by Ezra Sidran
Chalk 2 Leader – who had been running back up the corridor towards this morbid tableau – stopped in his tracks and looked with awe at White Knight 1. He had never seen a man kicked to death before.
“Wherethefuck is Chalk 1 with the First Lady?”
Chalk 2 Leader blinked.
“I’m talking to you, shitforbrains, wherethefuck is Chalk 1?”
Stray rounds from the firefight up ahead were screaming past his head and smashing into the wall behind him kicking out small puffs of plaster. It’s amateur night at the White House and I’m going to get my ass smoked, he thought.
Just then Chalk 1 Leader descended the staircase pulling a screeching First Lady behind him. She looked almost nothing like her press photos. Her immaculately coiffed hair was now disheveled. The right side of her face was purple with contusions. At least Chalk 1 Leader smacked her up a bit. Good.
A wicked thought flashed across White Knight 1’s brain which was no longer working correctly. Maybe it was the frustration of now being five minutes and 38 seconds behind schedule, or maybe it was just because he was a very wicked man.
He grabbed the First Lady by the back of the hair and threw her head first into the door to their right. Her anterior nasal spine shattered as it smashed into the door labeled “WOMEN’S RESTROOM”. White Knight 1 followed in her inside the tiled room.
The First Lady lay face down on the floor, a river of blood issuing from her nose. Her dark silk dress was halfway up her thighs. Her famous posterior prominently displayed.
Everything was quickly going to shit for White Knight 1. Drastic situations call for drastic solutions White Knight 1 thought. His hand was reaching towards the zipper on his combat fatigues when the door to the near stall burst open and the President of the United States threw himself at White Knight 1’s throat.
Caught off guard, White Knight 1 crashed to the floor; his Desert Eagle Special clattered across the tiles. The President threw himself on White Knight 1’s chest and pinioned the soldier arms beneath his six foot 1 inch frame; his years as a community organizer not wasted on the President.
Ahh, shit, how can things get any worse?
And then White Knight 1 heard a sound from above and looked up.
Above him he saw a pair of legs extruded from the ceiling – walking about as if they were riding a bicycle – falling through the object geometry. He could clearly see that these were the Florsheim-clad feet of a Secret Service agent walking about in the Press Secretary’s office one floor above the Women’s Restroom where the President of the United States was now beating the crap out of him.
And then he heard a clear sound - a voice that was not on the battle net crackling through his headset - it came from outside and it said, “It crashed. We have a crash. Reset.”
And then everything went black very quickly.
CHAPTER 4.1
It was Saturday night at Big Poppa’s and, if possible, it was even more over the legal capacity than the last time we played there. The gig had started at nine and for the last three hours I had been blessedly transported away from the events of the last two weeks. My world had been reduced to eighty-eight black and white keys and that was just fine by me.
Maybe because of Nick’s funeral a week ago or maybe for some other reason deep inside, John the Howler started off the last set of the evening with a monologue.
“When I was a child growing up in the hill country of Mississippi I was raised by my Granmaw,” he began. “She was a church-going woman. But the man she was married to, my step-Granpaw, was a bluesman.” I don’t know why but the half-drunk crowd was respectful and listened up.
“My church-going Granmaw taught me that the Blues came from the sanctified church,” John continued. “Granpaw taught me the Blues. Granmaw taught me Gospel. Gospel is the theory, the spirit, the soul of the Blues.”
John spun around and addressed the All Mojo All Stars, “You ready to take them to church?”
“Yeah!” we yelled back.
John spun back around to the crowd, “You ready to go to church?”
“Yeah!” the crowd yelled back.
“Let’s take ‘em to church.” Clyde the Foot, quick-counted a 2/4 and we launched into ‘Wings’ with that wonderful line, “You can’t drive a Cadillac to Heaven.”
It was a sublime set. We segued from Wings into Goin’ Down, did a couple of Delta inspired originals and ended up with Boom, Boom, Boom. I opened my eyes after the last chord, blinking to adjust to the stage lights, and I saw Katelynn entering the bar from way in the back. She had another fucking FedEx envelope with her.
