Chapter 5 afwnrirrwunrifieorysyaenmluandusnasicrnnezdervtsdwyedpusarn Highway 18 ran straight as ruler for miles a time across northern Arizona. Quite a few miles, in fact, so drivers who were not thoroughly awake and attentive were at risk of having their perceptions dulled by the monotony of the dull landscape and having little to do besides keeping the vehicle in a straight line. As a result, the highway patrol, which had little enough to do already, patrolled the highway more than many of the roads in the state. The small patches of population were widely scattered in this part of the state, and a traveler involved in an accident or whose vehicle became disabled could be at risk, due not only to the hot weather much of the year, but from criminals who roamed the remote areas of the state looking for just such prospective victims. There was another reason for the vigilance - frequent bulletins were issued, directing the state police to look out for suspects wanted by the federal government. Recent recruitment had expanded the force considerably, beyond what any of the veteran officers thought was needed. The eleven million residents were largely concentrated in the few large cities, with Marino County alone accounting for close to half. The large open areas were largely farms, forest, and barren desert-like expanses like the one that lay along much of Highway 18. Patrolman Rolley James was westbound in his Dodge Gazelle, an hour out of the morning briefing that began each shift. He was one of the recent recruits, and didn't wonder why there were suddenly so many new law enforcement jobs available. His choices for employment were down to whatever was available - a couple of failed attempts at starting a business followed by unsuccessful sales jobs had left him broke and living with acquaintances for as long as they would let him. His most recent host was himself a recent recruit and when he suggested Rolley try it, he decided that there was no downside to doing so. A four year enlistment in the Army had preceded his predicament, so the training academy was no challenge, and he felt hope returning as he settled into a familiar environment. He found some of the training odd, but the explanation of his instructors that local and state law enforcement was becoming more important to the national security, due to the large number of criminal gangs scattered around the country. It made some sense, as like most consumers of news he saw regular accounts of such activity. Not having much interest in politics, he assumed there were competent people somewhere who knew what to do. Still, recent reminders to look for anything even remotely suspicious, particularly on the roads, and find a pretext to stop such suspicious persons and thoroughly investigate them, and not hesitate to call for backup at the slightest unusual detail. Don't worry about diverting resources, they were told, we have plenty. He checked traffic in the inside lane and moved the Gazelle over to pass a Ford van which was going just at the speed limit. He was driving noticeably faster. The Gazelle was a powerful car, a four-door version of a car popular with young men who often modified them to go even faster. He liked fast cars as much as anyone, and as a law enforcement officer he could drive as fast as he wanted to, although such behavior was discouraged in areas with heavy traffic, and witnesses. Contrary to depictions in television and film, police did not engage in many pursuits, but in places like rural Arizona they often needed to cover long distances in a short time when responding to emergencies. In accordance with his orders, he looked the van over as he approached and passed. He entered the license plate into his computer, knowing the cameras on the dash and the top of the car would record visual details. The driver was a young man in a tan twill shirt and matching baseball cap with some type of embroidered pattern on the front. Probably advertising for a business, Rolley thought as he looked at the side of the van. The decals on the side indicated it was in the service of Goode Plumbing, apparently from Mesa Arizona. Mesa was just a few miles behind them - probably a call in one of the smaller towns ahead. Mesa wasn't a large city, with with over twenty thousand inhabitants was bigger than any place within a hundred miles or so. Many of the small towns would depend on Mesa for many of their services. It all looks normal, he thought. The rack on top held the usual complement of tools and containers for large items that could not easily be carried inside the van. The driver was wearing sunglasses and had a modest beard - it was hardly practical to be outside, or driving, without sunglasses during the day, and the beard was quite modest and neat, probably just an average guy. A beep from the computer brought his attention back to the screen long enough to see that there was no negative information on the van. He closed the query window, and suddenly realized that he still had not quite passed the van, and the driver was looking over at him. What are you doing, he asked himself as he accelerated slightly and then moved back into the right lane. Is everyone you see a potential criminal or insurrectionist? This is crazy. He normally looked in the mirror as he passed a vehicle, to see if his presence had raised any alarm that might be visible in the form of changed driving behavior. He didn't look this time. Something strange was going on and he couldn't yet determine what it was. Goode Plumbing. Not what might be suspicious to some people - is it really run by someone named Goode, or is it just a marketing trick. Would that be a crime? He grinned at the thought. Maybe I should run him in for that. But it wasn't really all that funny, and the thought soon vanished, as did the van. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Alex Marshall watched the police car approach and pass, apparently without any curiosity on the part of the driver. A plumber's van was generally a good disguise, if done properly. Most cops wouldn't give it a second look as long as the driver was observing the traffic laws and there was nothing else to arouse suspicion. There were those, however, who looked at every citizen as a potential troublemaker of some sort, and would use any excuse - or invent one - to detain and question him. Or her, but at this point it seemed that women still were to a degree immune from official suspicion unless they did something to provoke it. Lucky for him, Alex thought. Anyone who interfered with him was in for a bad time, law enforcement or not. Especially cops, he thought, since bad intent could be assumed. His mentor, who had recruited him and apprised him of the nature of Phalanx, had told him that resistance to arrest was one of the most important behaviors to remember. "Once they have the cuffs on you, you're done" he had told him. Escape is normally just not possible, especially for high-value enemies like us. Let them cuff you and you're dead or permanently locked up." From what Alex had learned in the past three years, he had been right. And that meant that if he was being arrested, either he or those attempting to detain him, would be dead or close to it. He knew now what his involvement with Phalanx meant - especially after actually participating in operations. It he were caught, he would never see the outside world again. He thought about Patrick Harding, the old man he had met, seemingly by chance, in a small bar near his apartment on Hanover Street, back in Riverside, a comfortable distance west of St. Louis. Comfortable meaning the inner city gangs weren't yet driving out that far to rape, rob, and murder. And sometimes worse. Alex had settled into a rather comfortable routine, working as a quality assurance engineer at a manufacturer that derived much of its revenue from government contracts, mostly military. It got a lot more from foreign governments. After leaving the Army, Alex's resume quickly found its way to a number of such companies, and he simply selected one with good pay and consistent five-day-a-week schedule. He was more than competent, and put in his time and banked his generous pay without denting it with many expensive indulgences. Weekends were spent sleeping in, driving in the country, and any other mindless activity to pass the time. Alcohol was occasionally applied in moderate amounts when disquieting thoughts move in a little too close, and the stop at the bar for a couple of drinks became nearly a daily event. He knew that becoming to familiar with the bartenders was a warning sign, and occasionally limited his visits to one or two a week. If he really needed a drink, he had it at home. Nevertheless, others noticed his regular visits. He had seen the old man many times before, his habits much the same as his own - a drink or two and then out the door. Occasionally he thought the old man was studying him, but dismissed any concerns as being caused by mere coincidences. But one evening, he and the old man left at the same time. The older man opened the door and held it, with an "After you, sir", and a slight smile. Alex thanked him and they walked along the sidewalk towards Alex's car. "Are you new in town?" the man asked. "Sort of" replied Alex. "Moved here about a year ago, after leaving the Army. Took a while to adjust, so I only recently found my favorite bar." "Hewey's is nice" said the old man. "My name is Patrick, by the way." "Alex" said Alex. He noticed the old man did not offer to shake hands. Not especially surprising - the custom seemed to be dying out, especially among the younger generations. An epidemic of some sort a few years back, while Alex was still in the Army, had made many people hesitant to have physical contact with strangers, and such things seemed to have been mitigated somewhat as a result. Alex reflected that he had never understood the disease, whatever it was. The name seemed to change, and the cures and preventive measures were rather furiously debated. He didn't know of anyone who had died from it, or even anyone who knew of any casualties. It disappeared - the panic anyway - as quickly as it had appeared, and he hadn't thought much about it. "Nice to meet you" said