by Vincent Heck
Vincent E. Heck Jr.
LAST
WAR
LAST
WAR
19-FourSixOh House
Philadelphia, Pa
FourSixOhBlog.com
First publishing September, 2013
ISBN-13:
978-1466436589
ISBN-10:
1466436581
The storyline within this work of fiction, is just that – fiction. Despite being inspired by real events, and real excerpts from actual occurrences, the overall story is an adaptation from the creative mind of the author.
Copyright 2013 19-FourSixOh House
Printed by CreateSpace, an Amazon company
All Rights Reserved
Other Books by Vincent E. Heck:
betterHALF
An unorthodox love triangle between a woman, the man she thought he was, and the man she thought she had left behind.
To my entire family:
blood, spiritual, and inherited. And those who have lost loved ones due to senseless acts of terrorism.
There’s always a light to strive for at the end of the tunnel—I promise.
Acknowledgements:
This is always fun and agonizing, all together. There are so many people who supported this project. This time, I’m going to try to keep it short and simple.
The people who I could not have done this without: My family: Mom, Denise Barr (Heck); my sister Vanessa Williams, and her husband, Brandon; my aunt Darlene Barr; my grandmom, Judy Barr; my dad, Vincent E. Heck Sr. and my best of friends, Shauni McMullen.
Supporting cast: All of those who helped me research and allowed me to tour their facilities and speak to their people. Over a 3 year span, there are too many names to enter here – and ultimately, it was more knowledge for myself (and my Twitter feed) than I was able to use explicitly in the book.
Thank you all for your help and support.
Love, V.
Department of Homeland Security Mission: to prevent attacks and protect Americans - on the land, in the sea and in the air.
In the center of the seal, a white American eagle appears in a circular blue field. The eagle’s wings break through an inner red ring into an outer white ring that contains the words, "U.S. DE PARTMENT OF" in the top half, and "HOMELAND SECURITY" in the bottom half in a circular placement.
This feature in the seal, of the wings breaking through the inner circle into the outer ring, suggests that the Department of Homeland Security will break through traditional bureaucracy and perform government functions differently. As typical with the American eagle, the eagle's talon, on the left, holds an olive branch with thirteen leaves and thirteen seeds, while the eagle's talon, on the right, grasps thirteen arrows.
A shield which is divided into three sections covers the chest of the eagle. The shield contains main elements that represent the American homeland: air, land, and sea.
The top element, a dark blue sky, contains twenty-two stars, which represent the original twenty-two entities that have come together to form the department. The left shield element contains white mountains behind a green plain underneath a light blue sky. The right shield element contains four wave shapes representing the oceans alternating light and dark blue separated by white lines.
They promise to protect…
~Excerpt from Wikipedia.
"Without the pen of Paine, the sword of Washington would have been wielded in vain."
Prologue:
Tameka Washington
THURSDAY, MAY 22, 2003
CURRENT HOMELAND SECURITY ADVISORY SYSTEM: YELLOW—ELEVATED TERRORIST RISK
The click from Tameka Washington’s tape recorder had ended another classic speech from John Kennedy. She had recently become intrigued with a collection of speeches she had of his. Something about the things he would say hit home with today’s day and age. It was like he knew something. She was baffled by his death mystery and figured there had to be something in the things he spoke about that gave it all away.
What she had been told about his killing had seemed true. The ranks she had very recently elevated into was a new world to her, and the things she had learned were startling – almost urban myth-like.
The projects she had worked on, were like science fiction. Her life felt like one enormous, continuous, dream.
A familiar premonition began to aggravate her body. Something was about to happen, and it made her anxious.
Amidst her attempts to penetrate common logic, Tameka noticed a flicker of light come from her doorway. Her heart began to pound through her voluptuous chest. As a woman who lives alone, there was no worse feeling than being stalked. The hallway to her front door was dark, so her dark clothes paired with her deep chocolate skin would provide enough stealth to make her comfortable enough to check – or so she thought. She reached in her purse and pulled out a small gun. After she slowly crept to her front door, she peeked out of the window.
“Tameka Washington.” The man said in the instant she reached the door. “I have a package for you to sign for.” When she looked out, it was a man in a postal uniform. The man stood still. He wasn’t moving. It seemed that, not even the fabric of his clothes blew in the spring air. He had a huge scar on his creamy tan face, and though Tameka didn’t know him, she recognized him enough to know he did not work for any delivery company, at all.
“Leave it on the porch.” She said.
“It requires a signature.”
“Then come back later!” She shrieked out, slamming her back against the wall away from the window. “I can’t take it now!”
She sneaked a look back through the small foggy window on her front door. The man was nowhere in sight. It was like he just evaporated.
When she became afraid, the atmosphere’s air against her skin felt like needles.
She dialed the local police.
“MPDC what’s your emergency?”
“I’m being stalked by strange men who claim to be government employees.”
