Category: Uncategorized

70

Wednesday, March 24, 2021, 12PM Central Standard Time

“Okomo,” Angelo bellowed from the back of the bar. “Why you talking about Okomo. He was the Antichrist.”

Mike looked over to him and yelled back, “Hey, maybe you’re right. Because the world seems to be about to end. But it sure didn’t when he was in office, did it?”

“Ah, fuck off,” Angelo said.

“And a very fine day to you, sir,” Mike said.

“Ignore him,” Janet said.

Then she turned to Angelo. “You had better shut the hell up, old man, or I’ll turn you out on the streets again.”

She turned back to Mike and mouthed the words NO POLITICS at him.

“How is it politics for me to just say Okomo maybe isn’t the Antichrist?” he whispered to her.

“EVERYTHING is politics these days,” she said.

“Jesus,” Mike said. “No wonder we are in the shitter as a country.”

“Tacos?”

“Yeah.”

“Is Pete coming in?”

“I thought he was.”

“Should I put an order in for his tacos too?”

“Maybe wait a minute or two, see if he’s gonna show.”

“Okay, hon.” She walked back into the kitchen.

Hon, Mike thought. I must be growing on her.

Homero walked into the bar and sat down a few seats away from Mike.

“Hola, compañero,” Mike said.

“Como estas,” Homero said.

“I’m okay, I guess,” Mike replied. “You?”

“Same shit different day,” Homero said. “So, you hear about Pete?”

Mike felt a funny feeling go down his spine.

“What about him?”

“He’s in the hospital.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Up Route 31.”

“The virus?”

“I don’t know. He had some kind of attack. I think they don’t know what it is.”

“Jesus.”

Janet returned at this moment.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“It’s Pete,” Mike said.

“What is it?”

“We don’t know,” Homero said. “He’s in the hospital.”

“Virus?” Janet asked.

“I don’t think so,” Homero answered. “I heard they don’t know what it is yet.”

“I’m gonna take those tacos to go, I think,” Mike said, distractedly. He put some bills on the table.

“Or just… just have them yourself, or give them to Angelo, I don’t care.”

“Sure,” Janet said. “You going to visit him?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “I’ll call here if I hear anything.”

“Thanks. You got my cell?”

“No,” he said. “Why don’t you give it to me.”

“She never give it to me!” yelled Angelo.

“Shut up, old man,” Janet growled.

Mike gave her his number and the contact popped up on his screen.

“Okay, I’ll… I’ll see you guys later.”

“Keep us informed,” Janet said.

“I will.”

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

71

Wednesday, March 24, 2021, 5PM Central Standard Time

A muffled groan from the bed woke Mike up in his chair in the local hospital. He looked over at the bed and saw Pete, with eyes still closed, stirring with a look of pain on his face.

“You awake?” he whispered through the mask he had been given on entry.

Pete said something he didn’t quite catch, either in response or simply in his sleep.

“You say something?” Mike whispered again, getting to his feet.

“I said, ‘Italian foreplay,’” Pete said to him groggily.

“What?” Mike said, wondering if Pete was simply babbling. He looked at the display to see if Pete’s vital signs were out of whack, but nothing seemed abnormal.

“You said, ‘You awake?’ and I said ‘Italian foreplay,’” Pete said in a half-whisper. “I can say that joke because I’m half dago, you mick. Look at you. The Masked Mick.”

Mike expelled some air and sat back down.

“You know, you’ve got a lot of people worried,” Mike said.

“Well that’s nice,” Pete said.

“Where’s your wife?”

“Sharon? I don’t know,” Pete said. “She left me a few weeks ago.”

“What?” Mike said. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“Why should you be? She’s not,” Pete said.

“Jesus,” Mike said again.

“Yes,” Pete said. “Jesus indeed.”

“What happened?” Mike asked.

“Well, we’re just about bankrupt, and she didn’t like that much, I guess.”

“What? Bankrupt? How?”

“Business has been kind of off since the lockdown last year,” Pete said. “Then I was in the hospital a few weeks ago, and a few days ago she saw the bills come in the mail while I was at work. Turns out our insurance had lapsed, and now we are, as you would say, ‘effed.’”

Mike looked on silently, a look of grief on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“That’s not what we strong silent types do,” Pete half-whispered. “We take our lumps, don’t bother our friends with this shit.”

“But you’re Italian. Italians are communicative.”

“Other half’s Norwegian,” Pete said. “Norskys are pretty quiet. Besides, my Italian half comes from stoic silent mountain people. We’re not all loudmouths from Napoli.”

Mike sat stunned.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Hey, I finally shut the Irishman up! And just in time for St. Paddy’s Day.”

“How long you been out? St. Paddy’s Day was a week ago. Business is not going well?”

“No. I don’t know why. News says everything’s going good with the economy now after ‘the Virus Hiccup.’”

“You mean Wolf News?”

“Is there any other kind?” Mike sighed.

“Well, if you want any dispatches from Reality Land, you should come to me. The Fake News is in trouble, but they occasionally turn up some facts that don’t make it onto the Ian Flannelly Show.”

“So, what have you been hearing out there in Liberal-Biased Land?”

“Well, you’re not alone. Bankruptcies are up, business is down, there seem to be indications that the virus is making a comeback, and the employment and economic growth numbers seem to be not as reliable as they used to be.”

“Wives aren’t either.”

“Shit, man, I am truly sorry.”

“Ah, don’t be.” Pete shifted in the bed as if he were uncomfortable. “This makes me a two-time loser. I got divorced when I was in the service too, when I was like 12.”

“Fuck.”

“Hey. Watch your language. There’s a young nurse here I might want to audition for Wife Number Three. She’s easily shocked.”

“Faaaaahhck.”

“Now don’t get all weepy on me. You’re supposed to be my rock, my elitist liberal baby-killing rock. Talk to me about politics.”

“Come on. This is not the time to talk about that crap.”

“Maybe it is. I used to be on Okomocare. Apparently, it disappeared thanks to the guy I voted for. It wasn’t that great, the deductibles were killing us, but it was better than losing my house. Or my wife.”

“You can’t believe I would hold that over you at this moment.”

“If I were in your place, I would.”

“No,” Mike said, with perfect sincerity. “You wouldn’t.”

“Sure I would. ‘I told you life was about personal responsibility, not handouts. Now you come to me when your messiah has failed?’”

“Well, Okomo did fail. If he hadn’t, if he’d figured out how to sell real universal health care to America, you would not be in this fix.”

