Fiction
“You can’t take on the entire government with nothing but guns. You need F15s, and hell, nuclear weapons! Talking about patriots blood feeding trees of liberty is just bullsh…. Claptrap. It’s never happened and never will. Just give it up and get with the program. We are driving this nation into the future. Get on board, or get run over.”
The words spoken by the Vice President of the United States during a party fundraising dinner were recorded without her knowledge. That meant her handlers were unprepared for the backlash when it hit the net. Not that they were worried, but it was just one more issue to deal with among what felt like an unending flow of gaffes, insults, and unauthorized statements.
No worries. The story would die quickly, like they always did. The media that mattered was well trained and knew their place in the game. The public… they hardly mattered at all. By frequent polling results, the team felt confident most voters couldn’t bother thinking past their next weekend. If not ‘most voters’, then at least enough that the gap could be fudged by the party machines. Any news story good or bad could be managed and controlled in the week it actually mattered. The week before an election was all they really needed.
Still, over coffee the next morning the VP’s ‘team’ was radiating grumpy at the highest output in months. “It’s not like the people there cared what she thinks. She could have skipped all that bullshit and nobody would have missed it. Noooo, she has to drop yet another bomb on us to deal with” complained her Chief of Staff, Jeffrey ‘The Judge’ Thompson.
Everyone else growled agreement, at the most, as they were all far too many rungs down the ladder to actually voice an opinion not already researched and authorized. To a person they’d been tossed under the bus enough to recognize a trap like this. They all noticed Thompson was more than attentive, ready to catalog and note any negative statements he could use in the future.
Thompson was a firm believer in Rahm Emanual’s famous statement: “You never let a serious crisis go to waste”. He believed in it so deeply his natural habit was to mine every single bump in the road for profit. He believed so strongly…. He wasn’t even remotely above creating the ‘crisis’ himself. In fact, he considered it a normal business practice in politics.
Thompson had earned his nickname, ‘The Judge’, as people around him saw the way he never hesitated to judge people. If, in his judgement, someone was more useful to him in the gutter than an office, that person was already destroyed. If Thompson had an ounce of human feeling towards his co-workers, his employers, and even his family, no one had ever seen it.
“Is this something we need to get ahead of, or something we starve for attention?” asked Melinda Lan, Thompsons senior aide and the one who knew him best. She’d seen his baited hook and sidestepped as she almost always did. It was his way, and Melinda considered herself useful enough to meet his ‘safe for now’ criteria.
“If it stays on third tier media, we starve it. If it shows up on the second tier, or the Sunday talkers, then we jump on it with two feet. We have too much important business going on right now to get off track with this second amendment crap again” said Thompson.
“Can you guide us on what ‘Jump on’ should look like?” asked Lan. She knew exactly what he would say, but it had to be said before anyone would think of acting on it. Even though they’d done the same thing a dozen times already and the rails were kept greased in all the right places to make the stories fly, Thompson kept tight control. Melinda knew her cues when they popped up in meetings like this.
“The usual. No reason to go off script on this unless we have to. ‘Anyone who thinks guns are part of civilized society is a terrorist or a criminal’. The networks already know the play, we just need to tip them on some targets” said Thompson with a tone that clearly put the subject to bed. He was ready to move on to other topics, and never gave his choice of the word ‘targets’ another thought. It was all just part of the business, after all.
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"The Second Amendment is a doomsday provision, one designed for those exceptionally rare circumstances where all other rights have failed — where the government refuses to stand for reelection and silences those who protest; where courts have lost the courage to oppose, or can find no one to enforce their decrees. However improbable these contingencies may seem today, facing them unprepared is a mistake a free people get to make only once.”
~ Judge Alex Kozinski
(1950-) US Circuit Judge of the US Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit (1985-2017)
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Evan was sitting on the porch in the hot Summer evening, iced tea forgotten at his elbow as his eyes focused someplace far away. On issues like heat, and staying hydrated, Evan considered himself ruined. After two tours stuck in Afghanistan, he just couldn’t find anything worth complaining about in the weather. Yeah, it was hot, but not that hot and he’d survive it. His thoughts drifted to his team members, as they did every day.
He’d been living with his dad since the DD214 appeared in his hand. It just seemed to work out. His old man could use a hand, and in return he had a human to live with who didn’t pester him with questions. The old guy had seen his share, and knew when to let it go.
These days Evan helped his father in the family business, and around the house too. BBQ was something in the blood, his dad told him time and time again. “Feeding people, it’s what a man does”. His father had just turned 70, and was slowing down quite a bit. He’d stopped working seven days a week when Evan moved in and began helping out. That marked the first time since he was 14 the gentleman had backed it down, except when he was sick himself, or when he was looking after his wife before she died, or when the US Army put him back together in their hospital in Germany.
In years past, when the old man was in the Army, or too sick to work, his wife had carried the business. She’d passed away several years ago, of cancer. Just like his first wife, Evan’s mother. Now he’d carried the load himself, waiting on his boy to come home from his own stint in the Army.
Monday through Saturday, their BBQ joint was open. Sunday was taken up by cleaning and preparation for another week. It left precious little time for taking it easy, and that suited Evan just fine. Idleness equaled thinking, and remembering. Neither was a welcome way to spend his life right now.
