Christopher
Damn quiet out here, scare me if I wasn't used to it. Quiet of the tomb under open sky. The only sound was an occasional aircraft flying lower than most air traffic.
Under twenty thousand feet, I guessed. During daylight I could clearly make out the outline enough to see the engines were under the wings, unlike private or corporate
planes. Something like 737s or A320s. The sound arrived as they were about overhead, figure two or three seconds for it to get there, they're about fifteen thousand
feet. The regular air traffic is better than twice that.
What are they doing? Not many of them, probably ten or less in a day, twice that at night.
I have no idea, or why I had a string of Blackhawks flying past almost every night, right at midnight. Half a dozen to a dozen or more, one line a few miles north
and the other to the south a little closer.
The only army military installation is a couple hundred miles away, more like three. The line to the north curves around and converges with the ones to the south. Only about
five thousand Blackhawks in existence, and even if the Army had all of them they couldn't be doing this over every little town near the middle of nowhere.
And then occasionally one would stop and hover quite a while, or make a sharp turn and go somewhere else.
Looking for something? What's out there?
I should take a look someday. It's well inside our territory, even if no lines have been drawn. Officially or otherwise.
I'd heard one of the jets fly over about half an hour earlier but the night was quieter than usual. I grew up a few miles from here, on the family farm. The home place as
we called it. Dad had bought several pieces of land that had a house or two on them. If they were in good condition he would have employees live in them. Good deal for
them since he didn't charge rent and we had someone with an interest in the farm staying there. Theft and vandalism was a constant problem even back in the seventies and having
someone around discouraged it.
The home place was the small farm Dad had bought after the Army was done with him in fifty-three. Four hundred acres more or less, a pretty good size for the time.
By the time he retired he had a little over eighteen hundred acres and was renting almost that much. But he saw the writing on the wall and bailed out at a good time.
With the land all paid for and a heap of money in the bank and the goverment sticking its nose into more stuff with ever year that passed he decided it was time to
retire. Just the rental income from the land he owned was considerable so he started a little business servicing farm equipment. It was more of a hobby than anything
else, but it made some money and he put himself and Mom and Kyle and me on the payroll so we had medical insurance and something paying into Social Security. If
everything went wrong and we lost it all we'd still have that.
Of course Social Security would have gone bust long before that, but I hadn't figured on it happening in my lifetime. I didn't figure on a lot of things. Born in 1964
I wasn't old enough to get drafted and go to Vietnam, and after that was over things didn't look to bad for a while.
It wasn't like they got bad real suddenly. The late seventies were ugly but there was a correction but it was to be the last one. Probably the tipping point was somewhere
in the nineties, but we still hoped things would turn around. They didn't.
By 2025 we knew we were screwed but not how badly. Those who said elections had become irrelevant were right - they put another puppet in and the opposition gave up.
The part that wasn't in prison anyway. The old Jan 6 gulag had a couple thousand occupants by the 2024 election, and while the ones who objected had the good sense to
stay home and keep their mouths - and keyboards - quiet there were still regular arrests, sometimes with a fancy raid and people getting shot but mostly with people just
getting a knock on the door at night. So a lot of people weren't home anymore, more or less permanently.
I was one of the ones with good sense. When it went completely south in the 2023 elections my official existence was pretty sparse. At sixty-four I was a few years from
being able to collect my full Social Security payment and I wanted it as a matter of principle even if I didn't need it. It was now going to one of the two banks the
real me did business with. I rented an apartment in Sheridan under my real name and outfitted it like an old retired man's apartment - minimal furnishings and the stuff
you'd expect to find in a harmless old geezer's apartment.
Of course it was also outfitted with practically undetectable surveillance gear, better than the feds had thanks to Patrick. He has connections with the Atlantis people and
while I'm not sure about some of the stuff he tells me the stuff works. It will even detect the government stuff if they ever plant any, but so far I don't seem to be
on their radar.
My mandroid identity is another matter. His name is Cole Barrett, and owns a small estate a few miles south of Sheridan. Forty acres on state highway 364, surrounded by
farmland with patches of forest here and there. Where I'm standing on the back deck of my small ranch watching the helicopters.