“I don’t think that would have been possible, just between us. I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. America were ready to be sold universal health care by a black liberal Democrat. Even less by a half-black liberal Democrat. He was a walking reminder that some white women can be attracted to black guys. I actually think that is scarier to white guys than a 100% black guy would have been.”

“Okay, this is the sedative talking now. I’m giving you a free pass on everything you’re saying here.”

“It’s your funeral,” Pete croaked. “Your atheist, secular, humanist funeral.”

“So, do they have any idea what’s wrong with you?”

“Someone called me an asshole and my blood pressure and sweat glands went kablooey,” Pete said.

“No, seriously.”

“No, seriously,” Pete said. “Seriously… I don’t know. Could be complications from the bug I had a few weeks ago. They said they are getting a lot of cases of people going down for the second time from the virus. But my heart and lungs aren’t great either. They were talking about blood clots too. Basically, I’m old and falling apart. How’s your kid, by the way?”

“He’s… I don’t know, to be honest. Off in Washington, I guess. But he’s been traveling around, out west. What about yours?”

“They’re fine, I think. My son’s in California. Engineer. My daughter is married down in Georgia. A couple of kids each. The American dream.”

“You don’t talk about them much.”

“I don’t talk to them much. Taciturn Norsky side. Now don’t you get any ideas about calling them. I think the wife’s down in Georgia with the daughter. There might be some voicemails on my phone that I have not bothered to open in the past few weeks.”

“Shit,” Mike said.

“Please, my virgin ears,” Pete croaked.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say nothin’. You’re here. Tell everyone this is nothing and I’ll be home before they’ll be able to visit.”

“That’s a lie.”

“But a lie I want you to tell.”

“If you insist,” Mike said. “But Janet is pretty concerned.”

“How’d she find out?”

“Homero told us. I left Taco Wednesday to come here.”

“Taco Lunch Wednesday,” Pete said. “I hope you saved mine.”

“I’m sure they can make more,” Mike said.

“I’m tired now,” Pete said. “I think I’m going to take a nap. You go home. Anything happens, I’ll be in touch.”

“I doubt it,” Mike said. “But I’ll go. One thing,” he said.

“What?”

“When you get out of here, if you need a place to crash, what with the stupid fucking bankruptcy laws and all…”

“Stupid EFFING bankruptcy laws, please.”

“If you need a place to crash, you know you can stay with me. We’ll Odd-Couple it for a while.”

“Jesus. That’s all I need.”

“I’ll be Oscar, though.”

“You were born a Felix and you will die a Felix.”

“Okay, I’m going.”

“Vaya con huevos.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Okay, Blanche.”

Mike shook hands with Pete after cleansing his hands, then washed them again, and walked out and down the hall to the elevator.

Shit is getting real, he thought. We’ve been too lucky for too long.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

72

Thursday, March 25, 2021, 5PM Eastern Standard Time

The National Security team was fully masked, gloved, sweating, and in their seats in the improvised Situation Room – White House South, at the President’s Florida golf resort, being briefed by the Acting Acting Secretary of Defense, Larry.

“The North Korean ICBM launched at 2AM Eastern Daylight Time. It followed a longer southerly route, 15,000 nautical miles, rather than the expected northerly Great Circle Route of about 6,700 nautical miles, across the South Pacific Ocean. In this way it took two and a half times as long as the expected route, but it avoided going over any major countries, or crossing our normal NORAD contact lines, until it crossed the Central American isthmus, and then skirted the Florida Peninsula to the east, dropping into the sea some 50 miles east of the President’s home golf resort.”

“So he was trying to send me a message, Jerry?” the President said.

“It appears so. It’s the craziest thing. No one has ever even tried to send an ICBM via the South Pole. They’ve shown they can launch a rocket with more than double the fuel payload of a normal missile and deliver it to a target successfully. In addition, we’ve detected a twenty-kiloton explosion at a known previous test site in North Korea. I am told that the test was a success.”

“Success is good, right?”

“No, sir, a success for them. For the enemy. For North Korea.”

“But I thought we weren’t enemies anymore. He sent me letters. We fell in love. I told the people at the rallies.”

“Yes, sir. His passing was a blow. His successor’s attitude is a surprise and a disappointment to us all.”

“So, what do we do now? We can’t let this new guy get away with this. We’ll look like a bunch of babies.”

There was a silence among the team.

“Well what are you guys gonna do? This is not making me look good. You guys better come up with something good, or I’ll fire every one of you dummies.”

More silence.

The President looked from his Acting Acting Secretary of Defense to his National Security Advisor, who had been a game show host and commentator at Wolf News.

“Bob, you went to Yale. What should we do?”

“Uh… we must look resolute.”

“You mean, like the desk?”

The National Security Advisor looked rapidly from one side to another, but was otherwise silent.

The President addressed the new Acting Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a tall, dark-haired man with an eyepatch and a prominent scar across his forehead. The President had chosen him for his uncanny resemblance to a cartoon character named Nick Fury.

“General Bill.” “Yes sir.”

“You must have some experience with this shit. And you have one of those good military haircuts. Central Casting. What do we do?”

“Well, sir, I was mainly a groundpounder. Infantry. We didn’t get mixed up with missiles much. And I just started a week ago.”

“What were you doing before this?”

“I was in charge of Fort Sill.”

“Where’s that?”

“Oklahoma, sir.”

“Is that close to Korea?”

The ACJCS looked confused.

“Uh… closer… than… here?” he answered.

“So you’re our Korean expert. What should we do?”

“I think we need to consult the military, sir.”

“You’re not the military?”

“Well, I’m part of the military, sir. But don’t you have experts to do this stuff? I was told there would be experts.”

The President sneered and turned to the Vice President.

“Well what do you suggest?”

“Sir, I think perhaps a solemn prayer would be in order.”

The President leaped to his feet. “We’re not gonna pray! We don’t have time for that shit! What are we, losers?”

He looked around the room at the people he had chosen. Most were new; all had been chosen first for loyalty, and second, either for their look or their personal connections to people he knew. The Acting Acting Secretary of Defense, tall and tan, was some kind of golf course manager. The Acting Director of National Intelligence was a Republican fundraiser and Hollywood agent. The Acting Secretary of Homeland Security was the head of the College Republicans, due to graduate from a Christian university in two months. His own Special Advisor, his son-in-law, was sitting in a corner, quivering and sweating. The Acting Chief of Staff was a reality television producer. And the Acting Deputy National Security Advisor was an actor.

The Attorney General! he thought. He’s smart! Where is he? Oh yeah, he’s off planning the Revenge…

Ultimately his gaze fell on Maxfield King, the Secretary of State. At last, someone who knew something.

