by Vincent Heck
Again, almost anxiously and obsessively, he looked at his watch again. “It’s 1:20 a.m., and I’d guess they’d want to get in here early. If they’re going to do it, they have to do it soon. No matter what they do, though, I’m going to stand right here. They killed my friend, they killed my girl and they’re going to have to face the music.”
The night was still, and all that could be heard were crickets and the occasional car tire crackling over rocks outside of the window in the parking lot. “If they don’t get us out, we can crash. I’m not moving from this room until I’m forced.”
Czyra’s eyes grew heavy. It had been a long day that hadn’t, yet, ended. He thought there would be action in the hotel by that time, but there was none. He remembered Dany. He began to speak about the fire in which Dany disappeared. In the middle of relaying that story for the live internet viewers, there was a loud yelping siren sound that blared into the room.
“There it is, folks. This is their way of flushing us out. Now, let’s stand firm. Make them force us out of here. There’s no fire at all in here. I’ll bet you any money. Watch this, they’re about to go through the whole nine yards.”
The alarm rang a loud solid monotone holler. The men stayed put with the camera still rolling.
Despite the boisterousness of the firebell, the hotel was motionless. They were, indeed, the only few men left in that hotel.
Czyra focused back into the camera. “They’re gonna have to come get us if they want us out. We sleep heavy.” He chuckled.
Some 20 minutes into the fire alarm, a heavy pound on the door jarred it loose. Smoke billowed into the room. A ladder slapped against the window on the opposite side of the room.
Firemen ran in with their masks on and ushered the men towards the window.
Czyra tried to dodge the firemen and run towards the smoke-filled door. After a few juke moves and squirming away from the firefighters he reached the door. He couldn’t see through the smoke, and the heat was far too much to bear.
Choking on the smoke, he began to feel delirious and disoriented. A firefighter grabbed him from behind and carried him to the other side of the room. Another firefighter grabbed a hold of him and helped him down the ladder where a stretcher awaited him.
They placed him on the stretcher as he began to fade back into his senses.
“No, I’m fine. I don’t need to go to the hospital.” He said.
One of the firefighters chimed in. “You have too much smoke in your lungs. We need to check you out.”
Strapped in really tight, they wheeled him off to the ambulance and loaded him up. While on the stretcher, Czyra couldn’t see any smoke on the building from afar. “Where are my other guys? Where are they?”
“They’ll be fine, sir. We’re working with them.”
Westfields Marriott hotel.
Chantilly, Virginia
Brendenhall meeting
Michael sat in the backseat of his limo as it approached the hotel. A report chimed through his limo’s news report. The men were describing the intruder attempt incident and warning folks to keep a look out.
Michael had finally, found time to think about the initial stressful task at hand: changing America’s culture drastically while reducing collateral damage as much as possible. As the top man at the DHS, that was his job.
He had to do it without his lifetime right-hand man, and that killed him.
As they approached the hotel gate, the jeers of protesters grew louder.
“We know what you’re doin in there, and Operation F.A.I.T.H. will never work.” A man with a bullhorn shouted. “You’re not going to take our rights – you’re not going to take our religion, you can’t be our god! We will not stand for any of this, and you’re underestimating the American people. Once you become bold enough to strike, you’ll be met with a rude awakening.”
Michael’s external posture always displayed a stoic disregard for such people, but this time, their loud shouts stirred the inside of him.
Everyone from the Brendenhall Group had already arrived to the hotel. They were only awaiting U.S. government representatives.
Forty minutes later, all members were in their seats. They sat in a big oval room, heavily guarded on the inside and out. There were guards outside of the entrances of the hotel, and by the surrounding gates.
The meeting began with the chairman of the Brendenhall Group, Mr. Brendenhall, opening.
“So, gentlemen, how are you today? Thanks for coming out. I know this is a travel for some of you, and we appreciate you making the extra trips for this ever-important step for mankind. Next meeting, we’ll make Washington have to take the travel.”
The group of men chuckled.
“So, let’s get right to it, gentlemen. What do we have?”
The President of the United States, Milton B. Harris, answered first. “It’s time to figure out how this last term worked out. It’s judgment year. We have elections coming up at the end of this year, and it’s going to be imperative to figure out where we stand with the people. If things work out well, then we’ll be able to proceed from there. What was it you folks had in mind?”
“We want to see how much we’ve accomplished in American value subjects – women’s rights, gay rights, gun control, freedom of speech, religion, and money. So on this campaign, Mr. President, there will be a few things we need you to help Jane Hillary take a stand on. I think we’re going to push to make her next president.” Mr. Brendenhall said.
Jane, a short blonde woman, sat at the back of the room. She pinched her lips with a pithy facial expression, and nodded as a handful of attendees looked in her direction.
