by Gordon Ryan
“I’m exhausted, Pug. Bone weary. It’s emotional fatigue, I know, since I’ve not had any time to exercise, jog, or do anything physical. I’m just physically drained.”
“Why don’t we just sit here for a bit before we leave? I think you need some time to unwind.”
Rachel nodded her agreement. “That sounds wonderful. Let me get us a couple of glasses of iced tea.”
“Sit down, Rachel.” Pug said. “With your permission, I’ll get them.”
“There’s a pitcher in the fridge, with glasses in the second cupboard to the right of the stove,” she said.
When Pug returned, Rachel had moved the deck umbrella to shield them from the setting sun and placed two chairs near the small table. Pug placed both glasses on the table and slid his chair next to hers, both facing the river.
“I could get used to being served,” Rachel said.
Pug smiled. “Living alone can become rather selfish,” he admitted, “but one has to fend for one’s self. Serving each other is part of the human contract, isn’t it?”
“Are you selfish, Pug?” she asked, a softer tone appearing in her voice.
“Sometimes, I probably am. No one to answer to, time commitments only to myself. Yes, I suppose I am.”
“That’s why I try to convince my daughters to come home as often as possible. The ‘mom’ takes over and I become the servant, rather than selfish.”
“I could drop by occasionally if you need someone to cook for, or to serve.”
Rachel looked at Pug, her eyes bright and suddenly cheerful. “You are good for me, Pug, but I meant what I said before. That road is full of potholes.”
“I beg your pardon, madam. Are you calling me a pothole?”
Rachel laughed out loud, the first time in over a week. “What’s the old country music expression, five miles of bad road?”
Pug reached for Rachel’s hand, pulling it closer to his lips and kissing it. “Why don’t we just consider me a ‘detour’ road for awhile? Maybe we’ll find out that you can get where you’re going without dropping into one of those pot-holes.”
“Why don’t we just finish our tea, watch the sunset over the river, and drive to the restaurant? I’ve had too many potholes already this week.”
They sat silently for nearly five minutes, sipping their drinks before Rachel spoke again. “I think I’ve let my sorrow overwhelm me. Three of the people in the mall attack, two women with whom I’d served when my girls were in Brownies, were killed. The father and one son who had gone to a basketball game that Saturday were devastated. I attended church with Mom on Sunday, the day after the attack, and the pastor asked me, and Mom, since she’s in the women’s organization, to go with him that evening to visit the family. I knew this woman, Pug. I loved her and her family. These people were not constituents, they were like sisters. So very close to my heart. My mother’s strength pulled me through it. I could see that even the pastor admired my mother for her strength. Joan’s — that’s her name, by the way, the woman who was killed — husband was virtually speechless. The boy, he’s about fifteen, was in tears the whole time, but silent too. I’m not a psychologist, but he seemed to be in shock. They couldn’t understand how this could happen in America. I can’t either, Pug. On the flight back, I even asked myself how God could let this happen.”
“That’s understandable, Rachel. You’ve already had more than your share of tragedy in your own life. It’s too close to the surface every time you see someone else struck by tragedy. When I was young and something terrible would happen, and I would question why, the answer my father always gave me was that we all had to remember the basic premise of free choice. We choose, not God. He gave us that right. And good people often suffer the consequences of the evil decisions of others. We can only see this life, but if someone believes in an afterlife, then the eternities will hold the answers for us. We may eventually see our mortality as but a weekend with respect to eternity. A tough weekend sometimes, but comparatively short. It’s not pleasant to contemplate, Rachel, but life comes with many types of potholes.”
Again they were silent for several minutes before Rachel broke the silence. “I’m hungry. Are you ready to go?”
Pug gathered up the glasses, walked into the kitchen and rinsed them in the sink, placed them in the dishwasher, then returned to find Rachel standing on the front steps. As he closed the front door, they descended several steps off the porch and walked toward Pug’s car, and once inside, Rachel pressed a Speed Dial number on her cell phone.”