Her voice quivered as she explained her terrifying experiences. "I'm sorry, I'm just a little shaken up."
"It’s ok ma'am. Take your time, and then start from the top. I know you’re shaken up, but try to remember I'm recording; so state the dates and approximate times as best as you can. Take your time, sweetie."
Tameka's whole body was shaking. Her heart raced three-times faster than usual. She pulled all of her thoughts together as she quietly, and slowly, started into her story.
"There was two of’um. They were both black. The first visit, only one of them came to my door, the other stood out of my view until--" She found that her air supply was short. Her chest was tight, and she couldn’t find the ability to squeeze out full sentences without gaping for more air.
“I was sitting here on Monday, May 20th 2003 at around 6:30 p.m., or so. I was goin’ through my laundry, when I noticed some strange shadow of a person standing at my front door. I knew something wasn't right because usually when someone is waiting on the other side of the door there is, at least, a little bit of noise. He didn’t ring the doorbell, or knock. He was just there."
"Who was there? Did you know the person?"
"No, I had no clue. When I went to the door he was standing there—dead still."
"Did he say anything?"
"That’s the thing, officer: I walked softly to the door and as soon as I reached the window he said my full name." She imitated, to the best of her ability, the sound of the man’s deep rugged voice. "'Tameka Washington.' It was very, very, eerie, officer. When I answered he said, 'FBI I've come to talk to you for a moment, if I may.'"
"Well, I guess, it’s a good thing you didn't open the door, he—"
Tameka interrupted. "Could ha
ve been anybody."
"Right. Did it end there?"
"Well, being that I work around agents a lot, I know what an official badge looks like, so I asked to see a badge—he had one."
"Ok, so he did, indeed, have one?"
"Yes, but it just didn’t seem right, so I asked him to come back with a warrant."
"Oh, ok, well ma’am an FBI agent—or anyone else of authority wouldn’t need—“
“He wouldn’t need a search warrant, because he didn’t ask to search the house, I know. But, that’s how I know he wasn’t a real agent. He would know that, right?”
“I suppose he should have, yes. What did the man look like?”
“This one—the first one--was dark, and he had a bald head. He was wearing shades, too. His head looked like a Milk Dud. He didn’t smile, and he didn’t – he didn’t move.” Tameka emphasized.
“Well, what happened, then? Did he leave? Did he return?”
"Well that's the scariest part: He left and I kept watching out of the peephole, when I saw the second guy with the terrible scar on his face. He came from the right and followed him to the left."
“Ok, so they came to your door, but you didn’t know them, and they knew your full name. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then after the first interaction, you saw another man—the second guy with the facial scar--follow him?”
Tameka scanned through her head with the details of the event before she confirmed.
"Did they return?" the officer asked.
"The other man did today, May 22nd around the same time, six-thirtyish, posed as a postal employee. He said that I needed to sign for this box he was holding. He had the same eerie door bell stance—same routine."
“The men, for sure, didn’t work for the MPDC, right?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. And I’m positive they aren’t postal employees, either. He just wasn’t actin’ right.”
"Ma’am, is there another place you can stay until we sort all of this out?"
"There is. I can stay with my friend Clareese, or my mom, Betsy. But she lives outside of the city. Officer, do you have any clue who could be targeting me?"
"Ma’am, I don’t have a clue. This is the first report, like this, we’ve gotten at the capitol. Could be someone attempting to sexually assault you, you could be a target of theft, could be anything.” A small clicking over the phone’s earpiece was followed with the woman’s stern voice. “Where do you work, ma’am? Usually people target based on car, house, or work."
Tameka paused, "I’m a physicist at a local college lab, and I work in the DHS."
There was an awkward silence. The keyboard tapping in the background on the other end of the phone stopped.
"Homeland Security?" the officer asked.
"Yes."
The officer seemed to be confused as to whether she should probe into this or not.
The men had FBI badges, but then, why did they come back?
Moreover, why did they disguise the second time? How did they know Tameka’s name? Who were they? All questions Tameka knew the officer on the other end of the phone wondered, as well.
"Ma’am go stay with your mother and someone should be contacting you soon."
"Ok, thanks officer."
Part One:
Jason Upton
I
Nebraska Complex, Washington D.C.
Friday, May 23, 2003
CURRENT HOMELAND SECURITY ADVISORY SYSTEM: YELLOW—ELEVATED TERRORIST RISK
Intense shockwaves rippled through layers of metal.
A perfect sphere of fast and slow burning explosives crushed a beryllium-polonium initiator, sending neutrons bursting into 14 pounds of compressed plutonium. The nuclear reaction sent a massive 70 percent explosion cloud 12 miles into the sky, killing 40-thousand people on initial impact, and 75-thousand there afterwards.