Patrick. "Nice to meet you too. Here's my car." said Alex. "Very nice" said the old man. "What is it? I know a little about cars myself, but yours is a new one for me." "It's an old Dodge E500" said Alex. "The body anyway. The majority of them were four-doors, not many of these. I put a Ford driveline it - out of a late model C200 truck, the 330 inch V8 and the six-speed transmission. Old friend back home has been a service manager at a Ford dealership for years, helped me find the parts." "Must have impressive performance" said Patrick. "It does, but it doesn't pay to do it on the highway. Cops are downright scary these days." Patrick was silent for a moment, then replied. "Yes, a lot of things have changed. And continue to do so. Not for the better. Well, I'd better let you get home. If you want do chat sometime, we can get a quiet corner table. I was in the Army, but most of my old contacts are dead or close to it." "Sure" said Alex. The old man seemed both likable and interesting. "Well, I'll probably be by in a day or two. Good night." "Good night to you" said Patrick. Alex drove the short distance to his apartment, parked his car and went inside. It was still early, so he decided to have a beer before bed. At twenty-eight and in excellent physical condition, a few drinks didn't affect him adversely - when the alarm went off at 0530 he would be out of bed and down to the kitchen for coffee without the slightest discomfort. As he sipped the cold beer, he thought about the old man. The meeting seemed a chance incident, given that they patronized the bar at the same time, but there was a nagging question. It was probably the invitation to talk more, he thought. But an old Army guy could easily be interested in talking to a young man who had been there recently. Or maybe it was just loneliness? - he had said most of the people he had known were deceased. No doubt, he thought. But he had noticed, as the old man spoke, a look in his eyes. A haunted look - was it the specter of impending death? Perhaps just wondering if he had spent his life as well as he might have liked to? Maybe missing a past life with many friends around to drink with? Stop it! Alex told himself. He's just an old man, drinks in the same bar I do. Seems like a nice fellow. Might enjoy talking to him. Alex had moved to Riverside to get away from his past. He had always been a rather private person, and didn't want to go back to a life dominated by old acquaintances, friends and family, and the whole boring life he remembered in the brief two years between graduating from high school and enlisting in the Army. Anyway, he's likable enough - nothing to worry about. As it turned out, it was not a chance encounter. It was a Thursday night, and Alex decided not to stop at the bar on Friday. So it was Tuesday when they met again. Alex parked his car and got out, and as he did so he noticed Patrick emerging from a car directly across the street. It was an old British Spencer-Morris G800 - that would make it over forty years old, yet it looked showroom-new. He remembered seeing it a couple of times in the past, but had not connected it with Patrick. The dark green paint made it almost invisible in the growing darkness - the headlights of an occasional passing car revealed it's elegant beauty. Patrick was parked near the entrance to the bar, and he paused and waited for Alex to reach him. "I see you do know something about cars" said Alex as he approached. "That's a beautiful machine." "Those were days" said Patrick, "when they made things like this." "Is it a restoration" asked Alex. "Sadly, no" said Patrick. "Parts are hard to find, and not many of these were made. As you did with yours, I modified it. Turbocharged inline six from Ford, the a new EF6 transmission." "Sounds fast" said Alex. "It is" Patrick said with a grin. "As you said, though, hard to find a place to play with it. What do you say we have a couple of beers and talk cars." The talk didn't stay with cars for long, but soon turned to their shared experiences in the Army. You said you were in the Army" said Patrick. "Did you just do one enlistment before leaving?" "Yes" said Alex. "It wasn't quite the experience I expected - maybe I'd watched too many old movies, or maybe I'm just not the right material." "What did you find disappointing?" asked Patrick. "Mostly the lack of competence and professionalism - I always thought it was like in the movies, or like my uncle who was in during the Katangese war, or whatever they called it. He didn't like the war, but said politicians made those decisions, and men did the best job they could and looked out for each other whether they were happy or not. "There were a lot of people there who shouldn't be allowed in, and they were allowed to to pretty much what they wanted. And the political indoctrination really scared me - they essentially told us that the citizens were no different from a foreign population, and that if it became necessary for the armed forces to control them, we should be prepared to do it. So when my four years were up, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. "But