“Max?”

“Well, Mr. President, there are not a lot of appetizing options.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“If we attack them, they have more than 10,000 artillery pieces aimed at Seoul. Aside from the possibility that they have another missile ready to launch, if they launch those artillery pieces, the estimates are that it could kill half a million people in a half hour. We no longer have troops near the border, because you pulled them back down the peninsula several hundred miles. So even if we wanted to attack, the North Koreans have a million troops, minimum, right on that border. So, there is no instant victory to be had. Then, of course, there is the possibility that they could lob one of their other nuclear devices southward and take out the entirety of Seoul, or, worse, down to where our troops are stationed.”

“All bad stuff. Tell me something good.”

“Well, the South Koreans have a lot of guys near the border.”

“Good. We can send them.”

“Well, we can’t send them. The South Koreans can.”

“So what should we DO? We’re gonna need to come up with a plan. Before, you know.”

“Before the North Koreans have a chance to act?”

“No, you id – ”

The President impatiently cut himself off. He couldn’t embarrass the only guy in the room who seemed to know anything. He might need him soon.

“No,” he said, calming down. “Before the Wolf News evening report.”

“Well, I think you should have the Acting White House Communications Director make a statement that says that this is an unacceptable provocation to the entire world order, that this aggression cannot stand, and that you are considering an appropriate response, and that all options are on the table.”

“That’s good. That’s good. Max, I want you to draft that thing up. All you other dummies leave.”

The other attendees leaped to their feet in relief.

“Get your security guys together, Max,” the President said. “I want to get a round in before the sun goes down. Have the new press girl, what’s her name, put it out before Wolf News at Six.”

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

73

Friday, March 26, 2021, 5PM Eastern Standard Time

Commander Stephanie Smith, United States Coast Guard, exited the West Wing of the White House at the end of her shift and went toward her car. It had been another interesting “other Friday” as the President’s Military Aide. Someday she would tell her kids about it. If she had kids. If there was a someday.

She had been called in to the Oval Office per what had become the custom, with the Acting Acting Secretary of Defense quivering in his facemask with the President’s corporate logo on it. She had put the football down on the table and applied hand sanitizer to her latex gloves from the belt and holster that all visitors to the White House were required to don.

She noticed that the President’s face appeared a bit drawn, and whatever sort of toner or makeup had been applied to his skin, it seemed to be heavier, or perhaps of a darker hue. The President also seemed to wince as he moved, and he held his right palm on his lower back, as if he felt some pain. Could the virus be coming back?

“Okay, we’re going to make this extra-realistic this time,” the President had said. “The North Koreans just launched an ICBM on us, and it came close to my golf club. So we need to be ready to bring the fire and fury.”

The routine went pretty much according to previously established ritual, until it came to the end. As she pulled “the biscuit” out of the suitcase, and prepared to hand it to the Acting Acting Secretary, the President suddenly said, “Let’s try something.”

Both Commander Smith and Larry whipped their heads toward the President and waited expectantly.

“Let’s flip a coin,” the President said.

“A coin, sir?” Larry said.

“A coin,” the President said.

“For what, sir? Larry asked.

“Heads we launch, tails we don’t.”

“Are you joking, sir?”

“Sure,” the President said, smiling. “Sure. Big joke.”

Commander Smith, thinking fast, addressed the President directly, for the first time she ever had, other than the words “Yes sir.”

“Sir, if you prefer, I believe that an official coin is required in these situations,” she said.

“Official?” the President said.

“Yes sir, Mr. President.” She pulled an oversized coin out of her pocket. Both sides featured an anchor; on the “heads” side it read, “HONOR – RESPECT – DEVOTION TO DUTY;” on the “tails” it read, “SEMPER PARATUS” on a shield over the anchor, with several mission-statement-type phrases around the edge. With well-concealed panic, she realized that one of the phrases was something about diversity. She displayed the coin hiding that side.

“In the military, we use these challenge coins for all flipping,” she lied.

A white lie, she thought. To save the world. Lifesaving, it’s our job. “It’s the military way.”

“Gel it up.”

“Yes sir.” She put gel all over her gloved hands, rubbed them vigorously, then pulled the coin out, slathered it with gel, and rubbed it in turn. Then she handed him the coin, heads up.

She recalled the last occasion she had had use for the coin.

***

It was in a bar in Puerto Rico, years ago. A fellow lieutenant commander, also on shore leave, was trying to impress her.

“Hey, you got a challenge coin?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Hand it over,” he said. “I’m gonna show you something useful,” he had said, slurring his words.

He began flipping the oversized coin.

“Heads,” he said. “Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads.”

She had watched him flip. Over and over, it came up heads. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

Finally, he handed it back. “So, if you’re ever in a jam, and you need something to come up heads for you,” he said, “use this thing. Also,” he said, “the great thing about this coin? It looks almost the fucking same on either side. So if it ever DOES come up tails, just point to the anchor and say, ‘See? Anchor. Heads again.’”

“So, was it heads every time just then?”

“We’ll never know, will we? Enough to fool an officer,” he said, grinning lasciviously.

“Nice,” she said. Then she had taken her leave, over his loud complaints. She had easily broken his grip on her arm with a move she had learned to use on panicked drowning people in Rescue Swimmer training, and bade the whole crew adieu. But she had filed that piece of information away.

** *
Now, she thought, the world was possibly going to be saved by a drunken potential #MeToo case.

The President looked at the coin, and then at the Commander.

“This is the official military way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay,” he said.

“But one other thing, sir.”

“Yeah?”

“In the military, it’s heads, no-go; tails, we go. Tails means we will go forward with whatever is in question.”

“Heads, no go?” the President repeated.

“And tails means we go.”

Larry was looking at her in suppressed terror. His eyes seemed to radiate the message, I really hope you have a plan here.

“Okay,” the President said, squinting at the coin.

He can’t see it, Stephanie suddenly realized. He can’t see stuff close up, but he’s too vain to wear reading glasses. So if it does come up tails, I can almost certainly fool him into thinking it’s heads.

“Okay,” the President said again. “Give him the dinner roll, biscuit, whatever.”

Stephanie handed the biscuit to Larry.

“Now we flip,” the President said.

He flipped the coin. It fell on the floor. Stephanie quickly stooped and picked it up.

“Heads,” she said, displaying it for the President and handing it to him.

“Heads,” he said. “So we go.”

“No, sir,” Stephanie said. “We agreed, ‘Heads, no-go.’”

“Oh yeah,” the President said.