Cole Barrett, like all mandroids, exists only on paper. Or rather in the streams of electrons and photons and microscopic particles and the even smaller electronic
circuitry wherein all data about everything resides.
Except for the data that the government doesn't know about.
It's ironic that the surveillance state that knows all and sees all doesn't see the most important things of all and at the same time sees things that don't exist.
Like mandroids. For over forty years the virtual people have been created and added to the real people in the databases and as long as all is in order only of a
warm body is required will a problem arise.
The only reason the a warm body would be required is if you're being arrested. Precisely why mandroids exist. Cole Barrett was created when a social security number
was issued to a baby that was never born. He's only thirty-two and I'm sixty-four but they'd need my warm body to notice and that isn't going to happen. Because
they're not going to arrest me.
Try maybe.
Sixteen years after Cole was created he got a driver's license - that was a little trickier but there are ways in some states - and got a job. The employer didn't exist
any more than he did, but it paid income and social security taxes on its phantom employees and provided information to banks and credit card companies so Cole could do
business like a real person. The apparatus was large and complex and cost a lot of money but it was worth every dollar.
My real name - the one Mom and Dad gave me in 1964 - is Justin McKinnon. Since I own Cole Barrett - courtesy of my position in Winterhill - I also own the estate where
I watch the night skies.
Nocturnal skywatching is a way to unwind after work. During the day I'm pretty busy in conversations and conferences with my colleagues in Winterhill's main security arm.
After 2200 or so it's pretty slow but I'm not ready to sleep yet, so if the weather permits I walk around outside and look at the sky.
Only tonight I'm looking at ground level. There's not much traffic on 364 in daytime, and I've seen only two vehicles pass since I came out. Both tractor-trailers, not what I'm
looking for.
I had a flask of E&J vanilla brandy in the lower right pocket of my old M-65 and some Good Times cigars in the other and was in the mood for both a smoke and a drink. It was
getting chilly.
Best way to get them to show up is light a cigar. Having a smoke interrupted is mildly annoying even if I do smoke cheap cigars. Not the smelly kind men smoked when I was
a kid, stink the place up and annoy women especially. Quite a few women I know enjoy one occasionally.
I lit a 4K black sweet and got it going smooth and took a swig of E&J. I used to smoke high-dollar cigars - aluminum or glass tubes and fancy wooden boxes, probably just because
I could. Same with whiskey. I still can but the simple pleasure of a flavored gas station cigar and a decent brandy is more me.
It takes probably fifteen minutes to smoke one of the sticks, and sure it wasn't five before I saw lights over on the highway.
It wasn't my connection though, and I was down to the place where I let the cigar go out and just enjoy the taste of the wrapper.
There were two vehicles, as Zeke had said there would be. That was a good sign, not I was expecting trouble. We'd made the arrangements for the meet less than four
hours ago, if anyone heard them they were unlikely to understand.
The drive from the highway is about four hundred yards, giving me plenty of time to look them over with my night vision binoculars. The vehicles were right, two crew cab
Ford F-150s, the light group above the windshields on both. As they approached the three center lights flashed A-X-E in Morse, twice.
Good, but I moved back behind the nearest tree as they came closer, holding the M1 carbine at port arms.
The trucks stopped, engines idling and lights on. The lead truck was about twenty feet away and I doubted the occupants could see me.
The driver side window of the leader opened and the driver lit a cigarette. He blew smoke in my general direction spoke.
"Starhawk says hello."
"He couldn't make it?" I asked.
"He had a flat on the way to the rendezvous. He'll be along shortly."
"Which tire?"
"All four."
"OK, come on over."
I had recognized Grant's voice and the signals were right but you can't be too careful. Not that anyone was likely to get the drop on Grant Wilcox.
He dismounted from he truck, holding the grab bar behind the window and stepping on the running board even though he hardly needed to. Grant is six
six and probably not over one-eighty and at twenty six has the flexibility I don't. He's seven inches taller too.
He was wearing a double shoulder rig with what I knew were Glock G40s in 10mm. I liked tens, having bought one of the original Brens back in the day.
