by Joe Nobody
The rescuers entered the tent opposite where they had spotted Grim’s bride. Their logic for not directly approaching Maggie was simple; they didn’t know what was going on… how things worked locally. Her reaction might spark curiosity from a supervisor – might lead to extra scrutiny that could hinder any attempt to extract the two women.
Finding an empty corner table, well away from the better-lit areas, the two men took a seat and waited until approached by a waitress who could’ve been serving drinks in any pre-collapse bar or club.
“Hi guys, I’m Maryanne, and I will be your server this evening. What can I get you?”
Bishop responded, “We’re new around here. What do you have?”
“We have beer, and it’s almost cold. We also have moonshine whiskey, but I would advise you to take it easy on the hard stuff. This latest batch made some of the troops ill.”
Images of Pete’s homemade brew and bathtub gin passed through Bishop’s mind, the seemingly endless need for alcoholic beverages no different now than before society fell apart. He wondered for just a moment if it’d always been that way. Biblical references to wine, the Romans’ famous trade routes established for trading such indulgences, and other examples littered history where the taste for alcohol had shaped local politics and the habits of men.
“I’ll take a cold beer,” Bishop replied, Grim ordering the same. A few minutes later, Maryanne returned, carrying two mismatched tumblers that would’ve been an embarrassment for any reasonable tavern just over a year ago.
Bishop estimated each beer was between eight and ten ounces, the small portions made more insulting by Maryanne’s demand for a significant amount of their chips. Some quick math allowed Bishop to determine that each of their beers had cost the equivalent of 10 rounds of ammunition. Not a good value from his estimation.
His consumer report took a nosedive over the weak, watered down brew. “It’s no wonder we haven’t seen more trouble around here,” he commented to Grim. “I bet there’s not enough alcohol in this beer to get a buzz, even after a dozen mugs.”
Grim ignored the complaint, handing the waitress a few chips, including a tip. Before she could hustle off, he stopped her and asked, “Maryanne, do you have a moment? Like my here friend said, we’re new here, and I’m really curious how all this works. We’ve not seen anything like this before… at least not since things went to hell.”
Unlike pre–collapse servers, Maryanne’s expression indicated she was in no mood to stand around and shoot the shit. Grim’s tip helped ease the tension only a little.
“I don’t know a whole lot,” she responded, obviously wanting to move on and serve other customers, and perhaps collect more tips.
Grim was persistent. “I’m sorry, but I have some family that lives close by, and I was wondering if this is a good place to work.”
The girl glanced right and left, checking to see if any of the establishment’s other employees were within earshot. She then hunched over the table and pretended to be wiping up a nonexistent spill. In a hushed voice, she answered, “They lie to you when you first come to work here. We barely make enough to buy our food and rent a space in one of the campers. Unless you’re willing to sell your body, no one makes enough to buy their way out.” She stood back up and added, “But I guess it beats starving to death.” And then she was gone.
Watching the girl scamper away, Grim mused, “I thought as much.”
From their vantage Bishop and Grim could not make eye contact with Maggie. Trying to fit in, they slowly sipped the lukewarm beer, neither man thinking it was worthy of bottling, neither knowing exactly what to do next.
After observing their surroundings for a while, Grim’s attention was drawn to a far corner of the huge tent. Indicating the area with a nod of his head, “That must be the VIP section over there. Check out all the muscle concentrated around those curtains. That’s more protection than the Secret Service gives the president.”
Gracefully, Bishop diverted his gaze where indicated, and had to agree with the assessment. Partially bordered by the end of the bar, a wall of drapes completed what was clearly meant to be an isolated, special oasis. He counted at least six very serious looking men, all equipped with carbines, all of their heads pivoting right and left as if scouring for threats. Their size and body language indicated a higher level of skill than the other private security. They concentrated their efforts in the same small area and were not mobile like the rest of the security personnel.
The party lights generated just enough glow to make out ambiguous shapes of other patrons sitting at the secluded tables. He was just about to comment when Grim pushed his chair back and stood.
“I’m going to casually saunter over that way and see what’s going on. My curiosity is peaked.”
And with that, the operator picked up his beer and slowly began meandering towards the exclusive section of the saloon. As Bishop watched, he had to hand it to Grim. Had he not known otherwise, he would’ve assumed that the operator was casually moseying around, perhaps seeking friends or colleagues. It took Grim almost 15 minutes to manage the scouting expedition, his progress constantly interrupted by clusters of soldiers, waitresses hustling beverages, and the packed compression of tables and chairs hindering the way. When he finally returned to his seat, Grim was smiling with confidence. “I think I know the guy who is running this show,” he announced. “It’s been a few years, but I think I recognized him from a stint at Fort Benning. His name is Major Beckworth.”
“No shit?”
Grim nodded, “I always thought that guy bent the rules a little too much. He worked behind the green door in Intelligence, and was always involved one spooky op or another.”