“Activating the security system in your house?” he said, remembering the first night he had driven her home.
“You learn fast. No wonder they made you a general,” she said.
Three hours later, as they arrived at Rachel’s home, it was nearly midnight. Pug walked her to the front door ,where they paused near the railing on the porch to view the moon reflecting off the Potomac.
“Thank you for tonight, Pug,” Rachel said. “I needed this tranquility.” She hesitated, her face turning grim. “I may grow to hate that word, given its new affiliation with the bill Senator Winchester introduced on Tuesday. It would be a shame to lose such a peaceful word because of association with more distressful events.”
“Will it pass?” Pug asked.
“In a heartbeat. Any representative or senator opposed will be vilified and ostracized by his or her peers. It will cross party lines better than any legislation in memory.”
“I must admit, Rachel, that it contains some measures that will make my job a lot easier to perform. Arrest and detention, I mean. And interrogation, search and seizure of property.”
“Is that the America you envisioned when you were a child, when you entered the Naval Academy? Is a police state your idea of freedom?”
Pug shook his head. “Of course not, but we’re faced with a terrible situation, Rachel. I don’t have to explain that to you, of all people. At some point, we have to rely on our guardians to have our best interest at heart. We have to trust the police and the military.”
“And what about others who are less restrained or honest then you are, Pug? Who will curtail their actions? Who will stop them from abusing those rights? Probably some politician in South America, maybe even a well-meaning person, said it was good for their country too, then hundreds of people began to disappear and were never seen again. If you think that can’t happen in America, you underestimate the nature of people who demand to have their own way. Power is an addictive thing, Pug. Those who hold it come to believe their vision is the only one worth pursuing and violating the rights of a few people—or a few thousand—is worth the sacrifice. Not their sacrifice, of course, but those who disagree. Dissent will become a thing of the past. I’ve already seen the symptoms in the Senate. People who ran for office for honorable reasons convince themselves that their ideas are the only right ones. In some countries, they convince themselves and others that a few hundred or a few thousand people killed is little to ask for the salvation of tens of thousands of others. And it grows incrementally. People become afraid to speak against the government.”
He nodded. “I understand the concerns. It will be a balancing act and law enforcement, military or civilian, will need to police their own house to assure civil rights are not trampled in the process.”
“As I said, it hasn’t worked in many countries that we came to call ‘banana republics.’ Their citizens are oppressed, or killed, by those intent on retaining power.”
“Granted,” Pug said. “But we can rise above that.”
“I hope so, Pug. I truly hope so.”
“Thank you for tonight, Rachel. I’m very grateful you accepted my invitation.”
“For me too, Pug,” she said, stepping in close. Without comment, she leaned even closer and lifted her chin, placing her hand behind Pug’s head and pulling him close enough to kiss. He reacted by putting his arms around her, wrapping her in a full embrace. When she withdrew, Rachel leaned back and smiled up at him. “
I know we need to face our potholes, Pug, and can’t run away from them, even if they seem dark and dangerous.”
“Are you suggesting that you’re willing to ‘patch’ my pot-holes, Rachel?”
“I’m suggesting that I don’t want to be alone tonight. I’m suggesting that this is not recreational sex, but that it’s an emotional need. I do care for you Pug, and it may not sound romantic, but I need you on duty tonight, General Connor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pug said, pulling her closer once again. “The Marine Corps is honored to be of service.”
Chapter 34
Eisenhower Executive Office Building
Washington D.C.
July
When Pug walked into the EEOB on Friday morning, he was met in the corridor by Carlos Castro. “Seen the morning papers?” Carlos asked.
Pug raised his copy of the Washington Post from under his arm and motioned toward Carlos’s office. Once inside, Pug dropped the paper onto the table top and took a seat in front of Carlos’s desk. The headline read:
Domestic Tranquility Law of the Land
Individual Citizen Rights Restricted
“It gives us carte blanche,” Carlos said, “but it certainly ties the hands of ordinary citizens if they happen to be stopped for trespassing.”