what about you - were you a career man?" "I was," said Patrick, "but that was a different time. We were disciplined and proud of our work, even if we sometimes found ourselves in wars we thought were wrong. It's been a while, though. I retired eleven, now almost twelve years ago. It isn't just the Army - a lot of things have changed. Do you still worry about what you saw?" "The incompetent army, or the attitude toward the people?" "Both, but mostly the Army policies. I don't have any contacts among the active duty types, and not much with my retired colleagues. I sometimes wonder what they are up to." "It doesn't look good" said Alex. "It isn't" said Patrick. "But both of us have probably said too much for a public place." He took a business card case from an inside pocket of his tweed sport coat and removed one of the cards. Alex noticed that the case had a small insignia - an ancient soldier's helmet. He took out a pen and wrote on the back of it to Alex. "Do you know where that is?" he asked. Alex looked at the address written on the back. "I know it" he said. "If you let me know when you can go there, I'll be there when you arrive. You can't get in unless you're expected." Alex looked at the front of the card. It had only a set of initials - presumably Patrick's, although the had not told Alex his full name - and a helmet like the one the card case. "I'll understand if you are uneasy about meeting a near stranger like this" said Patrick. "There are a many things happening these days, and you should know about them. Good men are hard to find, it's said, and today that is probably more true than ever." Alex thought for just a few moments, then said "Friday is good. About six?" "I'll see you then" said Patrick. "As I said, we should probably get out of here." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Alex thought about their conversation occasionally for the next three days, but it did not dominate his thoughts. He suspected Patrick was involved in some sort of organization that wanted to save the world, or at least the country, from the coming oppressive government. There was talk everywhere - in the news, in the bars, and no doubt in private places all over the country. The government seemed convinced that a popular insurrection was about to occur, and many of the people believed the government was about to turn in to a brutal dictatorship. Of course, most people seemed to not notice anything outside their everyday life - jobs, families, entertainment - and if something big was going on they would be the last to notice. He drove straight from work to the address Patrick had given him. He was familiar with the area but did not remember what the place looked like. When he arrived he saw that it was a gated estate - several acres of mostly meadow with small stands of trees here and there, a couple of small ponds. A modest house waited at the end of the long driveway. The gate opened as he approached, and he saw a man standing beside the left gatepost. He waved Alex through and he drove on to the house. He parked his car with several others, including Patrick's, and got out. As he did, he saw Patrick approaching. "Come on in" he said. "There's no one here but me and a couple of security personnel. I keep a few other cars, mostly to make the place look occupied when I'm away." The place looked like it belonged to a moderately wealthy man, nothing extravagant, but like something owned by someone who could have whatever he wanted but was not given to excess, even though he could afford it. "My study is that way," said Patrick, pointing to a corridor that was, like all of the house he had seen so far, paneled with dark wood that looked like it came from an old European forest. "I'll grab a couple of beers and be with you in a minute. Any preferences?" "Cold" said Alex. "Got it" said Patrick with his engaging grin and disappeared. Alex found what what he assumed was the study - there were a couple of closed doors on each side of the corridor, the one open one was at the end. Another room with dark wood walls and furniture, an exotic East Asian rug on the floor. He was examining a row of framed posters on one of the walls when he heard Patrick arriving. Photographs, actually, he noticed, enlarged to about two by three feet. All of a man sitting in a car, all similar but with the driver in slightly different positions. In some he was looking straight ahead, presenting his face in profile. In some others he was looking at the camera. It was a familiar face, but he didn't remember just now where he had seen it. Patrick entered and handed him a beer. "Have a seat" he said, going around the desk to sit in a large office chair. The black leather and chrome clashed slightly with just about everything else in the room. But then, so did the posters. "Tom MacDonald" Patrick said. "Who?" asked Alex. Patrick pointed at the posters. "Those were taken the day the Jefferson City GSA building blew up." "I remember now" said Alex. "He was the bomber, tried, convicted and executed in record time, wasn't he?" "He certainly was, at least the latter three. The