Was that a trace of disappointment in his eyes? she thought.

“Okay,” the President said. “We stand down, I guess.”

“Yes sir,” Stephanie said.

The President held the coin out to Stephanie.

“No, sir,” she said. “It would be my honor, and the honor of all the military that serve you faithfully, if you would keep that coin and use it for all official Presidential coin flips.”

The President looked at her for a moment, then opened the center drawer in the Resolute Desk and placed the coin inside. He then put his right palm on his lower back again and waved at them.

“Okay,” he said. “You guys can go. See you in two weeks, if not before.”

Stephanie quickly pivoted, packed up the football, closed and locked it, picked it up with her left hand, turned, clicked her heels, and saluted with perhaps a bit too much energy, and she and the Acting Acting Secretary walked out of the Oval Office.

“How did you do that?” whispered Larry as they walked away.

“Just remember,” she told him under her breath, nodding and smiling to Mrs. Johnson. “It always comes up ‘heads.’ And even if it doesn’t, he can’t see it – no reading glasses. So, tell him it’s heads every time, point to the anchor, until you can figure something else out.”

They walked down the hall side by side. Stephanie thought about what Gary had told her about the President being an instrument of God.

Then she wondered whether it was possible for her to put in her retirement papers before the close of business.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

74

Friday, March 26, 2021, 10:30 PM Eastern Daylight Time

“Did she really talk to Okomo?” the twitchy black-haired man at the bar said.

Jenna took a drink of her Cosmopolitan and nodded.

“Wow,” said Sal.

“Yeah, he said if there were any problems, like, legally, if we got in a jam or something, she should call him.”

“Holy shit,” Sal said. “An ex-President going out of his way like that. What, did he leave a card?”

“Yeah,” Jenna said. “Can I see it?”

“Nah, I don’t have it,” Jenna said. “I’m kind of the junior woman on the totem pole here.”

“But he said what exactly?”

“He said if Vaneida had any problem, that they should call him.”

“Is she a ‘they?’”

“Everyone’s a ‘they,’” Jenna said. “Didn’t you know that?”

“I’m learning a lot here,” Sal said.

“But Vaneida told him that Ice – that’s Janice – was the counsel for the organization, so he could be the backup if she wasn’t around.”

Sal laughed.

“How did he take that?”

“I think he said, ‘Perfect.’”

“What a guy,” Sal said. “So Vaneida is really covered, huh? If she gets rolled up, then this Ice lady –”

“Woman.”

“Woman gets called, but if she’s not available, then she can call Okomo, and he’ll help out? You think he would come down in person and represent her?”

Jenna swiveled her chair toward Sal and looked at him.

“I think he likes her,” Jenna said.

“Like…romantically?”

Jenna made a splattering noise with her mouth.

“No! Come on, she’s a ‘they.’”

“I thought everybody was a ‘they.’”

“No, I think he likes her as a human.”

“And he would try to bail her out.”

“I don’t know. I think so. He’s a reliable guy.”

“Okay.”

“How come you got interested in SNRM?”

“Snerm?”

“Yeah. SNRM.”

“Oh. S-N-R-M. I’m not used to calling it that. Well, I’ve been involved in some protests.”

“Oh yeah? Which ones?”

“You heard of the Battle of Seattle? The Berkeley protests? Ferguson? Charlottesville? Boston Free Speech protests?”

“Wow,” Jenna said. “Some of those were kind of violent.”

“They did get kind of physical. You never know when someone’s going to do something to set things off. I don’t mind it, honestly.”

“You don’t?”

“You have to confront violence with violence at some point,” Sal said. “Otherwise they just roll over you. To be honest, I sometimes think the Resistance could use a little more muscle.”

“Huh,” Jenna said. “We are more into nonviolence.”

“Yeah, you guys seem to have things to teach me,” Sal said. “So, I’ll follow your lead.”

“Okay,” Jenna said. “Hey barkeep,” she yelled.

“You’re not leaving?”

“Yeah,” Jenna said. “I had a long day.”

“Let me get this.”

“No. I got it.”

“Can I see you home?”

“No,” Jenna said.

“Okay,” Sal said. “Maybe I’ll see you next week.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Probably not. I’m going camping.”

“On purpose?” Sal said, laughing strangely. He noticed what to him was a familiar look of bewilderment tinged with repulsion in her eyes.

“Well, uh, have a good time,” Sal said.

Jenna left a bill on the bar, slid off her stool, put her coat on, and headed out the door.

Sal watched her leave. He finished his drink, then called for his tab. He gave the bartender a credit card, then took his phone out of his pocket and hit the Stop button on the recorder.

Terry’s gonna be pissed I approached this chick without him, Sal thought. But to hell with him. I’ve got the connection between Okomo and this group now, and I connect them both to the fake Antifa. Max and the AG will love my ass.

After a minute, the tab came back and he took the credit card receipt out to sign it. As he scrutinized it, a jolt of rage shot through him.

“Hey, pal.” He beckoned for the bartender.

“Yeah?”

“I think you double-charged me here.”

The bartender looked at the bill.

“Oh, shit. Gave you the wrong bill. Hold on.”

Sure you did, Sal thought. I ought to lay you out.

The bartender came back with a corrected bill.

“Sorry, man,” he said, and walked back to the register.

Sal thought about making a scene, then remembered Terry’s instructions: low profile.

He signed the bill, with no tip, pulled his jacket on, and strutted out the door in his accustomed jangling manner.

I gotta hit someone soon, he thought, or I’m gonna explode.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

75

Saturday, March 27, 2021, 5:30 AM Eastern Daylight Time

Bill Ruppert went outside and picked up the papers from the lawn. As he walked back toward the front door, he saw that the New York Record had the following headline.

NORTH KOREA CONDUCTED SUCCESSFUL UNDERGROUND TEST OF ATOMIC DEVICE AND LAUNCH OF ICBM
Missile Launch Splashes Down Within Miles of President’s Golf Resort; President Was at Facility

A little further down, he saw another story:

Russia Denies Invasion of Baltics

“Little Green Men” Make Their Reappearance in Russian Borderlands of Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia President Says He Has Spoken to Russian Counterpart:

“He Denies It, and I Have No Reason to Think He’s Lying”

Ruppert shook his head as he opened the screen door. There was little he could do at this point about North Korea. There was little he could do, period. Jack had called the previous week to formalize what had been obvious for some time.

“Bill, I hate that this has happened. But the partners took a vote today…”

“I understand.”

“I tried to stand up for you against this whole thing.”

“Thanks.”