This time Kate didn’t wave and holler for Billy Joel. She just squeezed her way through the crowd to the side of the stage and waited for me.
“Do you know the contents of the FedEx envelope?” I asked the Authoritarian Man.
“No, we don’t,” he replied.
This was a shock. Until now, every action, every movement of mine up until this point in the story the Authoritarian Man knew; knew in fact in greater detail than I remembered. They knew the room where I stayed at Maxwell (I didn’t remember), they had the receipt from the last breakfast that Katelynn, Bill, Nick and I shared. They knew the names, and probably the social security numbers of everyone that worked on the Stanhope simulation. It was at this point that I realized that we were entering terra incognita for the Authoritarian Man. And, because of this, the balance of power had perceptibly shifted in my favor. From here on out I could tell him the truth or not. I was in control and I was going to press this advantage any way I could to help Bill and me get the hell out of here.
“It was a plane ticket,” I told the Authoritarian Man truthfully.
“A plane ticket to where?” he asked.
“A plane ticket to Washington.”
CHAPTER 4.2
It’s always unsettling flying into Washington Reagan – my friend Matt Case calls it ‘Dutch International’ in honor of the fortieth president’s old radio moniker – partly because the approach is over the Potomac River and the plane is sinking inexorably lower and the water is rising up to swallow you and your brain becomes absolutely convinced that an awful drowning death is imminent. Then at the last possible minute a bit of causeway appears under the wheels and then a runway and you touch down with a lurch and a squeal of brakes and the pilot throttles back and you’re thrown forward in your seat, the restraints trying to cut you in half at your waist, and then the first half of the internal terror is over and you’re taxiing to a gate.
The other reason why flying into Dutch International scares the shit out of me is because when you leave the airport you find yourself in Washington, D.C., the vertex of the world’s power and the Pro Bowl of intrigue and deceit and I know I’m desperately out of my depth. I am a little Midwestern pan fish swimming with the barracudas. Every time I fly out to Washington something bad happens.
When I walked off the jetway, Lieutenant Colonel Finley was waiting.
“Finley was there, inside the terminal?” the Authoritarian Man asked.
“Uh huh,” I answered and we both knew that was something pretty unusual because since 9/11 airport security was tight but the security at Reagan was the tightest of all. Nobody, absolutely nobody, without the highest security was allowed near the jetways without a boarding pass.
Finley extended his hand and greeted me warmly. I couldn’t help but notice that West Point ring (Duty, Honor, Country; USMA Class of 2006) and I wondered to myself: it’s fucking impossible for someone to go from shave tail lieutenant to light colonel in five years. It’s not unprecedented; it’s impossible. And he’s got top security clearance as well.
“Glad you could make it on such short notice, Professor Grant,” Finley pumped my hand.
We exchanged the usual ‘flight okay?’ babble as we walked down the corridor, through security and out of the terminal. Finley motioned to what had become standard issue for the power elite in D. C.: a black SUV with government plates that was parked in a �
�No Loading’ zone. A uniformed security guard waved to Finley.
“Do you remember the license plates, Jake?” the Authoritarian Man asked.
“Sorry, Jim, I don’t. They were, you know, the standard U. S. government plates: white with blue numbers.”
“How about the car, Jake, do you remember anything about that?”
“It was a big, black gas-guzzler. That’s all I know.”
“Okay, about what time did you land in Washington?”
I told him.
“Maybe there’s something on the security tapes.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I answered, “Look, this is a good time to take a break. How about some coffee and a visit with Bill?”
“Sounds reasonable,” the Authoritarian Man answered.
Ten minutes later Bill bounded through the door dragging one pissed-off handler behind him. Now that he was no longer in a choke collar there was nothing stopping Bill from putting his full strength into going where he wanted to go when he wanted to get there.
