by Bell, D. R.
“So what should we do?”
“I think it’s time to move to negative campaigning,” Drake cut the air with the palm of his hand. “Start aggressively portraying both Dimon and Kron as dangerous, bound to make the situation worse, not better. This may dissuade some of their supporters, perhaps get them to stay home on the Election Day.”
Maxwell grimaced at the mention of negative campaigning, and stood up:
“Gentlemen, I am afraid I have to go. I have an audience with an ambassador of Philippines. Speaking of dangerous situations, they are worried about increasingly threatening rhetoric coming from China.”
After the meeting broke up, Tice went to his office. He looked out the window for a few minutes, then picked up the phone:
“Roger, give me the FBI director.”
A minute later, Director Miller was on the line:
“Hello, Brian.”
“Hi, Ryan. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Well, when the Vice President calls, I step out of my meetings.”
“Thank you. Ryan, I have a favor to ask. I presume you are keeping an eye on John Dimon and Jeff Kron, right?”
“Of course. For their safety.”
“Naturally. Ryan, I’d like for you to follow them a bit more closely and report to me when you see something interesting.”
“You mean like comprehensive surveillance? Phone, internet, conversations, video recording, drone tracking, agents?”
“Well, perhaps not agents. I don’t want to hear about this on TV.”
“Brian, this is not right. You are looking for dirt on other candidates and you want me to spy on them for you?”
“Ryan, I think it’s entirely appropriate. We, candidates of major parties, get vetted through many years of public service, living our lives in the open. They came out of nowhere. Who knows what skeletons are hiding in their closets, what allegiances they carry? Don’t you worry about the background of people that have a chance to occupy the Oval Office?”
“As you know, we did quite thorough background checks on them and found nothing of concern.”
“Ryan, it depends on what you search for. Everyone is guilty of something, just have to look long enough.”
“And we’ll need warrants for comprehensive surveillance,” Miller’s tone was admitting defeat.
“Well, Ryan, think about it this way. I know you have political ambitions. Either one of these guys, if they are to come to power, will kick you out of your office. If you refuse to help me and I win, I will also kick you out of the office. Your only chance of staying in Washington and perhaps one day being on a ticket is to help me win. As for warrants, don’t you have some discretion in these matters? Plenty of people have been followed electronically without warrants.”
Miller breathed heavily, deliberating. You want to get along, you go along. You let the powers-to-be define the objectives.
“OK, Brian. I’ll keep an eye out and let you know if anything of interest shows up.”
Los Angeles, USA
Maggie brushed her hair, studying herself in the mirror. She now wore the hair long and blond. Eyes, cheeks, lips, nose – all have undergone careful alterations. Two plastic surgeries to keep them ahead of ever-evolving and spreading face detection technologies. She touched crow’s feet around her mouth. Would have loved to get rid of them but their cosmetic work was for survival, not beauty. They did not have the money for a third surgery anyway.
The journey from Hermosillo had taken three days. Oleg came into town and brought a set of new documents and ‘life history’ files. He made them participate in a virtual reality demo of the border crossing between Aqua Prieta and Douglas – the trip planners decided to use it instead of a more popular Nogales.
The last night there, she and David had a fight. He wanted to go back by himself:
“It’s not necessary for you to go. I’ll do it and come back for you.”
“You expect me to stay here by myself? What if something happens to you?”
“Nothing will happen. And in any case, what can...” he caught himself.
“Go ahead, finish it! You were gonna say ‘What can you do?’. Right? Right?”
David said nothing, just bit his lip.
“Damn you, David! Damn you! When I was kidnapped two years ago, did you say ‘What can I do?’ Or did you idiotically go there unarmed and try to bluff them into letting me go?”
“Idiotically?”
“Yes, it was the dumbest, stupidest thing imaginable,” she put her arms around him, stuck her face into his chest.
“I just want to end this,” His hand stroked her hair. “I can’t live like that any longer. I can’t do this to you any longer.”
“I know, love, I know,” he could barely hear as her words caught up in his shirt. “I want to end this too. But we have to do it together.”
The next day an old Suburban with two close-mouthed guides picked them up and drove to the border. They crossed at midnight without problems and stayed overnight in a small house in Douglas. In the afternoon, a dual cab pickup truck came, also with two silent-type guides, and drove them northwest towards Phoenix. Maggie noticed a small video camera mounted on a dashboard and asked the guides what it was for. One of the guides replied: “To record things.”
“What things? Why?”
“Police. Want to have our own record.”
Maggie did not press further. An hour later a police cruiser pulled up next to them, stayed even for a few seconds, then sped away. The guide turned back and asked Maggie:
“Did you see this?”
“The police car?”
“Yep. No people in it.”
“Really?” wondered David. “I thought I saw a driver!”
“That’s just a mannequin. They deployed these self-driving police cars on the interstates a year ago. Measures your speed, takes a picture of your license plate and the occupants, runs a query. If you are wanted for anything, lights start flashing, you have to pull over. I hear in some places they are using robot policemen now, but here you wait until a car with deputies arrives.”
“And if you don’t stop?”