Jason Upton clicked out of that classic file on his computer. Once the window closed, the mighty seal of Homeland Security sat prominently on his desktop. He’d often take a tour through America’s unclassified history. Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been his long-time obsession.
In his mind, he was highly active for a couple decades defending the nation responsible for that isolated world event.
He sat in his office staring at his monitor.
Jacinda, an airport Behavior Detection Officer for the TSA, was under his command. He studied her like a book. Unbeknownst to her, her semi-monthly test was about to begin.
“Mirage descending on eagle-eyes.” He chimed into his office walkie-talkie.
The walkie-talkie piped into his boss’ devices – what the higher-privileged officials knew as “The Summit”.
Jacinda’s eyes intently scanned left to right; up and down. Her head and eyes moved in concert – short, efficient and purposeful movements. Her golden hair, pulled back, revealed her glowing olive skin. She was one of Jason’s best. It was his job to study the behavior of those who worked for him.
The highly abstract unpredictability of man was so consistent, that Jason could almost forecast the limited amount of moves a person would take.
He had sent a middle-eastern man through the airport into Jacinda’s section. He knew she’d watch him. He also sent an African through in the same, offset, window of time. She’d miss one or the other – more likely she’d miss the African. He was Jason’s drill-bomber.
Jason often wondered what this was all for. They had failed so many other times on things they had been drilled on, continually. He was on the committee for those ‘planes into American landmarks’ drills before 9/11.
On top of everything, this day was different. He felt it. He knew that despite what he had sensed, everyone else viewed this as an ordinary day. Despite how dire the circumstances, it was always only an ordinary day to the masses. He knew it’s how the brain works; adapt to the surroundings.
But, it wasn't an ordinary day, and this time he felt, possibly, only he sensed it.
He had a feeling that if he didn't move—if he didn't act soon—his window of opportunity would slam closed like a country screen door just before the arrival of a tropical storm. As the minutes passed, the feeling grew more intense – it was an intense, rapidly growing, premonition of sorts.
He was offered a large sum of money. However, Jason thought to himself, what has money done for anyone in this world so far? It seemed to have only divided it.
Jason believed he was happy. Or, that he could achieve happiness easily, if in some naive ignorance, he didn’t know he was unhappy.
He believed, in some way, the pursuit of happiness was just as unstable as the haphazard, irresponsible, whimsical, "do what makes you happy" lifestyle that the polar opposite was used to living.
His desk was cluttered; filled with papers, knick-knacks, writing utensils, and office supplies.
He had few pictures up, and although married, Jason had no one to call ‘honey’; no one to visit outside of his own family.
Jason didn't go anywhere until he felt it was time. To him, there was an exact time and place for everything and if it didn't feel quite right, he wouldn't do it. He wasn’t always that way.
A message popped up onto his computer screen. As he glanced at the screen, he read the message from Christine Upton.
Jason's heart plunged into his stomach creating the swishing feeling that reminded him of the sound his washing machine would churn out. A prompt message appeared:
::Continue with forward?::
Jason clicked the accept button.
::Message delivered to 3155559827 - Maxwell Bradley.::
The prompt message quietly disappeared as it whisked away to carry out its orders. He stared at his screen where the huge blue “U.S. Department of Homeland Security" seal sat on his desktop.
That big, intimidating, American eagle, or whatever it was, held so much pride in the eyes of thos
e who cared. Unfortunately, Jason wasn’t sure how much he cared, anymore. He knew he loved serving the 307 million people in his jurisdiction, but as of recent, he had his own problems to deal with; problems created by the institution he served, without any regret. The government didn’t seem connected to the people anymore. There was a completely different feel than the first day he had gotten into this as a young guy fresh out of the military.
Despite his own feelings, nonetheless, he knew if he didn't keep himself together, the whole country would suffer, therefore further ruining his life. This was a new feeling to him. So Jason sucked up his emotion and bottled it deep inside his rock-solid outer layers. His worst fear was to lose control. He believed, if he did, he would lose control completely, further damaging his whole country. He followed his intuition because it was so naggingly logical. For as long as he could remember, it never failed him.
::New message from 3155559827 Maxwell Bradley to Christine Upton.::
Jason clicked on the intercept button.
"Hey sweetie nothin much, how did you enjoy last night?"
Jason forwarded the message.
Last night? Where was I? Jason thought about it for a while. Brendenhall meeting. Figures.
::New message from Christine Upton::
“It was a blast, but it was too short. I'm gonna see when Jason's next assignment is, then we will plan a longer time together, maybe even a weekend.”
Jason forwarded the message; his heart felt as if a vice clamp was winding tighter to it. It tightened to the climax of discomfort before sitting still with no release.
Glimpsing at the monitor again, he was right. Jacinda missed the African.
At that same moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was his partner, the Acting Secretary of DHS; his workmate and best friend, Michael Young. “Looks like you’re going to have to have a chat with her, huh?” He said.