“But the partners felt that it was too dangerous for them to be publicly associated with you at this time.”

“I understand, Jack. I expected this. We’ll be fine.”

“Please get in touch if there’s anything you need.”

Jack, I need a job, thought Bill. But he didn’t say anything.

“Good to talk to you, Jack. Best to Betty.”

“Best to Alice, Bill.”

“Okay.”

Bill had hung up the phone.

Bill still got up at 5 every morning, shaved, showered, dressed, and read the papers. If Alice were not still sleeping, he would have made their bed. He needed the routine. Routine had seen him through every hard time in his life. It would see him through this one. They still had a bit of money to see them through retirement. He would not be able to leave anything to his kids, but his kids were better situated than many.

Well, he thought as he heard Alice stirring upstairs, if this North Korea thing continues, maybe no one will have to worry about retirement.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

76

Monday, March 29, 2021, 5PM Moscow Standard Time

The President of Russia stood staring out at the skyline of his city. Spring was finally making itself evident in Moscow. Protest season. Some opposition leaders and journalists will not make it to see the fall, he thought. Much as some others had not made it to see spring.

***

“Gospodin Prezident,” Sergei had said, sticking his head into the office after knocking on his door twice, about two hours previously.

“Da, Sergei Borisevich?”

“I have just received a report that a certain mid-level employee of the Internet Research Agency in St. Petersburg seems unfortunately to have died after a bout of drinking at a local nightclub.”

“It was not Mr. Gorsky, one assumes?”

“Nyet, Gospodin Prezident.”

“Well, that is a shame. Who, then?”

“It was Mr. Antonov. I don’t know if you remember him. He worked on some systems issues for us.”

The President cocked his head to the side as if trying to recall something of minor importance from a long-ago period.

“Antonov,” he said. “Ah yes. The young man who once sent me a computer?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“I suppose a card or flowers would be excessive,” the president said.

“I sense that it would be,” Sergei said.

“I will abide by your judgment, then, Sergei Borisevich,” the president had said, waving his hand to shoo him away. The door had closed again, and it had not opened since.

***

Two hours later, the sun was still high in the sky here, with dusk not coming until seven. A few years back, it would not have set till 8PM, but the President had made the decision that Russia would no longer participate in the European-American madness of Daylight Savings Time. He had grown up without it, and he associated its institution in the early 1980s with the decline of the Soviet Union, so when he achieved power, he decided to do away with it completely.

He could tell the sun when to rise and set here. But now, as he looked out at the city and nation he reputedly ruled with an iron hand, he was experiencing an unaccustomed feeling: surprise.

Years of manipulating the perceptions of American voters and the public – to some degree, anyway; he was open to the possibility it might be either more or less than advertised – had accustomed him to thinking he could more or less manage events and anticipate the reactions of American leadership. Okomo was a terrible poker player; so, he, the Russian president, could move forthrightly into Syria, secure that Okomo would never enforce any “red lines” he had ostensibly drawn. Before Okomo, he had faced his Republican predecessor, who “looked into his soul” and assigned him a diminutive nickname, while underestimating him very badly.

So, when he had dumped a gigantic tranche of incriminating information about both the American President and most of his party’s leadership onto the Internet two days previously, after brazenly invading and occupying three American allies, after manipulating the Americans into pulling their NATO troops out of the Baltics, he had hoped for more of a sense of outrage on the part of that American President.

Instead, the President had defended him! He had even lied and told the press that he had spoken to him, the Russian president, and had been assured by him that Russia had not invaded the Baltics!

When did we speak? he thought to himself. Has that virus completely destroyed his brain?

Now that he had gotten used to the idea, the Russian president was no longer as shocked by this statement; the American President had, in the past, when pressed on alleged (in truth, quite actual) depredations on the part of himself against America, the American President had said that he, the Russian president, had assured him, the American President, that Russia was not behind these actions,“and I have no reason not to believe him.”

And when it came out that Russia had been paying Taliban to murder American soldiers last year, the American President had done nothing at all – had even announced a couple of months later that he thought Russia should be made a member of the G-8 again!

He himself had, of course, smirkingly denied being behind the 2016 attempts at election interference he had personally ordered and supervised (if at a distance), but the American President’s statement about not having any reason to disbelieve the Russian president was one that, perhaps ironically, caused that Russian president to shake his head in disbelief. Everyone in the world seemed to know it was a lie, except the one man the American people had chosen to defend their interests. And, of course, his most ardent voters. Not even Republican officeholders believed it, above a certain naïve, worshipful, local, lower echelon.

And why would they? They had been, at least somewhat knowingly, taking Russian money for a decade.

Of course, the American president had every reason not to want to believe that the Russian government had had anything to do with installing him as “Leader of the Free World.” This went back to what the Russian president saw as the American President’s Prime Directive: the care and maintenance of his own image above all things. He wanted it not to be true; so, in his mind, it was not true, regardless of the findings of every element of his own intelligence services, as well as all the intelligence services of his allies, and, perhaps most tellingly, the almost open admissions of Russian officials to the world press.

And the massive dump of email traffic and financial records documenting huge illicit contributions by Russian state organs, Russian oligarchs, Russian mobsters, pro-Russian Ukrainian interests, and other literally un-American interests to Republican campaigns and SuperPACs, “think tanks,” media entities, and other Republican-aligned organizations, as well as “anti-vaxxer” and climate change denialist groups, had also not had the effect he had anticipated or desired. Nor had the evidence of the massive Russian fiddling with voter rolls in swing states, in favor of Republicans. Instead of destroying the Republican Party, it had merely hardened existing divisions even more.

Which was something, he supposed; his ultimate goal was to disempower and humiliate the United States, and democratic republicanism, and rule of law in general, globally; so this helped.

But he had hoped that these revelations would leave the Republican Party a shameful smoking hole in the ground, never to be revived, a spent force, a ruined scaffold now creakily undergirding a damaged President who was himself, along with his family, publicly linked to many of the crooked transactions at issue. But the revelations manifestly had done no such thing. It was as if the entire roof of Notre Dame Cathedral had fallen in in that fire, but the spire resting upon it was still floating above the cavity, unsupported by anything real at all.

We are the victims of our own success, thought the Russian president. We have done such a good job destroying Americans’ ability to distinguish truth from falsehood that even a straightforward Russian invasion of three American allies, open Russian interference in American elections, and a virus that had manifestly killed more Americans than citizens of any other nation, simply cannot be real to Republicans.

Republicans now had their own truth; Democrats, though still more closely committed to reality, were also finally on their way to mirroring the Manichean approach to reality that their enemies across the aisle had embraced decades before.