A man from the Brendenhall group brought the president over a thick binder. “These are the things we need you to study up on. The short version is in the beginning, and the details follow. You know the drill. It’s formulated so that you’ll have enough time to get through it while preparing a campaign, as usual. Though your second term is up, it’s protocol to let you know the direction we’re taking after you. You may need to help Mrs. Hillary, too. Her running mate is, New Jersey governor, Wilford Mince. This will be each of their first time, running. Both of them will hit on the topics within their respective outlined initiatives. From there, we’ll poll the people, as usual, to keep a finger on their pulse. This is key, folks.”
“Yes, sir.” The President responded. “Do you have any clue who is going to be in office next?”
“We haven’t set in stone a decision. We want to see the people’s response. For now, however, Jane is the predetermined selection. This next term is so key, that we need to take a bit more time. We need to know how our implementing of F.A.I.T.H. has worked. Are we confident that it’s sinking in?”
Mr. Brendenhall flipped through his papers before proceeding into the next section.
“Looking at the polls now, folks are very concerned with their safety.” Brendenhall said. “This falls on you, media. You have a key role.”
Chris Saulters spoke into the mic attached to the desk in front of him. “We take our role seriously, sir.”
“Good. We have a new agenda for you, as well.” The same distinguished gentleman passed out papers to the folks representing world media beginning with their representative Chris Saulters.
“We need you to emphasize and balance your viewpoints on the candidate’s solutions. Within these files are your sources’ information on various events within this next operation. We have a few planned world events on tap, and we’ll need your executives to execute those operations within.” Mr. Brendenhall turned to the Director of the C.I.A. who sat next to Michael. “You folks have your media assets in place, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Are your main agents the same as before?”
“Confirmed, sir. Our main informant was the agent we used for the Super Bowl incident. Also, our senior anchormen and reporters are all in place.”
“Does everyone in here confirm the C.I.A. assets within
their departments are in place and ready when needed?”
Each department confirmed.
Michael interjected. “I have a question, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“With 9/11, we generated a lot of support. But, as that day has distanced, it has turned into a lot of distrust. It kind of had a double-edged effect. People are so scared they almost fear everything to some degree. Those people outside don’t trust us. And I’m not sure they ever will. What do you plan to do for them?”
Another member of the Brendenhall group spoke. “We’re taking care of them.”
“Do you mind to elaborate?” Michael asked.
“No.”
“With all due respect, sir, your group said you had it when it came to Kennedy, as well. Still to this day the majority of Americans think we lied.”
“In a way the U.S. government did. That’s not the Brendenhall’s fault. But, overall, it accomplished what we needed, didn’t it? America’s still running. They’re still eating out of our palms, right? ‘United we stand, divided we fall; support our troops.’ We needed government support from the, otherwise, apathetic black communities in America, boom, give them a black president and we magically created black patriots from thin air. They eat all of that up. We’ve got this. ”
The chairman broke in with a louder tone. “Look, there are a lot of people out there with a lot of opinions. They think you guys lied to them, they think it was a conspiracy—and they’re right, it was. But, they also created with their, collective, active imaginations this ‘shooter on the grassy knoll.’”
Brendenhall chuckled. “These are things we’ll never be able to avoid.”
Mr. Brendenhall stood up from his chair. “I can’t sit for this entire meeting. I don’t know how you young people do it, anymore, these days.”
His protection team of agents rushed to the side of the chair to help the old gangly man out of his seat. “The bottom line is: throughout history, we’ve had to hit them where it hurts. And we have. Call it collateral damage, if you will. Otherwise, they don’t budge. This is the best place on earth, and if we want to make it better, we have to convince them this is needed. This last big incident, the media has been doing a great job sensationalizing. A classic American sport—possibly the most celebrated occasion in this culture and a major catastrophic tragedy.
Fellas, this is the last time you’re going to have to do that. Building this nation was not pretty. Lots of people died, lots of consciousness shattered and, once again, a boatload of collateral damage.
That’s how this thing works. It’s unfortunate, but we didn’t create the rules. Since the settlers of this land came, they’ve been willing to make these sorts of sacrifices. In any case, look where it brought us. So now, expanding on such a humongous level, and doing it with more than just thirteen colonies to look after and endless amounts of technology and media, is going to warrant much more. But, after this movement is finished, it will all be worth it. As it was before. This is the risk we have to take. Our comfort is going to be sacrificed, for now. For years we have been sending our troops overseas for the best of the free world with the notion that they may end up losing their lives—cutting their lives short. It’s our turn now, today… and we can do this. We could be risking our reputations, and actually cutting our lives short in many different ways. We could be ruining our legacies. Who knows? Nonetheless, we’ve started this plan, and we believe this plan will work. Have we ever failed? America – we are the law enforcement of the world. So, do it for your future. Do it for your kids. Do it for your kids’ kids. Do it for humanity’s sake.”
The entire room froze as the chairman bit his bottom lip. “We’ve come so far.” He continued. “We’ve executed Operation F.A.I.T.H. to a tee. We’ve hit a few roadblocks, and believe me, I’ve seen the future roadblocks up ahead and trust that I’ve accounted for them. So, with that, I want to make an announcement…” Mr. Brendenhall picked up his walking pace back to his space at the sitting table. He flicked through his folder and pulled out a new stack of papers.