Bill looked good. I hoped I looked good to him. Somehow we both knew that we owed it to each other to get healthy, get our strength back because there was soon going to be a moment when we would make our move. We would have one shot, one roll of the dice and we had to do anything we could to tip the scales in our favor.
The junior Authoritarian Man came into the room and handed a sheaf of printouts to his boss. I was still petting Bill who was slurping away at my arm when the Authoritarian Man showed me the pictures from the security cameras at Reagan.
It was me all right, walking around, blinking in the bright D.C. sunlight, sucking down a quick cigarette, but there was never a clear shot of Finley’s face; the brim of his officer’s hat was too low on his forehead, his back was turned, there was always something. The back of the SUV was clearly visible, though.
“You can make out the license plate numbers pretty clearly on these pictures,” I told the Authoritarian Man.
“Yeah, they’re pretty clear,” he said noncommittally.
“Okay, so you could run the tags,” and as soon as I said it I realized: they had already run the tags; they’re fake. Fake tags, fake top security badges, a fake major general, who can put together an operation like this?
CHAPTER 4.3
They took Bill away. The handler wasn’t making much progress dragging him out the door until I told Bill to behave. I thought it was important that we sandbagged and gave every appearance of cooperation until the time came for us to make our move. As Bill was leaving they brought the coffee in. The Authoritarian Man poured me a cup and handed it to me. It seemed like he was prepared to leave my right hand untethered to the gurney.
“Where did you and Colonel Finley go after you left Reagan?” the Authoritarian Man resumed the questioning.
We pulled out of Reagan and headed north into the spaghetti bowl of freeways. For a brief moment I caught a glimpse of the classic, cliché establishing shot of Washington, D.C.: the Tidal Basin, the bridge, the monuments and then Finley turned onto a series of off ramps and on ramps and we were headed west. It was a short drive; not even ten minutes in the usual D. C. traffic before we pulled up in front of the North Gates.
“The Pentagon,” the Authoritarian Man said.
Yup, the Pentagon. I’ve driven past it a dozen times but I’ve never gone through those gates. Security was tight – what a stupid thing to say - but Finley’s papers were in order, I guess. After plenty of saluting we drove right over to the west side, the very spot where the plane smashed into the building on 9/11.
“The heliport,” the Authoritarian Man said.
Yup, there was a big black Sikorsky Sea King warming up on the pad.
“Were there any markings on it, anything Jake?”
Not a thing; at least nothing I noticed. It was a midnight-black Sea King and the blades were slowly going whoomp, whoomp, I was trying to light another cigarette – which freaked everybody out, maybe there was fuel nearby – they just pulled the cig out of my mouth, ground it into the tarmac and hustled me inside the helicopter. Before I knew what was going on I was strapped in, my bag was at my feet, and we were lifting off.
It was like the ground was falling away from me. We banked sharply to the left and headed west by northwest. The sun was receding behind the Shenandoah Mountains; Washington to the east looked like the opening sequence for The West Wing or a movie with Denzel Washington except in reverse because we were flying away from the city and it was getting smaller and insignificant.
The Sikorsky banked to the right and we flew mostly north for the next hour. I could recognize some of the cities of Maryland as we passed over them; Frederick in particular. Due west was the battlefield of Antietam; the topography had been burned into my brain from all the simulations I had run of the 1862 campaign.
We continued north; in the west the hills gradually transformed into mountains. I could now make out the geography of the Gettysburg campaign. We had entered southern Pennsylvania. I was certain of it.
The Sikorsky banked sharply to the west, descended and threaded its way through a valley. We followed a two-lane road for a short distance and then banked to the left again to follow the curvature of a prominent ridge. We left the road and hovered for a minute over what appeared to be primeval forest before settling straight down on to a helipad that had been practically invisible in the woods. I had no idea where I was.
“Site-R,” the Authoritarian Man said. “You were at the Alternate National Military Command Center at Raven Rock Mountain, Pennsylvania.”
I had heard rumors of Site-R. “You mean the place where the president is supposed to go if there’s a nuclear war? That Site-R?”