So maybe it should not have shocked him that Republicans responded not with horror or shame, but instead immediately denounced these very real, documented, true allegations against them as “Democrat fabrications,” and “Fake News,” and leapt further forward to accuse completely unsuspecting Democrats of being Russian stooges themselves, guilty of every crime of which Republicans themselves were suddenly provably, objectively, manifestly guilty. And perhaps after the past four (or thirty-four?) years, it probably should not have surprised him that their preposterous and laughable counterattack on this mountain of evidence of their guilt would be completely and enthusiastically swallowed whole by their voters.

Democrats screamed bloody murder, of course; but they were so perpetually outraged by Republicans, and especially this President, that their bleating was discounted in advance even by the “liberal-biased media.”

This “mainstream media” had become used to hurdling the immediate facts of any scandal, and making the story all about the inability of Democrats to profit politically from even the most brazen offenses of Republicans. Actual analysis of the substance of the allegations did exist, but only as a minor pretext to get to the only story they ever seemed to report: the eternal, exasperating political impotence of Democrats; indeed, of anyone committed to the rule of law; and the inevitability that once again, Republicans would succeed in shoving the boundaries of the acceptable several miles farther down the road, over the mangled bodies of their clueless, hapless foes.

It was a very strange thing, this “free press,” the Russian president thought to himself. In theory it was supposed to be the great bulwark against the rise of exactly the sort of leader that ruled in Washington now, or even himself, come to think of it. Instead, in the United States at least, it spent almost no time at all examining the substance of even the most plausible and provable and serious of allegations; it leaped forward to polls, horserace, counting votes, and pre-declaring any resistance to be futile.

If the “free press” could be depended upon to be so amoral and mercenary in Russia, he thought, far fewer of them would end up dead or in prison. His handpicked house media organs scarcely did a more effective job of promoting his own interests than the “liberal” press in America did for his counterpart in Washington.

So, the veritable Himalaya mountain range of evidence the Russians had leaked had not changed any minds. There simply were no open American minds left to change, only closed minds to harden.

That was the achievement of the Russian president; but, also, the ironic constraint upon his ability to effect the further damage he had hoped to inflict. A shame.

Shame. That was what the Russian president had unconsciously been counting on. That Republicans might, as their Richard Nixon had in the 1970s, be shamed by the public revelation of their leaders’ crimes. He had recalled that era’s American President, weeping and drinking heavily, if reports were to be believed, walking the halls talking to the paintings of his predecessors, and finally visited by his party leaders and told that he must go. Shame had accomplished that; shame had restored rule of law. His shame, and his party’s.

Shame? Shame was dead. Shame was for the losers. For the hapless defenders of rule of law, in America, in Russia, in Hungary, Hong Kong, the Philippines, Belarus, and all over the world.

Thus the American President was essentially unharmed by the Russian president’s very obvious attempt to cripple him. This American President had never known shame himself; that was how he had taken over his party. He had been willing to go places his fellow Republicans never had dared, to shout what they had only whispered, to grin proudly when shown to be an adulterer, a criminal, unfit for the office. And the worse the things were of which he was accused, the more his people loved him, because of the inevitable and natural reaction of revulsion by Democrats.

That was the true guiding principle of Republicans now: not just devotion to the President, but maybe even more powerfully, an urge to punish and humiliate Democrats. The worse he was, the more ridiculous his crimes, the more they defended him.

At least this was the most pro-Russian American President imaginable. They had even dropped all charges against any Russians for the 2016 election hacking! He shook his head again.

America has gone crazy, he thought. If my country – and I myself – had been attacked so openly and humiliated so completely, I would have been plotting a truly deadly revenge, or I would be killed by my own people.

He shook his head in disbelief at his counterpart’s lack of response. Was there a single world leader in all of history who could be so completely oblivious to such an obvious insult? Was there even a human being alive, aside from this man, who would miss the clear and malevolent intent?

He picked up the phone.

“Sergei,” he said.

“Yes, Gospodin Prezident?”

“I would like you to release the last bundle of information.”

“The American President’s tax and financial records?”

“Da. I think it is time the American people find out that the ‘billionaire’ they elected twice is only a mere millionaire, and he is only that thanks to Russian money.”

“Da, Gospodin Prezident.”

The president hung up the phone.

Well, on the bright side, he thought, it is clear that partisan division has perhaps permanently destroyed any prospect of majority support in the United States for democracy, rule of law, or any united effort in any direction.

“America is finished as a force in the world,” he said aloud, to no one, a smile on his lips.

He raised an imaginary glass toward the west.

If I still drank vodka, this would be more than worth a toast.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

77

Tuesday, March 30, 2021, 8:30 AM Eastern Daylight Time

“So, are we all synchronized and ready to go for tomorrow?”

The Attorney General looked around the meeting room at the attendees, who all nodded.

He had been annoyed to be left out of the National Security Council meeting on the North Korean missile threat. Maxfield King had reportedly gained a great deal of pull with the President in that one.

But Max King wasn’t at this meeting, and as far as the AG was concerned, this meeting would result in a lot more love from the President than anything Max could possibly concoct. And it also probably had more impact on national security, come to think of it, if one defined “national security” as “whatever makes the President’s hold on power more secure.”

He looked long and hard at each of the attendees, as if to convey the seriousness of this operation. After half a minute, he continued.

“This will require perfect coordination. The correct timing is essential. We want these apprehensions to happen in the correct sequence. Otherwise the entire intended effect will be lost. Understood?”

One of his agents was raising his hand.

“Jensen,” the AG said.

“The target list is kind of various,” Jensen said. “Some big names, then a few I’ve never heard of. Do we need to know why they are being brought in?”

“Leave that to me,” the AG said. “Once they get to the D.C. Lockup, we will have people there familiar with their cases, and ready to process them. All you need to do is to deliver them.”

“Should we be concerned that any of these suspects might be armed and dangerous?” asked another agent.

“We have no information that indicates that any of them will be,” the AG responded. “But be sure to be ready to defend yourselves. This conspiracy has many tentacles. We have evidence implicating each of the people you will be bringing in. We cannot know how desperate any of these people might be if they feel themselves to be cornered. Be on your guard.”

“I see here that some of these suspects are likely to have on-site security,” Jensen said.

“I believe you are referring to the Secret Service protection enjoyed by some of them,” the AG said. “We have coordinated with them, and they will be expecting you at precisely the times and places we have indicated. Which is part of the reason we need each of these apprehensions to go off with the precision of a Swiss watch. Understood?”