Pug nodded. “Senator Winchester has been quoted on every talk show since last night. He’s today’s hero. Truth is, it will make our job a lot easier, with no restrictions and ten-day retention without charges being filed.”
Carlos exhaled and took a chair behind his desk. “General, America is headed down a path that may be impossible to retrace. I’m trying to see the bright side of this, but as a lawyer, even a non-practicing lawyer, I find this infringement on citizen rights troubling. Don’t you?”
Pug was still standing and retrieved his newspaper from the table, re-reading the headline. “I haven’t decided, Carlos. Anything that helps us catch the Wild Bunch . . . I just don’t know. We’ll see.”
“What I’m concerned about, General, is that we’ll see the fallacies of this course of action too late to reverse course.”
“I understand that. Well, let’s see what the day brings,” he said, leaving Carlos’s office. As Pug entered his office, his telephone voice mail light was flashing. Three messages were identified and he pressed the play button. The lilt of an Irish accent in the first message took his complete interest and he quickly listened to the next two, neither of which was important and both were deleted. He replayed the first message.
“Good day to yer, General Connor. If you’ve time for a stroll with a friend of the old sod, be at the Washington Memorial, Friday morning at 11:00.”
Pug quickly glanced at his watch, which read 7:45. He had just enough time to finish reading the Domestic Tranquility analysis paper Carlos had prepared and to meet with the Trojan team to discuss the pros and cons of the analysis. He pressed the intercom button.
“Carlos, just got an interesting phone message. Could you join me for a few moments, please?”
“On the way, General,” Castro replied.
As soon as Castro stepped into Pug’s office, Lieutenant Holcomb followed him. Pug smiled as both men entered the room. Holcomb deferred to Carlos at the doorway, a sure sign that the junior officers were accepting a former enlisted man in a senior position.
“Two Marines and a Naval Lieutenant in the same room. What should we make of that, Mr. Deputy Director?” Pug quipped. Holcomb had often been the foil in the service rivalry in the office.
Without the slightest hesitation, Castro puffed his chest and lowered his voice several decibels, replicating the Marine drill instructor’s soft warning that was often delivered just before the in-your-face, spit-flecked tirade. He assumed the third-person personae, so familiar with drill instructors. “General, the Deputy Director, with Marine green blood still flowing in his veins, believes that the Naval officer in question has experienced an epiphany and deeply regrets his choice of military service. It is my opinion, sir, that he has come to request an immediate transfer to the Corps,” Castro replied.
Pug laughed out loud while Lieutenant Holcomb stared silently at Castro. In the first few weeks of operation, each of the officers selected to be part of Trojan had responded well to the presence of a former enlisted man serving as Deputy Director. On several occasions, some of the team had privately shared with General Connor their admiration for the new deputy and his ability to grasp the most abstract concept of their operation.
“Hardly, Mr. Castro,” Holcomb added. “Despite your transition to the civilian world, where your co-workers have tried to teach you the protocol for the use of a knife and fork and more importantly, a napkin, this Naval lieutenant thinks it’s more likely that with two Marines in one location, and in recognition of said Naval lieutenant’s responsibility to the Naval Service, which includes the subordinate service commonly referred to as the Marine Corps, said Naval officer was required to assure protocol was observed and he felt it his duty to prevent any disparaging behavior and protect the image of the Naval service. With all due respect to our Marine commander, of course, General,” he said, a sly smile on his face.
“Okay, “Pug said, “the obligatory inter-service rivalry having been accomplished for today, two petulant Marines having been properly chastened, shall we proceed with the nation’s business? I’ve had a voice mail contact from an old Irish associate. Carlos, it’s your new friend from Dublin, Mr. Donahue. He wants to meet with me at eleven hundred hours near the Washington Memorial. Carlos, can you arrange perimeter security, please, and keep it low-keyed? But I want a shooter within range.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And Jim, I’ll want you in the van to monitor the conversation. I’ll be wired, although my contact will assume that and likely not speak plainly.”
“Will do, General. Can you tell us what this man wants?”