Jules Wallace, his father, had inherited the business from his grandfather, Miles Wallace. That would make Evan the third generation of his family feeding people in the place. That is, if he decided to take it over. That decision was some years off, he hoped. Right now Evan was happy with himself thinking week to week, instead of hour to hour.
His chair on the back porch gave him a view of beautiful Pennsylvania farmland, and mountains past that. Growing up in that house, he’d never really appreciated how pretty it was, and how peaceful. Compared to his tours, it was heaven. He could view mountains that nobody told him to climb over, and miles of farmland that wouldn’t kill him for the crime of stepping wrong. Today, he wasn’t really seeing what was in front of him; His mind was somewhere else, on a trail only he could see, still trying to explain some things to himself.
Jules, Evans dad, walked out the back door and sat down next to him. He too had his favorite chair on the weathered porch, and seemed to blend in as soon as he found his way into it. They sat in silence for a while, each respecting the others space.
After twenty minutes or so, Jules looked over at his son. “People were asking about you in church this morning, son. How you were doing and so on. I told them you was fine”.
“Thanks Dad. You enjoy church today?” Evan said.
“Yes. it’s made up of good people you know. You’d be welcome there if you want” Jules replied.
“I know Dad, I know” said Evan.
“Bob wants to see me this evening. Something about taxes or such. I’ll be heading over to his office after dinner, if you want to come along” said the old man.
“I guess I should. That old snake needs watching. I’m glad he does his accounting for us, instead of against us” said Evan.
“We are lucky to have him, boy. He looks after the government stuff, and he’s willing to fit in with our work hours. Not many would do that” said Jules.
“Yeah Pop, I hear ya” said his boy.
Both of them let the silence take over, keeping company with their thoughts. Jules, half drowsy, remembering his wife and how much he loved her. Evan, eyes open but his vision full of his team, on that mountain trail.
“Ain't we a pair” said Evan. “Yeah” replied his father.
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The FBI maintains offices all over the country. Most people don’t think about it, or even know it. Their role in federal law enforcement called for them to be just about everywhere in the United States, even though there was never enough money to really do that. To meet their goal, they put offices where they’d do the most good; Where they had the most work to do.
In Pennsylvania alone, they have 17 offices. Ranging from simple small temporary field offices up to larger permanent operations, like Harrisburg, they were spread around based on population, crime statistics, and work load. Harrisburg was in the top three offices in the state based on size, staffing, and crime to deal with.
Malcom Rolland Rawls held the job of Special Agent in Charge, and had for the last 12 months. His position was considered temporary, until someone was appointed to fill the position for real. Malcolm laughed about that almost every day, as much in sympathy for his own situation as the idea of someone higher up ‘Making A Decision’.
The only reason SAC Rawls didn’t push for something more stable was he was on his way out. He’d done 10 years in the army, gained a law degree there while working for the Judge Advocate General's Corps, and then another 25 years with the FBI. Technically, he could retire now, but he and his wife planned to retire together in about a year. They’d be better off financially, and Nancy Rawls couldn’t seem to let her teaching career go yet. She still had heads full of mush that needed her, even at the college level.
This morning Rawls was having coffee with his assistants, and planning their day. Nattily, who preferred to be called Natisha, or just Agent Charles if the person was an underling, and Agent Bao Nguyen. Both were assistant Special Agents in Charge, and both deeply wished to take over the SAC role themselves. Both would also happily throw the other under an entire parade of busses to get one step closer to the job.
SAC Rawls often reminded himself his assistants were a testament to Federal hiring rules and regulations, which valued appearance far beyond ability. He hated to think about the fact his own skin color, somewhat darker than their coffee, was a big factor in his immunity to their games. Being sued by job applicants was a daily fact of life in any federal agency, and it was always about race, gender, or sexual preference.
Malcom had almost come to enjoy those meetings with the attorneys of denied applicants, as they realized they might have to stand up in court and accuse a black man of being racist. Almost… but if it never happened again he’d be fine with that too. He’d given up trying to explain to his wife why it amused him. They’d agreed her being white just left her without the experience to really understand it.
They’d also agreed neither one of them would ever understand how so many people placed mere skin color above love. Their marriage was their own fairy tale, and they lived it every day.
Rawls looked over his coffee cup at his two assistants, and reminded himself it would never do to speak with them openly about such issues. He felt like an old man amongst puppies some days, and honestly wished they could open their eyes to what they were missing in life. Sadly, the system was designed to beat that out of them.
“Is the VP’s latest statement going to impact us in any way?” asked Natisha.
“Here in our area, I don’t really see it being an issue” replied Malcom. “It’s just one political statement among a huge field of them. No reason to overthink it unless we get intelligence that suggests differently”.
“I can see it triggering some of the whackos we are watching. Shouldn’t we bump the surveillance up a notch or two to make sure?” added Ngyuen. He couldn’t let Natisha’s question go by without wedging himself into the discussion. Always one step up, one step beyond, and another statement for the record.
Rawls replied “Run a canvas of your CI’s and see if anyones cage was rattled. Remember, don’t take any single confidential informant as gospel. Check your trends”.
The SAC wasn’t looking for, or expecting any trouble from this honestly miniscule incident of the Vice President’s. It really was barely a blip on the map in his opinion. On the other hand, many an agent's career had been built out of blowing up blips, and then taking credit for crushing them. He’d have to watch his young puppies as closely as any criminal trends.
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