The assembled agents mumbled assent.

“Now once again, these apprehensions must proceed in precisely the order and at the times I have indicated. Two of the lower-level suspects will be taken in first. We understand that one of them, this Janice Isley, is the lawyer for the other, Vaneida Allen, so if we take them both in, they will have to look elsewhere for assistance. We expect one of them to contact one of our highest-value targets to help her out. In that way we can draw him in without going to the expense and bother of an apprehension. The other targets will have to be apprehended in the normal manner. I think you are aware of the ones to which ones I refer, correct?”

Nods all around.

“Does anyone here have the slightest qualms about what we are about to undertake?”

Silence.

“I will need an audible answer to that question,” the AG said. “Do any of you have any mental reservations about what I have ordered you to do? I need to know that I have your implicit loyalty and that I can rely upon you to remain discreet about this. No reservations?”

“No,” the group said in unison.

“Very well, gentlemen. Good hunting.”

The assembled agents rose and began to file out of the room.

“Tomorrow,” the AG said as if to himself, “we take care of all family business.”

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

78

Tuesday, March 30, 2021, 10:00 AM Eastern Standard Time

Jane was picking at her food at the high-end, socially distanced restaurant, watching her father try to get as many war stories out of her cousin Joe as possible.

“So, did you see heavy action? I mean, you must have. That’s what you guys are all about.”

“I don’t like to talk about that too much,” Joe responded. “Plus, I really am not supposed to talk about it.”

“We really started to kick some ass when the President got in, though, right? I mean, the previous guy wasn’t doing much of anything.”

“I don’t know too much about that. I did serve with some guys that had been there for a while, who showed me the ropes and introduced me to the Kurds who were our allies. They told me the basic approach was pretty similar. It took a little time to finish the job, I guess.”

“Time Okomo wasn’t going to give you,” Jeff said.

“Well, all that stuff is pretty high above my level. I just followed orders and hoped for the best.”

“But do you agree with the President’s decision to pull out and let the Kurds take over?”

“Well, again, not my decision,” Joe said, smiling stiffly. “I will say, the Kurds are great fighters and great allies, and tremendous people.”

This seemed to stymie Jeff for a moment. Then he smiled and said, “Well it’s great to see you back home and in one piece. We have been really proud of you and probably bragging way too much about you.”

Joe smiled as he thought about a friend’s response to almost this exact statement to his family: “No, no, no. You really could never brag too much about me.” It would have been the macho D-Boy thing to say, but he passed on the opportunity.

“So, are you traveling a lot?” Mary asked him, trying to change the subject.

“Yeah, now I have to go around wherever the President goes. He’s doing more rallies now, so he’s going all around the country.”

“Mostly Republican states?” Jane said suddenly.

Her mother and father were almost startled to hear from their normally sphinxlike daughter.

“Well, I guess,” Joe said. “I think we have one or two rallies in Pennsylvania and Michigan and places like that coming up. I think they’re more swing states.”

“How about New York?” Jane said. “I’ve never been there.”

“I’m not sure,” Joe said. “I guess it’s possible.”

“I’d like to see the northeast,” Jane said.

“Where’s this coming from?” Mary said. She turned to Joe. “She never talks to her boring old parents about stuff like this, so thank you for drawing her out.”

“Well, there’s a lot to see up there,” Joe said, and let the matter drop.

Mary said, “How’s your mom?”

“I saw her a few weeks ago,” Joe said. “She seems good.”

“And how’s Mike? Your dad?”

“Ah, he doesn’t change. I saw him a few weeks ago too. He’s okay. I’m just happy neither of them has had the virus. They’re both just getting into that age group. They both said to say hello, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Mary said. They could have called, she thought.

The waiter came over and they ordered.

“This place is famous for steaks,” Joe said. “It’s all on me. They pay me well and I have no expenses.”

Jeff briefly protested, but Joe would have none of it.

“You can get me next time,” Joe said. “And there will be a next time.”

After they had ordered, Joe said, “I have to go to the men’s room. I’ll be right back.”

Jane got up and said, “Me too,” so quickly that everyone looked at her and laughed.

“Not the men’s room…” she said, smiling sheepishly.

Joe looked quizzically at the waiter and he pointed out the general direction of the facilities. Jane walked quickly to keep up with him.

“Listen,” she said as they entered the side hallway to the rest rooms. “Is there any way you can take me on one of your trips out east?”

“Uh…” Joe said.

“I just need to get there for something.”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Joe said. “You want to come out to Washington?”

“Or New York,” Jane said.

“Um, what will your parents say?”

Jane shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m 18 now.”

“Why do you need to go out east?”

“I can’t talk about it. It’s nothing illegal or… bad.”

Joe looked doubtful.

“Never mind. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” She turned away and started walking.

“Wait!” Joe said. She turned back.

“I just wasn’t expecting this. It might not be a bad idea.”

“It’s not like we know each other real well. It’s not like I expect anything.”

She stood, miserable, with her arms folded. Joe felt a wave of guilt wash over him.

“But we are family. …You have friends out there?”

“Yes,” Jane lied, leaping on this suggestion like a lifeboat in a raging sea.

“It’s a boy, isn’t it?”

“No,” Jane said, a little too loudly.

“It’s a girl?” Joe said, confused.

“No,” Jane said.

“Okay,” Joe said. “This is mysterious. But I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we say this is my graduation gift to you. Do you have somewhere to stay out there?”

Jane shook her head.

“Okay. Let me know where you want to go and I’ll set something up for you, give you a little cash for food once you get there. You okay flying alone?”

Jane nodded mutely.

“Well okay then. I’ll call you. What’s your number?”

Jane gave it to him.

“Okay, it’s a deal. And now, I don’t know about you, but I actually did have to go to the bathroom.” He smiled and turned toward the men’s room.

Jane laughed and turned toward the ladies’ room. Once inside, she leaned on the sink in relief and inhaled. She washed her hands and went back to the table.

Joe came back to the table after she had returned.

“Hey, Jeff and Mary, I had an idea I’d like to run by you. I missed Jane’s graduation last year… well I guess everyone else did too, thanks to the pandemic. I was thinking now that things are opening up a little bit, maybe as a graduation gift I can pay for a trip for Jane to go someplace.”

Jane beamed. Mary and Jeff looked at her and then back at Joe.

“I haven’t seen you all in so long,” Joe said. “I think it’s time we got better connected. And I’m in a position now where I can do this. I’ll just use airline miles, I won’t even have to spend a cent. I’d like to do it.”

