign and domestic.
“We are the guardians of the Republic. We do not fight for the vanity of politicians. We do not fight for State glory. We fight to defend the lives and liberties of the people.
“We will not obey unlawful orders to impose martial law.
“We will not seize Americans and imprison them as enemy combatants in their own country.
“We will not lay siege to our own cities.
“These are acts of war against the people whose lives and liberties we have sworn to defend with our own. Our fellow countrymen and women are not the enemy.”
The bullhorn signal was somehow interrupted.
“Attention, citizens,” the street loudspeakers announced, in a flat, metallic voice, “Today’s threat level has been upgraded to Red — serious risk of terrorist attack. Please report suspicious activities to the Authorities.”
The other tank commanders opened their hatches to gape at Benson. Those in the column’s rear raised their binoculars to see what was going on up front.
“We will not obey unlawful orders for summary arrest.
“We will not subject Americans to secret trials or military tribunals.
“We will not commit treason against our country.”
Benson dropped the bullhorn to his side. He searched for understanding on the commander’s faces. All soldiers were to live by their sworn oath. It had been drummed into them from the beginning.
“Remember your sacred pledge to defend the Republic from attack — within and without. We soldiers have the right and the duty to refuse unconstitutional orders violating the rights of the people.
“Do not make war on our own people.
“Do not obey criminal orders.”
The tank commanders remained silent and passive.
“We are soldiers!” The passion in Benson’s voice rose to a veritable battle cry. “We are the last stand against tyranny. Americans do not fire on Americans. Men, obey your conscience!”
The hatch of the lead tank closed, the commander disappearing within. The engine started and rumbled, idling for a moment. The tank shuddered, suddenly jumping forward. The other tanks sprang to life, the massive engines roaring. Iron determination written on his face, Benson stayed rooted to his spot. The exhaust heat and fumes washed over him again. They would have to kill one of their own to advance. The lead tank jolted closer, so close that it was almost on top of him. The roar was deafening.
And still Benson did not move.
The lead tank engine switched off. The other tanks shut down.
Soldiers streamed out of the hatches. All down the column, they jumped out, congregating on the torn-up street. They came to gather in front of Benson, milling around, uncertain of what to do next.
Out of the corner of his eye, Benson saw a lovely woman running toward him. He was stunned. Her curly, dark brown hair bounced with her steps, the wind pushing it back from her face. She ran into his arms, nearly knocking him over. He buried his face in her neck in a long, tight embrace, a feeling of intense relief flooding over him. Tears ran down her freckled cheeks.
“Tom, I—”
“Don’t say anything.”
He kissed Jane and hugged her even tighter. He held her at arm’s length, not quite believing his own eyes, and then embraced her again.
A soldier came over and saluted smartly, looking Benson in the eye with deep admiration.
“Sir,” he said, “what happens now?”
It was an innocent and heartfelt question.
Benson returned the salute.
“We lost our way,” Benson said. “Life was not meant to be lived on a leash.”
He looked at the earnest, youthful face in front of him. All was quiet here, for now. In the distance, the early evening sky lit up with explosions. A smoky haze colored the horizon. Thunderous booms and bursts of machine-gun fire were heard from far off. Rolling blackouts darkened the capital city.
“We will start over.”
Afterword
STATE OF TERROR explores the wisdom of Benjamin Franklin’s timeless warning: “Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.” It focuses not on terrorist acts, horrific as they are, but on the dire consequences to civil society of exchanging liberty for supposed safety. If history serves as a guide to understanding the present and anticipating the future, then the society depicted herein may well portray the logical outcome of events unfolding today. State of Terror is not so much a prediction as it is a warning, extrapolating from long-running trends pointing in the same direction.
“No nation
could preserve its freedom in the midst of continual warfare,” wrote James Madison. Whether called the Long War, World War IV, Overseas Contingency Operation, or the War on Terror, civil society — based upon free expression and free association, the right to due process, secure property rights, protection from arbitrary search and seizure, the rule of law, and public trial by a jury of one’s peers, among others — would be torn apart by continual warfare, to be replaced by something very different.
In past wars, emergency measures suspending civil liberties were mostly reversed upon cessation of hostilities. A peace treaty would be concluded and life could return to normal. In a war without end, without well-defined enemies and territories — or even coherent objectives — there can be no cessation of hostilities, no peace treaties, and no return to normal life. In preemptive war, the distinction between potential terrorist and peaceful citizen is blurred. Anyone could be a potential terrorist.
Some of the dialogue in this novel comes from actual statements made by U.S. public officials. Taken in isolation, such statements may seem benign. Counterterrorism laws and secret programs can appear to have a noble purpose. Yet, when the rhetoric and events are connected, a disturbing progression unfolds. Over time, bad ideas have bad consequences.
Here, in rough chronological order, are the most important laws and programs framing State of Terror:
The USA PATRIOT Act of 2001, as amended, discards independent judicial warrants and other Fourth Amendment constitutional protections in the Bill of Rights prohibiting arbitrary searches and seizures. Activists and protesters can be charged with “Domestic Terrorism.” Section 505 of the Act greatly expands the use of “National Security Letters,” essentially self-written search warrants lacking probable cause requirements and judicial oversight. Those served with National Security Letters are forbidden to tell anyone about them, itself a violation of First Amendment guarantees of freedom of speech. In widespread use by the FBI, they are also reportedly used by Homeland Security, the Pentagon, and the CIA.