“I’m not certain. He’s a former brigade commander in the IRA. I’ve known him for about six years, met with him twice, in Ireland and Brussels. I sent Carlos to meet with him in January.”
“Do you know the subject of today’s meeting, sir?” the lieutenant asked.
“No. But this is the man who put us on to Wolff and the domestic shooters. Maybe he’s opened a new link.”
“We’ll be ready, General,” Castro said.
“Right then. Hop to it,” Pug said. “I expect everyone to be up to speed on Domestic Tranquility and Trojan’s analysis by our staff meeting at 9:00. I’ll keep it short, about thirty minutes, so we can get ready for the following meeting with our Irish friend.”
The Washington monument was a central icon in downtown Washington D.C. Thousands of tourists visited the site every day of the year. Ironically, in the nearly three months that random shootings had dominated the American landscape, none had occurred anywhere near D.C.
Trojan had considered that intentional and determined it was not an oversight, but perhaps preparatory to the D.C. area being the target of a much larger, coordinated attack similar to the nationwide baseball park shootings which had kicked off the Wild Bunch. An attack such as the Overland Park Mall or the aborted attack in San Antonio was imminent and was a constant threat. The absence of shootings, however, had not lessened the presence of security. Capitol police had been augmented by regular Army forces and BDU-clad soldiers were visible on every street in the downtown area. The outside mall from the Capitol Building to the Lincoln Memorial reminded him, as Lieutenant Holcomb had once exclaimed, of the penalty quad at Annapolis after a particularly rough weekend of miscreant behavior by midshipmen, with dozens of uniformed personnel walking punishment tours. Holcomb admitted that he had been among the throng during his first year at the Naval Academy. Pug had admitted to a few laps himself during his academy days.
At 10:30, Pug strolled casually from his office toward the needle-shaped obelisk—some called it missile-shaped—pausing on the corner to buy a hot dog and a Sprite. As he approached the monument, he sat
down on a bench and began to eat, watching the tourists stroll by, or enter and leave the monument. It was a brave soul who ventured forth to climb the 897 stairs to the pinnacle, which, some years earlier had been closed due to safety concerns. In about ten minutes, Kevin Donahue quietly slid into the seat next to Pug.
“Top ‘o the morning to you, General.”
“Good morning, Kevin. Did you come in through customs, or slip across from Canada or Mexico with the illegals?”
“Which method will allow me to stay and draw retirement pay?” Donahue asked.
Pug laughed. “The latter, I think. Both are entitled to health care and are safe from politically incorrect ethnic jokes. So, what brings you to America . . . this time, Kevin?”
“From the news broadcasts, the information I gave you in Ireland seems to have been accurate.”
Pug nodded. “And it was appreciated. You called, I came, and I’m here listening. You didn’t make the trip to confirm earlier information. What’s up?”
“Given our friendly, cooperative association, I thought some of the facts needed to be corrected. I may have left you with the wrong impression and I didn’t want you to think I misled you, at least not intentionally.”
Pug raised an eyebrow, turning to look directly at Donahue. The older man continued.
“We’ve both been misled, lad, and I don’t want to leave that impression.”
“I’m listening,” Pug repeated.
“Did I ever tell you about me sister, General? A beautiful lass she is. But a bit obstinate. Never would listen. She married a fellow from Donegal. Kilpatrick was his name. Sure now the Kilpatricks are a sturdy lot, but a bit inclined to skite, if you know what I mean. They shoot off their mouths too often, taking the mickey out of anyone they think less fortunate.”
Pug knew enough to keep quiet. Donahue would get to the point soon enough, but in his own Irish, literary way.
“Anyways, Maureen, that’s me sister’s name, by the way. Maureen and Kilpatrick had a young lad named Sean. Sean was too young to become involved in the ‘business,’ if you get my meaning. He didn’t have the benefit of years of experience. And when my lot, the old timers, smoked the peace pipe with the bloody Brits, Sean was unable to find local work, so he had to find suitable outsource work, so to speak. Do ya understand, General?”