“You want to do this?” Jeff asked Jane.

“Uh, yeah,” Jane said, her attention fully elevated.

“You promise to be careful?” Mary said.

“Yes,” Jane said.

“Well I think that’s very generous of you, but that’s not necessary,” Jeff said.

“It would be my pleasure,” Joe said. “Like I said, won’t cost me a cent. I’ll never be able to use the miles I already have.”

Jeff and Mary looked at each other. Jeff finally spoke.

“Well, if she wants to do it, I think that would be great. Thank you so much, Joe.”

“My pleasure,” Joe said. Then he quickly added, “Uh, it’s from my dad as well.”

Jeff and Mary looked at him with a bit of surprise, then at Jane, who was beaming now.

“Well, here come the appetizers,” Joe said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Jane ate that evening with an appetite that she had not been able to muster for some months previous. She maintained her cheerfulness all evening.

Her mood was barely dented even when they arrived home in the Buick to see the neighbors pulling out of their driveway with what appeared to be a trailer full of all their belongings.

The “We Stand With the President” sign remained unmolested on their own lawn. Mary got a good look at the wife this time through the car window as they drove past each other.

This time there could be no mistaking the tearful expression of fear and helpless rage as they pulled away.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

79

Wednesday, March 31, 2021, 5:30 AM Eastern Daylight Time

Janice was awakened by a loud banging on her front door.

After a moment of bleary incomprehension, the strangeness and menacing aspect of the banging penetrated her torpor, and she jumped out of bed, threw on a robe, and went downstairs to the front door of her townhouse.

“Who is this?”

“Federal marshals, ma’am,” came the answer.

“What?”

“Federal marshals, ma’am. We have a warrant. Please open the door or we will have to break it open.”

Janice unlocked the door and opened it, and was almost immediately pushed back into her living room by four dark-clad agents. One of them, seemingly the boss, walked up to her, handing her what she assumed was a warrant.

“Are you Janice Isley?”

“I am,” she said. “What the heck is this about?”

“You are being detained under suspicion of a conspiracy against the United States of America.”

“What?” Janice said.

“You are being detained under the provisions of the USAPATRIOT Act. You may have five minutes to get dressed and to call an attorney.”

“I AM an attorney,” Janice said.

“That is your choice,” the head agent said. “You have five minutes to get dressed and come along with us. Do not attempt to run. We have agents stationed outside both the front and back of this house.”

“I’m not running anywhere. I’m going upstairs to get dressed.”

Janice started walking upstairs, shaking. She thought of whom she could call.

Vaneida? She’s not a lawyer, but maybe she could help. Unless she is being picked up too.

Instantly Janice knew that this was the case.

What about Jenna? No, Nature Girl’s on another camping trip.

As she pulled on some sweats, Janice wracked her brains to think of someone else who could help. The partners at her law firm? They were mostly conservative. They were not too happy with her having been arrested on January 20. Law school classmates? She could not think of one in a position to help.

“Ms. Isley?”

“I’m coming.” She finished getting dressed and grabbed her purse. She made her way down the stairs again.

One of the agents said, “You get one call. Then we confiscate your cell phone. You should make the call now. If you don’t get through to the person you want to, you can call one other person. Then we take the phone. You can do it in the kitchen.”

Janice walked into the kitchen and pulled her cell phone out. She thought for a second as she stared at the screen. She went to the “A” names and hit Vaneida’s name and waited. The phone instantly went to voicemail. Janice thought for a second, then hung up. She scrolled down to the “Os” and then hit the contact number.

“Hello?” an eerily familiar female voice said.

“Uh… the President gave me this number to call in case of an emergency,” she said, then cursed herself inwardly. How suspicious does that sound? “My name is Janice Isley. I’m with the Student Nonviolent Resistance Movement.”

“Uh… hold on a second. I think he’s upstairs.”

There were some muffled sounds of calling, inquiry, then the sound of the phone being passed to someone else.

“Okomo here.”

“Mr. President?”

“Yes?”

“This is Janice Isley, from SNRM. I’m being arrested. I think maybe Vaneida was also. She gave me your number to hold in case we needed some help.”

“Who is arresting you?”

“U.S. Marshals Service.”

“And where are they taking you?”

“I don’t know. Hold on…”

She yelled out to the agents, “Where are you guys taking me?”

“D.C. Lockup,” one of them responded.

“D.C. Lockup,” she repeated.

“Okay,” Okomo said. “I’ll get over there.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Janice said.

“Okay,” Okomo said.

Janice hung up and walked out into the living room. One of the agents held out some handcuffs.

“Really?” she said.

“Turn around,” he said. She complied. He snapped the cuffs on her and turned her toward the door. Another agent opened the door for her; the others were already going through her desk and bookshelves.

“You can just ask me about anything,” Janice said as they walked out to the waiting van. “You don’t have to trash my place.”

The agents took no notice and kept going through her things. The other two brought her back to the van. It was not like the van that had taken her to jail after the Inauguration; that one was a cheery white, with red and blue markings. There was something a bit more menacing about this one. This one was black, for one thing, with tinted windows.

The agents put her in the middle passenger seat in the second row, and sat on either side of her. The agent on her left patted the top of the driver’s seat, and the van took off.

***
“What was that all about?” Marilyn Okomo asked her husband.

“You remember that SNRM outfit, the student organization that I spoke to a few weeks ago?”

“Vaguely,” she said.

“Well, one of their people is being arrested, and more may have been already. You remember Vaneida Allen, right? The professor at Douglass?”

“Vaguely, again,” Marilyn answered.

“Well, it looks like the Justice Department is picking them all up. I told them I would help if they got in trouble.”

“Don’t go,” Marilyn said.

“I told them I would help,” he answered.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she said.

“Well, we all should have a bad feeling,” Okomo said. “If a nonviolent protest group can be jailed simply for expressing their First Amendment rights, while a huge number of gun nuts can simply storm their state capitol buildings and depose the legitimate governments of their states, expressing what they see as their Second Amendment rights, with zero consequence, then something is upside down in this country.”

“I agree,” she said. “But send someone else. You’ve done enough.”

“Sometimes ‘enough’ is just not enough,” he said.

He called out to his Secret Service detail.

“Luke,” he said. “I’ve got to go to the D.C. Lockup. Can you bring the van around?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

He looked at his phone. The President was Tooting again.

–<() I will be seeing you at the Thank You Rally tonight! Wear your MK Medallions! Real Americans show they are Virus Free because of the President’s Fast Action!

“What a nut,” Okomo said, grabbing a mask off the counter.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian