Coldfall

by Dirk Patton

  “The following students shall report to Mr. Walker immediately,” she said, raising a sheet of paper and peering at it through reading glasses. “Mr. Tread, Miss Meadows, Miss Tilton, Mr. Wright, Mr. King, Miss Adamson, Miss Black and Mr. Jensen.”

  The room was quiet as she lowered the paper and peered over the rim of her glasses. No one moved.

  “Let’s go, people!” she said, clapping her hands to spur us into motion. “And take your belongings with you.”

  Slowly, desks scraped as kids began to stand. I traded a look with Tanya, then got up and slung my backpack over my shoulder.

  “What’s going on, Mrs. Wayne?” Julie Adamson asked as she moved toward the door.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Now, move along. Don’t keep Mr. Walker waiting!”

  We slowly exited the room, the way high school kids do when they’re being sent to the Principal’s office. Once in the hall, we bunched up briefly before heading for the front of the building. Tanya fell in beside me, looking around at the group.

  “All ranch kids,” she said quietly.

  I looked around, startled when I realized she was right. A feeling of foreboding descended over me as we walked the length of the hall, but I can’t say what I was afraid of. Turning the corner that led to the office, I saw a group of women clustered around Mr. Walker, the Principal. They turned as one when we appeared and a cold lump formed in my chest when I saw my mother’s face.

  My mother is tough as nails. A fighter. Fierce. Unflappable. But the look on her face at that moment caused me to go weak in the knees. I guess several other kids saw something similar in their moms. One by one, they broke away from the group and hurried forward.

  I didn’t rush. If this was bad, I didn’t want to know. The longer it took to cover the final few yards to where Mom was standing, the better.

  “Where’s my mom?” Tanya whispered.

  I didn’t respond and couldn’t tear my eyes off my own mother’s face to search for Tanya’s. I looked into her eyes, seeing pain and sadness that I didn’t know existed.

  “What’s wrong?” I breathed.

  “We have to go,” she said. “Mary’s in the truck, waiting. Tanya, dear. You need to come with me.”

  I hadn’t realized Tanya had followed me.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you outside,” she said, starting to turn away.

  “Mom?”

  I reached for her arm but she grabbed my hand.

  “Please, Joseph. Let’s go.”

  She didn’t let go, holding tight to my hand as if she were adrift at sea and I was the only thing keeping her head above water. I nodded and we walked outside, Tanya following. Mary watched us approach from the back seat of Mom’s beat up Ford truck.

  Chapter 3

  “I’m Robert Tam and this is a CNC breaking news report. An armed insurrection against federal agents has left dozens dead. On the scene with details is Angela Quinones. Angela?”

  “Robert, I’m standing at the entrance to the Double M ranch in Idaho where, earlier today, violence erupted as federal agents from the Bureau of Land Management attempted to serve a series of court orders on Mark Meadows, the owner of the ranch. As you can see behind me, the FBI is on scene and has locked down access so we are not able to enter the property. But here is what we do know at this time.

  “At approximately eight-thirty this morning, BLM agents attempted to serve a warrant and several additional court orders. They were here to seize Mr. Meadows’ property due to what I’m told is nearly a decade of unpaid grazing fees. What that means is that he turned his cattle out onto federal land without obtaining a lease. Apparently, there has been an ongoing court case and the presiding judge handed down his decision late yesterday. When the agents arrived this morning, they were met by a large group of armed men, comprised of neighboring ranchers who had formed an anti-government militia. They opened fire on the officers.

  “As of this evening, the FBI has confirmed that BLM agents defended themselves, killing Meadows, his wife, and all thirty-three members of the militia. Four federal agents lost their lives in the gun battle.

  “An FBI source on the scene, who was not authorized to speak on the matter, told me the militia members were far better armed than the BLM agents. It was only due to superior training that the agents were able to end the fight without more injuries or deaths. Now, the question that needs to be asked is why these men were able to arm themselves better than a federal law enforcement agency. I’m sure that this will be a topic of intense discussion and debate as more details about the shootout emerge.”

  The TV was playing in a luxurious penthouse office in New York City. White House Chief of Staff, Tony Wise, swirled two fingers of whiskey in a cut crystal glass as he listened to the news. Seated next to him was the Director of National Intelligence, Sean Rosen. Across from them was the Attorney General of the United States, David Tremaine. Behind a broad desk, William Carter drew slowly on a large cigar.

  Carter was a tall, cadaverous man. The heir to a railroad and shipping fortune, he had leveraged his inherited wealth by backing Silicon Valley startups. His net worth, at any given moment, was now somewhere north of fifty billion dollars. But he wasn’t satisfied with the privilege and prestige that comes with money. He had much loftier goals in mind.

  The reporter droned on, but Carter had heard enough. Rocking forward in his chair, he pressed a button that muted the sound.

  “How is it playing on social media?” he asked.

  Rosen, the DNI, took a sip of his drink and smiled.

  “Quite well. All the usual suspects are screaming conspiracy theories, but so far, they aren’t gaining any traction. We’ve got a trolling team ready to step in if anything we don’t like starts trending, but that hasn’t been necessary. The media outlets are cooperating, which is helping drive our narrative.”

  Carter nodded and looked at the Attorney General.

  “Mr. Tremaine?”

  “As discussed, the DOJ will be classifying this as domestic terrorism. In fact…”

  He tilted his head at the screen and Carter restored the sound as the anchor was asking the reporter in the field a question.

  “…expected armed resistance?”

  “Robert, the agents expected resistance, but nothing like what they encountered. I’ve been told that the FBI is prepared to classify the militia as a domestic terrorist organization.”

  Carter muted the TV again and turned back to Tremaine with a smile.

  “Well done, Mr. Attorney General! Can I assume we won’t see any of their family or lawyers on TV?”

  Tremaine nodded, leaned forward and placed his empty glass on a table.

  “That last idiot in the White House at least did one thing right when he signed the National Defense Authorization Act. With the domestic terrorist label in place, we can grab anyone up and drop them in a deep, dark hole.”

  “Off American soil, of course,” Chief of Staff Wise said.

  “Of course,” Tremaine said with a scoff. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Tony.”

  A brief chuckle ran around the room at the irony of Tremaine’s comment when it came to imprisoning ranchers.

  “Is the next phase ready?” Carter asked, looking directly at the DNI.

  “It’s ready, but I’m not confident how quickly we can sway the public. They’re sheep, but there are still a lot of sheepdogs out there.”

  “If we hadn’t lost the White House, we’d already be there,” Carter groused. “It may have only been one term, but the son of a bitch undid two decades of progress in only four years!”

  “He caught all of us by surprise,” Rosen said.

  Carter paused with his cigar halfway to his mouth and glared at the DNI. Slowly, he placed the stogie in a crystal ashtray that was the only object on his desk other than the TV remote.

  “Mr. Rosen,” he began in a low, dangerous voice. “I was not caught by surprise. I sounded the alarm when the son
of a bitch announced he was running, but was roundly dismissed. By the time the rest of you woke up, it was TOO GODDAMN LATE!”

  Carter lifted the heavy ashtray and flung it across the room to shatter against a richly paneled wall. The men went perfectly still, shocked and frightened by his sudden rage.

  “We had the fucking country right where we wanted it!” he continued after several deep breaths. “Then the buffoon comes along and pisses all over everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve. Do you have any idea how powerful the gun rights lobby is now? How emboldened? How many more guns are in the hands of the population than there were before he won the election?”

  “It’s manageable,” Wise said cautiously in a calm, reasonable tone. “If we have to expand phase two, then so be it. It will just take a little longer.”

  Carter looked at him, eyes hard as he struggled to contain his famous temper. After nearly a minute, he took another deep breath and nodded.

  “Whatever it takes,” he said, his voice tight. “Remember, gentlemen. The blood of a few is nothing compared to what’s at stake!”

  “I can assure you that President Williams is fully on board. She has the same vision and the support of governors from key states. More will come around when they see the writing on the wall.”

  “She’d better be,” Carter growled, eyes drilling into the White House Chief of Staff. “My associates and I spent over eight billion to get that bitch elected and return both the House and Senate to our cause. She’d do well to remember I own her fat black ass!”

  “She is very appreciative of your vision and support,” Wise said diplomatically.

  “Two billion dollars for the most successful smear campaign in the history of politics. Half of it deposited into offshore accounts that were then linked to our opponents. Paid testimony from foreign bankers and staffers from the White House and Congress to put the seal on the deal. She’d goddamn well better understand what’s been done to put her where she is today!”

  “As I said, Mr. Carter…” Wise began.

  “I don’t give a fuck about her appreciation!” Carter shouted, interrupting him. “I care about her doing what I put her in office to do! I’ve waited long enough. My associates have waited long enough and their patience is as strained as mine. We were supposed to have America five years ago!”

  He stood and began to pace as he continued to rail at the men.

  “Europe is ready to fall! The middle east is in chaos once again with President Williams pulling completely out of the region. There’s rumblings out of Russia that it’s ripe for the picking. China will bow to the economic might of the new world order or be destroyed! It is our time! If this bitch can’t deliver the goods, it’s a matter of one phone call and she’ll be dealt with. Permanently! And if she falls, what do you think is going to become of certain high level members of her administration when the VP takes office?”

  He slowly looked each of the men in the eye until they nodded understanding and turned away.

  Chapter 4

  Ashley Dumont leaned back in her chair, staring at the computer monitor with a frown. The clipping from a small paper in central Iowa wasn’t something that would normally warrant even a first look, let alone a second, but she’d intentionally sought it out. Reading the article a second time, she made a hand written notation in her notebook then stood to see if her boss was in his office.

  A rabbit warren of cubicles filled the expanse of the New York Tribune’s news room. Peering into the distance, she could just make out the editor’s balding head, bent over his desk inside a glass walled office. Being one of the most junior reporters on the staff of the Trib didn’t warrant a seat any closer, so she’d quickly gotten in the habit of making sure he was in before hiking nearly the length of a football field only to find an empty office.

  Sitting for a moment, she kicked off her flats and slipped her feet into a pair of stylish heels. On her salary, she could hardly afford to eat in New York City, let alone buy fashionable shoes. But there were simply some things she wasn’t willing to sacrifice.

  She was a firm believer in looking successful to be successful. Standing again, she snatched up the notebook and headed out. Over half the cubicles she passed were occupied, reporters and columnists bent over keyboards as they pounded away. All of them wore some sort of headphones, isolating themselves from the chaos of one of the busiest newsrooms in the world.

  Along the outside wall were a series of glass fronted offices. All smaller than the editor’s, who oversaw everyone who worked there, but still a hell of a perk for senior reporters. Men and women who covered Presidents and Congress. A couple of columnists, both with a Pulitzer to their credit. She was determined to someday be sitting where they were, watching a twenty-three-year-old with a state college journalism degree hustle past on her way to see the boss.

  Anthony Hillman was engrossed in something on his computer when she lightly tapped on the outside of his glass door. Without looking up, he flapped a hand, granting permission to enter his office. Ashley pushed through and stood in front of his desk, feeling like a little girl with her notebook tightly clasped across her breasts. She remained silent as he continued to read.

  Finally, he looked up, frowned when he saw her and glanced out at the newsroom. Turning back, he removed his glasses and tilted his head like an inquisitive bird.

  “Dumont, sir,” she said when she realized he didn’t remember her name.

  “What do you want, Dumont?”

  He didn’t wait for her answer before turning his attention back to the computer. Began reading again. Ashley hesitated, considering turning tail and running, but instead took a deep breath and forged ahead.

  “I’ve been doing some research into something that caught my eye and I think I’ve found… well, I think it’s something worth looking into. Sir.”

  Hillman scrolled the document he was reading and didn’t bother to look at her.

  “What are you supposed to be working on?”

  “Background on the police versus firemen annual softball tournament.”

  He scrolled some more, then sighed without looking at her.

  “Dumont, is it?”

  “Yes, sir. Ashley Dumont.”

  “Do you have any idea how many junior reporters have walked into my office over the years and told me exactly the same thing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Neither do I, but it’s too goddamn many!”

  “But, sir…”

  Hillman held up a hand for her to stop as he continued to read the screen.

  “Now, Ms. Dumont. I appreciate initiative as much as the next guy, but in my forty years in the news business, there has never been a single instance of a reporter who’s barely old enough to drive having found something important. It doesn’t happen.”

  Ashley stood there with her mouth open, her face red as she blushed from the condescending rebuke she’d just received. Again, the impulse to flee was almost overwhelming, but she had never been one to be easily deterred.

  Hillman clicked his mouse, closing the file he was reading and looked up. His face registered surprise.

  “You’re still here?”

  “Yes, sir. And I really think you need to take a look at this.”

  Ashley forced herself to step forward, then with trembling hands opened her notebook and placed it on his desk. He stared at her in surprise for a long moment, then slipped his reading glasses on and looked down at her notes.

  “You’ve got balls, Dumont. I’ll say that for you. Big, brass ones. Okay, what am I looking at?”

  Ashley’s knees nearly buckled in relief as she stepped to the side of the desk and bent down to point at several columns of data.

  “These are former and retired special forces operators. All four branches. And this,” she tapped another column. “This is the date they were arrested and charged with conspiring against the government. All five hundred and eight of them. And that’s only what I’ve found in less than twenty-four
hours, sir!”

  “So?” Hillman asked dismissively. “The feds said they were going to roll up domestic terror groups. Looks like they found another one. You’re wasting my time, Dumont.”

  He picked up the notebook and held it out toward her.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Ashley said.

  “Do I look like I care what you think?”

  Ashley swallowed the retort that almost tripped off her tongue. She was upset now and determined to push ahead and prove her point.

  “Sir, if you’ll look at the next column, you’ll understand. They weren’t a group. They were scattered all over the country. There’s no connection other than they served in SpecOps at some point. Now, they’re house painters, mechanics, hunting guides. That kind of thing. Just regular guys. There’s even three school teachers in there. This isn’t a terror group, sir. This is someone systematically rounding up highly trained soldiers and hiding them away!”

  Hillman stared at her a beat, then put the notebook back on his desk and looked over the data. Ashley felt a thrill of elation pass through her. She’d found something. Potentially something big!

  Would he let her run with it, or would he take it away from her and assign it to a more experienced reporter? Maybe he’d let her stay on the story and help. After all, she was the one who’d found it.

  “This is nothing,” Hillman finally said, closing the notebook and tossing it at her. She snagged it out of the air and stared at him in shocked surprise. “These guys are fucked up when they come back. You know how many of them commit suicide? End up homeless? Jesus Christ, Dumont! Get the fuck out of my office and don’t ever bother me again with wild theories and speculation around something you know nothing about.”

  The elation of the moment before was dashed to shards as Hillman dressed her down. She had been so sure. How could she have been so wrong? Head down, she finally gave in to the impulse to flee and got out of there as fast as she could before he saw the tears in her eyes.

  Hillman watched her hurry away, her back stiff. He gave it a moment, then opened a drawer and pulled out a cell phone. Pressing a speed dial button, he held it to his ear and waited for it to ring.