As if on cue, the security guards surrounding the retreat suddenly became alert, three of the armed men moving toward the nearest exit of the facility. Their action was immediately followed by a stocky, medium-height man with a shaved head appearing between the parted curtains. Closely tailed by an exceptionally beautiful woman and another guy with thick glasses who appeared to be some sort of clerk. The ex-major followed, making for the exit with a curt, military-esque stride. Before Bishop could comment, Grim was moving to intercept his old acquaintance.
Deciding he didn’t want to be left out of the loop, Bishop stood to follow, having to hustle in order to match his colleague’s pace.
“Major Beckworth! Major Beckworth!” Grim yelled.
The man paused, almost ignoring the hail, but then glanced over to catch Grim approaching through the maze of tables and humanity. Two of the security guards immediately moved to intercept, their carbines raised slightly higher than normal, their weight shifting forward to the balls of their feet.
Eventually, the major smiled, recognizing Grim with a slight tilt of his head. “It’s okay boys, I know him. Let him through.”
After the exchange of a handshake, Grim and the head honcho sized each other up. Bishop, anxious to join the party and wanting to support his friend, was stopped cold by the security guys.
“Grim, my gawd man, it’s been what? Fifteen years?”
“Yes, sir, at least. I see you’re doing well.”
The ex-major glanced at the woman draped on his arm and then grinned slyly. “I’ve had my share of luck. Right place and right time… What brings you to my Circus?”
Grim looked around, deciding there were too many ears close by. “That’s something we should probably discuss in private, sir.”
The former army officer was nothing if not perceptive, catching Grim’s meaning immediately. “Of course, of course. Why don’t you join me for dinner this evening? …Say around nine.”
“Why, I’d be honored, sir.”
“We can break bread and exaggerate old war stories,” Beckworth added. Then he turned to one of the security men and ordered, “Give my old friend directions to my RV, and see to it that he is taken care of.”
After receiving an acknowledgment that his wishes were understood, he returned his gaze to
Grim and said, “I’ve got an important meeting to attend right now, but I look forward to speaking with you later.”
And then the man in charge of the Circus was off, his entourage struggling to keep up. As he neared the edge of the Big Top, Beckworth again paused and motioned his security chief closer. “That son of a bitch Grim used to hang around with some pretty interesting people. Take a picture of that man with him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the other guy before, but maybe Washington can shed some light on who my old friend is keeping company with these days.”
“Yes, sir… I’ll take care of it.”
“Send it right away,” the boss added. “If we can get something back before dinner, it might help spice up my conversation.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
Chapter 13
Millington, Tennessee
July 11, 2016
Beckworth’s security man peeled off the detail surrounding his boss after they arrived in a safer area of the compound.
After making sure his charge was well protected, he returned to the Big Top, working his way around the perimeter until his angle allowed for a clear view of Grim and Bishop’s table.
The two strangers were talking, occasionally glancing around at the activities, the man they called Grim checking his watch to make sure he didn’t miss his dinner date.
Despite months without operational towers, the head bodyguard still kept his cell phone fully charged, having found a multitude of uses for the handy device. One such task was taking pictures that could easily be transferred to any computer.
After adjusting the focus, he quickly snapped a series of photographs of both men and then made for the main office.
It took a few minutes to cross the grounds, several of his security forces issuing greetings, a few men needing clarification about this or that. Eventually he arrived at the one functional door leading into the actual mall. The major had wanted bookkeeping, communications and other critical infrastructure set up inside a real brick and mortar building.
Through his connections with both the military and the bigwigs in Washington, the boss had acquired an operational satellite communications system identical to the one used by Special Forces teams on remote missions.
Using a codebook residing next to the sophisticated machine, he punched in the prerequisite information and then swiveled to a nearby computer. A few seconds later, the images stored on his cell phone were traveling into space, almost immediately redirected to a similar unit at the Pentagon.
Finished with his task, he reset the transmitter, secured the computer, and then headed back to his primary job – making sure the major survived another day.
While full network communications hadn’t been reestablished, the airwaves used by the military machine were far from empty. The sergeant working the night shift saw the transmission come in, noting nothing special or urgent about the request.
The National Security Agency handled all such inquires asking for identification and background file information, so he followed procedure and forwarded the request to that agency.
It took only 11 minutes for the massive banks of computer servers to match Bishop and Grim’s photos. An automated computer algorithm measured eight different points of each man’s face, those dimensions as unique as fingerprints.
A database was then searched, the binary code identifying a match within a few seconds. Once each man’s name was known, a less powerful machine took over, gathering data about the subjects from various sources throughout the massive amount of information stored by the federal government.
Military, tax, social and diplomatic archives were queried, the returned information consolidated and then eventually retransmitted back to the Pentagon. The entire process took less than 15 minutes.
Back in the basement of the military’s Washington headquarters, the sergeant’s console again indicated incoming traffic.
He noted the NSA’s normal efficiency and again followed procedure, giving the packets a manual check for completeness and content.
One of the numerous items returned was a history of other such inquiries for each of the subjects. If the FBI or the IRS had shown interest in either man, it would be noted on the records.
His eyebrows rose just slightly when he noticed a recent inquiry on one of the files. Switching to another program, he verified that his memory was correct.
Someone had recently pulled a similar file on one of the men. The access code used only a few days ago began with the prefix “01.” Only the Commander in Chief or one of his top advisors could use that code.
Anything to do with the president invoked a completely different protocol. The sergeant immediately reached for the phone residing next to his computer. It was time to call in an officer.
A gruff voice answered on the second ring. “Colonel Peterson.”
“Sir, this is Sergeant McConnell in the communications room. We just received a type six information request from the Memphis region of Operation Heartland. The request generated a duplicate hit on one of the subjects – the original request instigated by the president.”
The colonel didn’t respond for a moment, obviously trying to determine how to handle the unusual situation. Finally he responded, “Send me the file, Sergeant. I believe General Owens is still at Camp David with the president. I’ll let him handle it.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Owens was just about to turn in, finishing up the seemingly endless number of status reports, correspondence and other paperwork required of the rank.
Groaning when his computer indicated yet another message had arrived in his inbox, he opened the new correspondence with a grimace.
For a moment, he didn’t understand why he had been forwarded what appeared to be a standard request for information from one of the units assigned to Operation Heartland.
Once he realized the reason, he printed the first few pages of the attached file and left his quarters, heading directly for President Moreland’s cabin.
He was shown in immediately by Agent Powell, the prompt admittance evidence that Owens didn’t just drop by unless it was something critical.
“What’s so urgent, General?” Moreland greeted.
“Sir, one of the leaders from West Texas… one of the men we’ve been researching… he has shown up in Tennessee.”
The statement heightened the chief executive’s attention. “Which one?”
Handing over the printout, Marcus replied, “Bishop.”
Moreland didn’t react at first, studying the papers in detail. He finally looked up with a puzzled expression, “This is the man who shot Wayne,” he mumbled, quickly adding, “He is also their leader’s husband. What the hell is he doing in Memphis?”
“Unknown, sir. Protocol dictated you be informed of the duplicate request. Other than that, I have no additional facts.”
The president’s gaze returned to the documents in his hand, but it was clear he was thinking through the implications of the situation. “General, I want to talk to the person who submitted this request. I want to find out why this man has left his wife and newborn child and is roaming around inside our territory. And whatever they do down there, don’t let him out of sight until I’ve had a chance to think this through.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
Just as Bishop thought he was going to have to go barter more of his ammunition in order to remain at their table, Grim returned.
“Like my daddy always said,” Grim began. “It’s not what you know, but who you know.”
“So I take it your ex–CO was glad to see you?”
Nodding, Grim replied, “Yes, and I got invited to eat dinner with him this evening. I’m hoping to be able to reach an arrangement with Beckworth in order to secure release for Maggie and Jana.”
“That would sure solve a lot of problems,” Bishop noted. “Still, do you think that’s possible?”
“I can only hope… otherwise, getting them out of here is goin
g to be a serious challenge. I don’t think he’ll give them up without some sort of deal. He’s just not that type of guy. Back in the day, Beckworth was always on the edge of something shady. He ran with CIA and other spook-types, and there was always a hint that he was involved in some sort of dark enterprise of one kind or another. Rumors abounded… One time I heard the major was running a prostitution ring at Benning, another that he was knee deep in black market weapons running through Baghdad. He’s the type that won’t give up anything unless he gets better in return.”
Bishop had anticipated as much, Maryanne’s reaction indicating just such an employer.
After a few more swallows of beer, Grim tapped the face of his watch and announced that he was going to go and freshen up for dinner. “I’m going to go pay for a hot bath,” he declared, grabbing a handful of casino chips. “At least I can smell civilized while dining with the uncivilized. I’ll meet you back here in three hours.”
Slightly pissed that Grim had not included him in the dinner plans, Bishop remained at the table and ordered another beer, of which he had no intention of drinking.
He dawdled, sipping the puny brew and watching the comings and goings of both the customers and the employees. He noted that there were officers and enlisted men, both partaking of the local libations. It was just like the army he remembered, an unspoken separation between the ranks. Soldiers tended to cluster with their own classifications, seeming to ignore those who were not members of the same group.
Movement beside his table interrupted Bishop’s analysis, the sudden appearance of a young lady drawing his attention.
“Buy a girl a drink?”
“Sure, have a seat. Maryanne is my waitress; she should be by shortly.”
The lady now seated at Bishop’s table wasn’t unattractive. He had made the invitation, snap judgment as it was, to invite her based mostly on a desire for more information with a small dose of boredom also to blame.
Their conversation started off casually enough, Bishop having experienced dozens of such encounters back in his single days while stationed at Fort Bragg. Like any town close to a major military base, Fayetteville had possessed its fair share of local watering holes, often frequented by young females who weren’t opposed to conversing with the locally stationed soldiers.