“Pending the results of this year’s presidential race, Operation F.A.I.T.H. has come to a conclusion.”
The gentleman passed out yet more stacks of paper to the attendees.
“Everything we’ve discussed today is a part of the next operation. What’s being handed to you is the overview of all of our jobs. If makes up the entire sequence of this next project.
This next administration, currently designed to be headed by Jane Hillary, is going to execute the operation that brings the change this world needs. ‘Security After F.A.I.T.H. Engages.’ Or, as we’ll call it: Operation S.A.F.E.”
Michael paged through the thick packet. “Does Megiddo know about this?”
Brendenhall nodded his head. “I’ll deal with Megiddo. In the meantime, you folks just get to work.”
New York City,
Central Park
A skateboarder popped an Ollie, jumping from the grainy Central Park sidewalk, grinding onto a waxed bench edge, landing sloppily just beyond where Jason was sitting. His skateboard skirted down the walkway just beyond Jason.
Jason sat on a bench in front of Belvedere Castle. He held the box he had recovered from Tameka’s mother. The sheets of paper sat before him just inside of the opened top. “Fear, Acknowledge, Instantly, Threats, and Hit.”
There was a lump in his throat. He reminisced about the life he used to have; or that he thought he had, anyway. He wondered where Christine was, and if she was still with Max.
He hadn’t dated since the split. There were only two women he gave his heart to and those two, for the most part, mishandled it. Despite not being opposed to the feeling, he wasn’t interested in giving his heart to anyone, anymore. The frustration of not being able to control some strong emotions inside disturbed the natural peace within him. Like swimming against the current of a river, it was frustrating to him.
He didn’t want to risk adding a third woman to that list.
He still had Tameka’s body chip scanner inside the tin box. He pulled it out. Why would Tameka keep this in here?
He rubbed his wrist. He moved the scanner over his wrist. A magnetic charge waved through his body making him slightly dizzy; it was a feeling he had gotten used to.
A brief memory of working in a lab with Tameka flashed into his brain.
Was that real? Whose memory was that? Couldn’t have been mine. Why is that memory on my body chip?
The skateboarder breezed by Jason on foot and scooped up his wayward skateboard before throwing it back onto its wheels and jumping back on top of it in stride. The whole sequence resulted in a moderate breeze towards Jason. The small torn-up papers fluttered into the air being caught by a natural breeze in the park.
“Crap.”
Jason sat the box down and was immediately able to catch two small pieces of paper. He pounced up from the bench and chased two more that were partnered and heading in the same direction. As he chased the papers he glanced at the two he had. “Instantly,” and “Hit.”
Once he caught up with the other two he lunged to stomp his foot on them. They were “Threats,” and “Faith.”
Panning his eyes around the park, frantically, to find the last paper, he found two fluttering further off; one further than the other.
His instincts motored him towards the closest paper. He prayed that that was the one he needed. The last piece of paper had erratically become airborne.
He reached down to find “Acknowledges” on the paper.
Relieved, he put the papers back into the box and returned to his apartment. As the wind bustled, the clouds began to thicken. There was a storm on the way.
Jason had to get to Virginia. There was much work to be done.
Centerville, Virginia
In a backroom auditorium, a group of 200 people gathered to listen to a lecture.
A former C.I.A. agent stood before the group of people who hung
in suspense to his riveting stories. He agonized through reliving the feelings of fear and disappointment.
To the group of truthers before him, the agent’s words packed a punch. His sentences stunned. His message stood as tall, and held the weight of a 2000ft skyscraper. His words were undeniable—it was certain fact that the government had not told the American people everything – at times, it had seemed, to him, as if government didn’t even know everything, themselves.
He spoke like a confused man looking for answers while somehow doing so with authority. He highlighted, in great detail, his vivid account of notifying various people in multiple agencies of his prior 9/11 intel. By his account, no one listened. They brushed him off, and even made a motion to have him removed from the agency.
He had spoken to the Secretary of Defense on numerous occasions; he was in contact with the coordinator of the F.B.I. everyday. He had knowledge of known terrorists with al-Qaeda staying in the U.S., learning to fly planes.
Still, it seemed, his pleas would fall on deaf ears.
He knew even in the administrations before, that this was a growing concern. But, the new administration refused to look at the increasing signs. The tragedy blew his mind—and afterwards, he began to question it all.
After his story, the man fielded questions from the group of people; anywhere from, “What is your theory of what happened on 9/11 from your perspective?” to “Do you feel you’ve played a part in the tragic events on that day?”
A deluge of emotion surged through the man as he gave his response each genuine sentiment at a time.
Then he was finished.
Jason knew, despite the man’s keen awareness that things weren’t adding up, the man still had no clue.
Czyra stepped onto the stage and looked out into the crowd.