I was younger and got excited about new guns more readily. Not that I don't like old ones - the carbine I'm holding is an Underwood from WWII. I
don't imagine domestic industries - the ones that are left - will be retooled for making weapons for WWIII, which looks to be coming.
Not that I don't have a new M1, paid twelve bills for a new copy because I could. Twenty years ago the originals were going for little if any over a hundred
in the gun shops. I eventually accumulated a half dozen of the handy little things, and the price for those these days is a lot higher now than what I paid.
I moved from behind the tree as Grant approached. The clouds covering the thin slice of moon had parted and I could see him more clearly. He looks like a young
Sam Elliott, mustache and all. And some of the voice - I figure that'll happen as he ages.
"Roger's riding shotgun with me," he announced, "and we've got Maria and Marcus in the back seat. Tanner and Jason are with two boys from G section in the
other vehicle. We've got pickets both ways out on the highway. No sign of any followers."
"How are our guests?" I asked.
"Good. They spent a couple of days together, while he was in the the safe house at Chattanooga. We left them with a small detail and a couple of domestic staff.
He seems pretty calm, considering what he went through."
Marcus and Maria were twins, early twenties. Twenty-three unless they had a birthday since the dossier was updated. He was picked up in a sweep in March of
2025, one of the first. He'd been locked up for over two years with no prospects for getting out. Not even any charges.
He was with a bunch being held in a new camp in rural Virginia, actually a near ghost town about thirty-some miles from DC. They moved out the few remaining
residents and stationed a couple hundred ISD troops and several dozen ISD suits to interrogate them. There were about three hundred of them, in a fenced
tent city inside a pair of fences. With big mean dogs running around between the fences and constant patrols.
Marcus and a couple of other prisoners were in the makeshift hospital when they broke out. After two years of watching and waiting for an opportunity they
finally got one. Three sick and starving men managed to neutralize their guards and get to a vehicle. They managed to remain free long enough to crash
the van in a wooded area and flee on foot. One of them knew the area well enough for them to get to a friendly and arrange to get them out of the area.
Seems several personnel ended up dead and they wanted him some kind of bad.
I wanted to hear how they did it. He at least might be good to recruit.
He should be more than willing.
"All right," I said. "Come on up to the house and let me get a vehicle. I'll lead you the rest of the way."
The house was about a hundred yards away. I walked across the field while Grant led the convoy up the drive. By the time they got to the parking
area around back I was almost there.
I walked around to the parking area and turned on the outside lights. I keep several vehicles in the outside garage and had one ready for tonight.
A one-owner '77 Chevy Scottsdale, if me being the heir to Dad's farm counts as me being the owner. Dad bought two of them to use on the farm and kept
them when he retired. This one's on its fourth engine, third tramsmission and transfer case. Just over a half million miles.
Scotty is one of the low-end models cosmetically, but the mechanicals are the same. It looks small beside the new ones, but it does what I need.
I fired it up and left it running while I went into the house to lock up, calling Suzy to let her know I was off. She would monitor the place and
let the office know if anything got out of order while I was gone. They're 24/7 and can have someone out there in ten minutes or so if necessary.
After a radio check I mounted up and led the procession out to the highway. Left on 364 heads you towards Dyersburg, about sixty miles. Our destination
is another three miles from there.
It was 0132 when we hit the highway, so we should be there by 0300. I plugged an old phone I used as a music player into the one Scotty's one non-original
part and selected Al Stewart's Year of the Cat and Time Passages. If Grant didn't bother me that should last to our destination.
Time Passages was just ending as we rolled through Dyersburg hitting all three lights on green. The only other vehicle we saw was one of the three or four
DPD police cars, meeting it at the second light. I watched it in the mirror to see if he braked - he didn't. I know the chief and most of the cops, and
I've been here enough he knows Scotty.
A mile out of town I turned onto CR 236, a decent two-lane tar and pea gravel road. There were a couple of houses in the first mile, and about a half mile
further a fenced equipment yard. The two large metal shops would be expected to house farm equipment, but these didn't. I keyed a freak on my radio.
"Badger one here," I said. "Anyone home?"
"I see you, Badger," someone replied. "Who's your friends?"
The someone on the radio would know, but needed to know I wasn't compromised.
"The chrome nun and brass cowboy," I replied.
"Gotcha. Enjoy your stay."
Our destination lay another half mile or so ahead. I flipped on the off-road lights to make sure I didn't miss the turn.
There it was. A white post not quite hidden by the roadside growth. Three small circular reflectors, two red ones and one white under them.
Turn just short of the post.
The road was crushed rock and slightly uphill for a short distance before leveling off. Ahead was a white plank and post fence, the road running through an open gate.
I slowed to a near crawl as we passed through and eased through the gate, parking in the corner of the big lot. Grant parked beside me and the escort beside him. We
got out and walked over to the other truck. Tanner exited his vehicle and joined us.
"Long time no see," he said.
"Yeah," I replied. "Been a while. Where they been keepin you?"
"Jason and I were out at Brushy lake," he replied. "The boys with us are from Sigma cell."
"Are they staying?"
"Yeah. The rest of the cell will be up later. Eight men total, under our command."
"OK," I say. "Let's get them in the house."
We were about twenty yards from the large house. Grant and I walked around to the passenger side of his truck. Roger had the window down.
"We'll take our guests in," I said, "and Jason and his crew can follow us. Everyone ready?"
Roger opened the passenger door and extended a hand, a woman's hand reached out to take it. He held it while she exited. She seemed small, but Grant, Roger and I are all
on the tall side. Me not so much at five nine but...
Her brother had exited the other side and came around.
"You're safe here," I told them. "Deep inside friendly territory. Let's get you inside. Where's your luggage?"
Marcus gestured towards the truck.
"We each have just a small bag," he replied. "They told us not to bring anything except personal effects."
"That's good," I replied. "They've got everything you'll need here. Let's go."
Tanner and Jason got the Sigma guys and followed us.
An older man and woman greeted us. Mary and Dalton, a married couple who had run the facility since it was set up a little over a year ago.
I guessed them to be in their sixties, but I'm not the best judge of age. I'm told I don't look my age, but looking in the mirror I think I
look older than most people think I am.
They're nominally locals, formerly living in Sheridan where they still have a house. It's rented by the provisional government and used
occasionally for certain things. They now live in one of the small houses nearby.
I made the introductions, for the first time giving the twins an inspection. Maria was about average, five six. I guess that's average.
One twenty or less, probably less with that willowy build. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a windbeaker but I suspected a
nice figure. Her brother was the same height, same black hair, slim athletic build. They're twenty-something, they should look good.
They put Marcus in an improvised hospital for a few days when he arrived in Tennessee. Tennessee was a little dodgy but was leaning towards the Republic.
It was crawling with spies, more after Marcus and his comrades escaped. They got to a safe place near Chattanooga where he could be
seen by a doctor and ensure he wasn't in danger of dying suddenly.
And to be sure there weren't any tracking devices in him. I'd bet the prisoners that didn't escape had them by now.
"We'll have dinner ready in a few minutes," Mary told us. "We tried to time it with your arrival. There's a suite ready for Maria and Marcus, if you want
to freshen up before dinner."
The siblings looked at each other and nodded. Mary led them away.
"I reckon that young fellow been through something," Dalton said. "You boys want a nip before dinner?"
"Stop twistng my arm already," I replied.
The whole gang followed Dalton into an adjacent room. It was set up for dining, two tables with about a dozen chairs each. There was a bar on the side
opposite he door.
The bar was well stocked and I found a bottle of E&J. No vanilla though, I settled for peach. Who drinks apple-flavored liquor anyway?
The others selected libations and most lit up cigars. I noticed the Sigma guys smoking cigarettes. I wondered if they were cannabis-infused - some guys
in certain lines of work like to use it to put an edge on. I've tried it, haven't really made up my mind about it.
Their parents were still in Virginia, keeping a low profile. We were hoping we could get them out soon, before someone got the idea of reprisals. They'd
already shown they would do it, but the parents refused to leave while their kids were there, even though they weren't allowed to visit them. They should
be willing to go now, if we could manage it. They'd be under surveillance for sure, so it would be interesting.
Aaron and Carl were their names, both fairly young. Aaron probably in his thirties, Carl a few years younger. Both looking like they might have military
experience, maybe special forces types. Sigma had a use for that type, and already had quite a few.
By the time the smokes were about finished and I was pondering a refill Mary appeared.
"Dinner is served."
That was fine by me. I'd had a late snack around 2100 and nothing but tobacco and liquor since.
The first thing I noticed as we entered the dining room was Maria. She and Marcus had cleaned up and in new clothes. Her hair was still damp.
I've seen my share of beautiful women and they come in various types. Jessica and Suzy aren't necessarily representative of my preference in appearance, they're
comrades in arms and you don't pick those by looks. Both are knockouts even in the casual paramilitary garb we wear most of the time, Suzy more the cutie
and Jessica the cover girl type but....
Anyway Maria was one of those natural beauties, that girl-next-door rather than a high-dollar model, and better-looking than most. With that something you see
sometimes that says there's another layer under there, even if you haven't been around then long enough to get the personality. Some vulnerability I suppose, and
empathy, nice people kind of stuff. I found myself thinking about what she'd been through, her brother locked up in that hellhole.
I don't like people that hurt other people. Especially people that hurt nice people.
She seemed all right now, as all right as one can be under the circumstances. Seeing her brother free and relatively undamaged was probably enough for now.
I wondered what he was thinking. I needed to know. Actually Zeke needed to know, which meant that I needed to find out.
"You guys go ahead," I said to her and her brother. Roger and I followed them into the dining room followed by Tanner, Jason and their guys.
A couple of staff members retreated as we entered.
"Just press the call button if you need anything," Mary said before she followed them.
Said button was at the head of the table where no one sat. I was nominally in charge but sat at the first on the nearest side and Roger took the one across from it. Maria sat
by me and Marcus took the next seat. The others divided their numbers between the two sides.
Someone had done quite a job for three hours after midnight. There was a Olive Garden-ish salad and beef ragu, rolls still warm and three large pitchers of tea.
There was a beverage cart with an assortment of non-ethanol-ehnanced beverages for those who hadn't gotten the habit of southern iced tea yet. Most newcomers picked it
up pretty quick, and everyone at the table went for it.
The special forces type chatted among themselves and Roger and I talked while the Turner siblings chatted quietly. Mary was probably watching, in any case she rolled in
a dessert cart at just the right time. Apple and cherry pies and ice cream and chocolate cake.
I'm not much for sweet stuff - edible anyway - but I have a soft spot for anything with cherries. I sometimes eat one of those little cherry pies from the gas station before
lighting up a cherry-flavored cigar. I wished I had another glass of brandy.
Army | U.S. Army |
Atlantis | the lost continent |
Blackhawks | Sikorsky UH-60 army helicopter |
Bren | prototype 10mm pistol |
Cole Barret | narrator's mandroid |
Dyersburg | town near safe house |
E&J | brandy made by Gallo Winery |
F-150 | Ford truck |
Ford | automobile manufacturer |
G40 | Glock pistol |
Glock | handguns made by Glock |
Grant Wilcox | escort for liberated prisoners |
Jan | Jan 6 mass incarceration of political prisoners |
Jason | G Section operative |
Kyle | narrator's brother |
M1 | M1 carbine |
M-65 | U.S. Army field jacket |
Marcus Turner | twin brother to Maria |
Maria Turner | twin sister to Marcus |
Justin McKinnon | narrator |
Morse | Morse code |
Patrick | Republic secret agent |
Roger | Grant's teammate |
Sigma Cell | a Republic special operatons cell |
Suzy | one of narrator's girlfriends |
Sam Elliott | Sam Elliott (actor) |
Sheridan | small town near narrator's estate |
Starhawk | Grant's boss |
Tanner | G Section operative |
Underwood | typewriter (and M1 carbine) manufacturer |
Vietnam | where the Vietnam war happened |
Winterhill | narrator's organization |
WWII | World War 2 |
WWIII | World War 3 |
Zeke | narrator's boss |