“Two or three of these cars converge on you, a police drone swoops from overhead. If you get off the road, they’ll shoot out your tires.”
The pickup crew dropped them off in a small cul-de-sac house in a working-class area of Phoenix. An old couple there already had dinner waiting for the travelers.
At the table, David asked their hosts:
“I’ve seen a bunch of No Taxation Without Representation! signs today, some on the side of the road, some painted on buildings. Why is that?”
The old man explained:
“They just sprung up in the last year of so. Some folks feel that the government represents only rich people. They figure if the government does not stand for me, I should not have to pay to support it.”
“There were always people that claimed the government should not be collecting taxes ...”
“True, but those were fringe folks that just refused to pay outright. Nowadays, it’s gone to regular people. That’s why you see the signs popping up everywhere.”
It was past four in the afternoon the next day when the doorbell rang and, to the hosts’ great relief, a man came to get Oleg, Maggie, and David. He introduced himself as Mike, apologized and explained that he had to change cars in Phoenix and that took longer than planned: “With video cameras everywhere plugged into computer systems looking for anything even slightly unusual, we did not want to have the same car going from LA to Phoenix and back in one day.” A black SUV with a bump on the roof was parked outside. The driver dictated an address and the car took off by itself.
“Hey, what are you doing? Put your hands on the steering wheel!” exclaimed Oleg.
The driver laughed:
“I will if needed. It’s a self-driving car. Did you see the laser sensor on the roof?”
Oleg looked decidedly uneasy for the next couple of hours, but
the car drove comfortably and he eventually relaxed.
Huge 3-D electronic billboards were bombarding them from both sides of the freeway. Showgirls were throwing up their legs and inviting them to visit Las Vegas. A humanoid robot was raking a garden and proudly proclaiming that he came with a five years head to toe warranty. A happy-looking couple standing in front of a house full of lights proudly proclaimed that with their new generator they no longer worried about power outages. A smiling man was waiving to passing cars, the billboard proclaiming John Dimon, A True American Patriot. An electronics company was pushing its product with The PowerWatch – the Last Computer You Will Ever Need!
“I got myself one of those PowerWatches,” said Mike, the nominal driver. “Projects a screen, projects a keyboard. True, don’t need no computer.”
It was close to midnight when they entered the never-ending suburbs of LA. From her past trips to Big Bear and Las Vegas, Maggie remembered brightly lit neon signs lining up the freeway for dozens of miles. Now, these signs were interspersed with patches of darkness.
“Less than twenty miles worth of gas left,” the car announced in a metallic voice. “Should I look for a gas station?”
“Yes,” replied Mike.
They got off the 10 Freeway and drove down a dark street where the car pulled into a gas station. However, the station looked like it had been closed for days, if not months.
“Find another station,” Mike instructed the car.
The next one was open. Before getting out of the car, Mike reached under the driver’s seat, pulled out a gun and stuck it into his belt. After filling up, the car took them back on the freeway.
“Why were these streets so dark?” asked David.
“Some of the suburbs have been hit pretty hard in the last few years,” explained Mike. “Water and electricity became more expensive. People that could not afford their house and utility payments started walking away, moving to more urban areas. Then squatters would show up. Once a couple of houses on a block get taken over by squatters, other families would start leaving. Then businesses would go. Some areas, especially gated communities, brought in security and managed to keep their places safe. Other neighborhoods went dark, turned into ghost cities.”
Maggie brought her thoughts back to LA, to Alejandro’s house. Her eyes grazed over a silver box of birth control pills. She steadfastly refused to switch to easier, more modern methods because this one was the fastest to reverse. While in Mexico, a few times she and David talked about her stopping the pills but they had never felt safe enough to bring a child into this world. Maggie shook off the memories, took one more look in the mirror, narrowed her eyes, inhaled and slowly released. Cowardice is the greatest sin. Please give me the strength to endure.
Denver, USA
“Where the hell is he?” bellowed Jonathan Morton. “I rushed here from the airport, all upset over being half-an-hour late, and you two loverboys are sitting here sucking on your thumbs!” he pointed at Bob Johnson and Chris Bigelow.
Johnson, a stocky corduroy-jacketed man with a brush cut, nodded at the closed door on the left side of the enormous suite:
“There.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“Damn it, Chris, you are campaign co-manager, you have to control him! With all his talk about values, last thing we need is for him to be caught bonking women left and right!”
“Get off your damn horse,” snarled Bigelow. He looked the opposite of Johnson: short, thin, pale, and almost delicate. Armani suit, perfectly arranged tie. Surprisingly deep voice did not match the appearance. “You know he won’t listen. And I am not sure that news of his womanizing would be such a horrible setback. In our polling, people like him for his strong leadership. This may even add to his alpha male image.”
“Are you at least making sure his dalliances don’t have some sordid history?” Morton turned on Johnson.
“I am a head of security, not a pimp,” retorted Johnson angrily. “We do check what we can but it’s not like I am procuring his girls!”
“Who is she this time?”
“One of the party representatives from Illinois. He flew a bunch of them in for one of his inspirational talks. His eyes were glued to her rack during the whole speech, so we knew what was gonna happen. Her record is clean.”
“Well, at least you are checking. And thanks for not wearing that ugly FreedomShield uniform.”
Bigelow and Morton both smirked.
As Johnson turned crimson and started getting up, the door on the left opened and John Dimon appeared, buttoning his shirt. His face and chest were red with perspiration. Amazingly, his famous hair looked perfect: groomed, smooth, nothing out of place, dark with just a touch of grey on the sides. Communicating virility and experience.
“What’s all the noise, my friends?” he boomed out. “Are you killing each other again?”
Dimon walked over to the side table, poured and noisily drank a glass of water. He left the bedroom door wide open, treating the room’s occupants to the view of a blond woman in her late thirties busily trying to cover and arrange herself.
Dimon turned back to her:
“Susan, dear, say hi to my brain trust here!”
Susan whimpered something in embarrassment and tried to sneak out of the suite, but Dimon intercepted her and put his arm around her shoulders:
“Dear, thank you so much for explaining to me the situation in your state and for working so tirelessly on our campaign! I am blessed to have such dedicated, good-looking representatives.”
After he escorted Susan out, Dimon turned to his team:
“Damn, those legs! Which state is she from? Let’s put some extra support behind her.”
“I wish you haven’t been taking such chances now,” grimly commented Bigelow. “Get elected, then chase all the tail you want.”
“Oh, don’t be a killjoy!” laughed Dimon. “I need this energy boost, how would I campaign otherwise?”
“I’m glad you remember there is a campaign going on,” retorted Morton. “Because I bring some damn good campaign news to you!”
“Now we are talking!” Dimon slammed his palm on the table, his face getting even redder. “Hit me with it!”
Ignoring expectant silence, Morton sauntered to the side table, poured himself a couple of fingers of scotch, sniffed it and took a slow swallow.
“Ah, this is better. Guess where I just flew from?”
“Jonathan, cut this crap! Just tell me!”
“Patience, patience. I came from Pennsylvania. You will be going there in a few days.”
“Why? Pennsylvania is not on our campaign schedule until late July,” wondered Bigelow.
“Because that’s where John will be giving his speech on July 4th!”
“He is supposed to be giving a speech right here, in Denver!” protested Bigelow.
“Cancel that! John will be giving his speech at Gettysburg!”
Morton enjoyed his triumph as the three others exclaimed in shock.
“How did you pull this off?” even Dimon was floored.
Morton smiled, “The superintendent of the Gettysburg National Military Park is a big supporter of yours. He actually contacted us with this idea and I flew there to meet him. Just imagine, on the sacred ground of the famous battle, as the country is reeling and looking for a strong leadership, the new Lincoln is rising! We’ll milk this for all it’s worth!”
“Brilliant! I love it,” Dimon jumped up and walked the room in excitement, pumping his arm.
“What about the logistics? Security?” asked the ever-cautious Bigelow, “We have only a few days to prepare.”
“How’s my Praetorian Guard?” Dimon turned to Johnson. “Are you going to pull this off?”
“We will, Mr. Dimon. FreedomShield has a lot of resources at our disposal. We’ve got you covered!”
“Your ‘resources’ don’t come cheap,” griped Bigelow. “How much will this cost us?”
“I will talk
to Erik, we’ll take care of Mr. Dimon,” parried Johnson.
“Thank you, Bob, you guys do take good care of me,” agreed Dimon. “But the campaign does need money. Chris, we have to more actively reach out to the big donors.”
“We’ve been reaching out but many of them are either supporting Tice or on the fence because Kron is such a close second.”
“Darn, that Kron keeps getting in the way. He’s got no money, no major backers, how come we can’t shake him off?”
“Well, John, there are some things we can learn from him,” Morton inserted himself into the discussion. “His ‘virtual townhall’ approach proved to be cheap and quite effective. We should start looking for ways to undermine his campaign. Set up some traps, feed disinformation, watch for him to stumble.”
“We can put round-the-clock surveillance on him,” chimed in Johnson.
“Yes, talk to Erik about setting this up,” nodded Dimon. “Now, about Gettysburg and the whole ‘second Lincoln’ theme... can it backfire?”
“No doubt, we have to be careful,” Morton was back in his element. “We’ll just create a setting and under no circumstances use Lincoln’s name. Let others bring it up, we’ll help them. We craft your speech short and sweet. Not as short as the Gettysburg Address, but keep it under a thousand words and fifteen minutes, don’t get bogged down in details, look solemn and presidential. A dose of theatrical show will go a long way. Create a sense of danger, make them feel we need urgent action.”
“And which themes do we hit?”
“The same we’ve been hitting all along: the greatness of America, why our enemies hate us, dealing with them from the position of strength, restoring our natural right to lead. Positive, memorable soundbytes, ideal for the internet. You, looking strong, humble, servant of the people with understated sex appeal. We don’t need a lot of people; just have FreedomShield bring in enough of their ‘volunteers’ to fill the video frame. Then we let Treadwell do his media thing and promote the hell out of it.”