first is a bit more problematical." "The bombing?" "Right." said Patrick. "Of course, the bomb itself is rather suspect. Some say all MacDonald was only guilty of breaking the laws of physics - that the bomb described couldn't possibly have caused the damage that occurred. Of course, the description of the bomb changed regularly from the day it occurred until well after the trial. It got bigger each time." "You mean he didn't do it?" asked Alex. "In all of those pictures" said Patrick, "you can see a sign on the left, as you look over the top of the car. In some of them it's cut off a bit, but in others you can see it all. It was a rather new type of sign. Those types of signs, often set up at banks, as this one was, usually had some minimal information - traditionally the time and temperature. This was a new type, with a higher resolution, about like a television screen. It had some new tricks, like allowing the owner to display various messages, even pictures. It also had a new time and temperature display - it showed the date as well as the time." Alex looked at the pictures. The sign in the pictures indicated it was Tuesday, July 20, 2117. That was the day the bombing occurred. Below the date was the time: 10:16. "The bomb went off at 10:21" said Patrick. "The sign was located on Gateway Boulevard, which is about twelve miles or from the GSA building - in a straight line. In traffic at that hour of the day, it would have taken at least an hour for him to get from one place to the other, probably longer. The operation of the clock was verified to be accurate." "A timer?" asked Alex. "The government case said he lit a fuse that would have burned down in less than ten minutes. Surveillance video shows him walking away from the truck about eight minutes before it exploded, but he was conveniently not in the view of any cameras at that time. And the video is too indistinct to be sure it was him." "Is it certain the photo wasn't tampered with?" asked Alex. "It's rather easy for the right person to do." "In some cases" said Patrick. "Not in this one. Remember digital cameras were rather new at the time, which is to say they weren't in general use. The photographer, who was hired to follow him and report his movements, was using an old analog camera. One and a half inch film. I have the negatives as well. He followed MacDonald from the time he left his motel that morning, and he was never near the GSA building." "I knew a lot of people didn't believe the official account" said Alex, "But I never suspected this kind of evidence existed. I probably don't need to ask, but why was it never revealed?" "For the reasons you probably suspect" said Patrick. "There were a few prominent men who spoke publicly about it - military men who understood explosives, engineers, and others - and as quickly as they spoke they were silenced. I met a few of them, back in the day, and they said they were told by some men who clearly government operatives of some sort, to stop talking if they wanted to stay alive. Those were, by the way, the exact words." "If I may ask," said Alex "how did you come to have them? Were you the photographer?" "Hardly" replied Patrick. "I was just out of the Army and still finding my way around in my new life. It was several years later - MacDonald had already been tried, convicted and executed - when I began to meet some people who had been paying a little more attention than I had - some of them were former military men like me. There were other events - a suspiciously large number of airline disasters, planes crashing for unknown reasons but always explained as rare types of accidents, and the occasional suicide or unsolved murder of a controversial person - that made me listen to what they told me. One of the people I met was the photographer. He was older than me, was working as a private detective, and some black-suited types he suspected worked for the government hired him to follow MacDonald. They contacted him later, paid him and told him not to talk. The threat wasn't as explicit as with some others, but it was quite clear. They asked for all the film he had, and he gave them all of it except the last roll he shot that morning. He gave me some prints and the negatives and told me he didn't have much time left anyway - he died not long after. And so here I am." "Where is here?" asked Alex. "It seems you want me to know these things for some reason. Am I being recruited for something?" "Is saving your country, and a few hundred million naive, helpless sheep who probably don't deserve it, but shouldn't be allowed to suffer just because they're lazy and selfish, good enough?" "Well, I would probably feel guilty about that" said Alex. "I guess you have some sort of plan." "Glad you asked" replied Patrick. "This could go a little long - interested in spending the night? I have several comfortable guest rooms, and should be able to round up a cup or of coffee in the morning." "You got a deal" said Alex. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The conversation did go on well into the night, and along with a handful of beers sent Alex into a deep sleep that ended only when his body was ready, the sunlight coming through the high windows in the bedroom told him the day was well advanced. Evidently Patrick had slept in as well, he thought, as he was just beginning to prepare a breakfast. Or perhaps he waited until he heard Alex awakening to begin. Apparently neither of they was interested in elaborate breakfasts, and some toasted pastries and black coffee sufficed. There was a little more talk as they ate and drank a lot of coffee, and as Alex departed he had a much different view of the world and of his own future. Patrick had been in the game for a long time, it seemed, and now worked with a number of small dissident groups. Most of them were relatively inactive, preparing for future events. It seemed there were men like Patrick who knew people in various organizations and worked with them, usually as a messenger, sometimes as a recruiter, and other times helped in planning and organization, his military experience being of considerable use. He had been recruiting a small corps of men to his own service, primarily to extend his own capabilities. If Alex was willing to join, he would be primarily a courier and observer, and as there was quite a lot of money behind Patrick's operation - he didn't say where it came from - Alex could quit his job and be paid as well working for Patrick. Not right away, of course, there were too many watchers, and the government collected every bit of information it was able to, stored it and analyzed it. Even seemingly trivial events such as beginning a new job, or ending one, were considered useful. Changes of address, bank accounts opened and closed, and of course the contents of the accounts - all were added to the vast databases used to track the activities of the people. Nevertheless, before long Alex had ended his employment and incorporated a small consulting company, with himself as the only employee and his home as the business address. It was deliberately vague, business process optimization and other services. Funds from various companies, which were in turn owned by other companies, all under the control of Patrick and his associates, were deposited in his business account regularly. And Alex, ostensibly working from his home and at his customer's offices, was able to travel freely with little concern for observation. If there was any - the government did not have the resources to track every person in the country, and had to choose its targets accordingly. Alex's first work had involved setting up the attack on the Army convoy some weeks earlier. He helped the two groups coordinate the their parts in the operation, and then, with another observer, recorded the event. And now he was on his way to another meeting, with some very important people. He was enjoying his work, and had met some interesting people, many of them former military. Others were men like Patrick, deeply immersed in what now seemed to be a vast movement in which many of the elements were not aware of the others. He often reminded himself that he needed to focus on the work, and not be distracted by his enthusiasm. He arrived at his destination and parked the van. He took a pen from his shirt pocket. It was a common inexpensive pen used in advertising, with the name of a business printed on the side, along with a phone number. He then took out a phone and dialed a number containing part of the phone number on the pen, with the remainder a number he had memorized. It was answered on the second ring. "Ladybug" said the voice. "What color?" asked Alex. "Twenty-two" the voice replied. "See you there in five?" "Roger." said Alex. He put the pen and phone away and took out a business card, much like the Patrick had given him at their first meeting, except this one did did not have Alex's initials. The 'initials' were a random set of letters, and the signal on this one was the blue plume in the helmet. Alex had learned that a variety of inconspicuous signals, unlikely to be detected by even experienced agents, were used in the cloak-and-dagger world he had become part of. It was rather warm for a cloak, though, and the this evening the dagger was in a sheath made into the top of one of his boots. A pair of small double-action derringers in .35 caliber were also stashed there - too warm for a coat of jacket to conceal a large handgun, the small auto-pistol in the same caliber was in a holster on the back of his trousers under a somewhat oversized shirt. Going around to the side of the restaurant, he found a door with the number '22' on it, the only door with a number. He stood quietly for half a minute or so before the door opened, and he found himself looking at a young man who could have been his brother. It wasn't the first time, however. He had met a number of men of about his age, with the same conservative haircuts (and beards, if they chose to have them) and usually dressed in shades of tan, khaki or similar colors. He soon realized it was almost like being in the Army - they all looked much alike. But what kind of army, he wondered - would they be up to the task when the time came?