“That Site-R,” the Authoritarian Man answered.
CHAPTER 4.4
“BRAC decommissioned Site-R in 1998,” the Authoritarian Man said.
“What’s BRAC?” I asked knowing full well it was the sound of Bill barfing up a rib bone he wasn’t supposed to be eating.
“The Base Realignment and Closure Commission. Site-R was mothballed and the support units, including ISEC-CONUS were transferred to Fort Detrick.”
“And what is ISEC-CONUS?”
“Information Systems Engineering Command-Continental United States.”
“So you’re telling me there’s a complete end-of-the-world doomsday mad-scientist hideout under a mountain in Pennsylvania – that was built with my hard-earned tax dollars – that has just been abandoned?
“You tell me,” the Authoritarian Man answered, “you were there last.”
There was a line of golf carts painted forest camouflage waiting for us at the helipad. Colonel Finley got in the driver’s side of the first one and indicated I was to take the passenger seat. An enlisted man grabbed my bag from the Sikorsky and put it in the next cart in line. Finley switched the cart to ‘on’ and with a quiet purr of the electric motor we trundled down a paved pathway that had been hidden from above by a canopy of ancient oaks.
I could hear birds calling to each other from deep in the forest and an adventurous squirrel darted out in the path before us and tried to stand his ground before Finley damn near drove the cart right over him. He skittered away back into the underbrush and Finley negotiated two sharp turns that brought us in front of a chain link fence topped with razor wire.
Two MPs - not in dress blues with chrome helmets but deadly serious this time, dressed in black and wearing body armor – emerged from a concrete pillbox that guarded the gate through the fence. One MP kept his M16 at the ready while the other examined Finley’s documents. The examiner motioned to the pillbox and an unseen hand must have pushed a switch because the gate retracted and we drove through.
Before us was a massive concrete blast door that had been labeled, in ubiquitous military stenciling: PORTAL A. The blast door swung open on colossal steel hinges and, as Finley drove the cart into the blackness of its maw, I turned around and saw the bright orange ball of the setting sun through the oak leaves.<
br />
That was the last time that I have seen the sun to this very day.
CHAPTER 4.5
Finley turned on the lights of the golf cart; behind us the enlisted man piloting the cart that carried my bag did the same. Our little convoy entered into the mountain through a twenty five meter diameter tunnel bored straight through the rock. I was reminded of the old ‘coal mine’ exhibit at Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry and the way that it was nearly impossible to gauge how far we were traveling; we passed endless, uniform walls, the cart’s lights illuminating only what was immediately in front of us.
Perhaps two or three hundred meters in, the wall curved away to the left. Another fifty meters further on and we reached a ‘T’ intersection. Finley turned right. We now traveled down another dark and interminable tunnel until the cart’s lights reflected off a stainless steel blast door up ahead. To the left another tunnel intersected at a forty-five degree angle.
“That would be the tunnel to the blast valves,” the Authoritarian Man offered.
“Why does a bunker need blast valves?” I asked, “Are there missiles at Site R, too?”
The Authoritarian Man snorted a little laugh. “A nuclear weapon creates a shock wave when it detonates. After the shock wave passes over a bunker it creates a negative pressure behind it. The blast valves are designed to keep all the air from being sucked out of the bunker and the occupants’ lungs. So where did you go after you passed the blast valves?”
We drove through the open blast door. The corridor beyond was illuminated by fluorescent lights encased in metal cages suspended from the rock ceiling. Finley switched off the cart’s little headlamps and we continued on towards the center of the mountain.
I reached into my shirt pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes and showed them to Finley. The colonel just shrugged so I lit up and leaned back in the golf cart seat, enjoying the smoke. We were now passing doorways with signage: INDUSTRIAL WATER RESERVOIR, WEST POWER PLANT and WEST ELECTRICAL. I finished the cigarette, stubbed it out against the side of the golf cart and discreetly let it fall to the concrete floor. Whatever section of Site-R we were traveling through (presumably the west side) it certainly wasn’t populated.