In Big's Left Ear

121.

Under normal conditions I would review the known and the unknown and then assess again. These conditions however, are about as far as one can get from normal. Still I make the attempt. 

The known: Tomorrow afternoon and evening, the POTUS will make four appearances, stump speeches to rally his base. In a follow-up show we learned that here in Omaha he will be joined by Republican Governor Pete Ricketts at the newly re-named TD Ameritrade Field, interestingly named after the company for which he once acted as CEO. Known to thousands as Rosenblatt Field, home of the College World Series, it has a capacity of thirty-five thousand. First pitch scheduled for 1000.

In Tucson, the rally will be held at Arizona Stadium home of the University of Arizona Wildcats along with Doug Ducey, the incumbent Republican Governor. Capacity is fifty-thousand. Kick-off at 1300.

Las Vegas will host his third appearance of the day at T-Mobile Arena where another twenty-thousand rabid red-hats will be entertained by their Independent Mayor Carolyn Goodman as the Nevada governor is a Democrat and unwelcome. Curtains rise at 1600.

The nightcap in Portland will be staged at the Moda Center, formerly known as the Rose Palace and again be co-hosted by the ranking state Republican, Herman Baerschinger. The home of the NBA Trailblazers seats a few less than twenty-thousand.  Encore slated for 1900.

The Democratic contender, the former VP will speak on the same bill with DC Mayor Muriel Bowser and, it is rumored — and we are attempting verification - the former first lady Michelle Obama gets underway at 1900 EST. 

The unknown: Everything else. We are in scramble mode as the clock agonizingly ticks away. 

Re-assessment: It is less than clear what the actual end-game motivation is of the MBI. Although I feel that we have done everything we can to be prepared, we are still in the dark about any specifics. I am hoping that Her Majesty will continue to provide critical intel, even of the coded variety like the last one. It does appear as if the four cities involved in the tour could possibly be decoys, after all, why would a terrorist organization snuff its primary asset? Has he outstayed his welcome, grown over-confident, betrayed his benefactors, decided that he can do better without the strings attached? Forced by oversight to re-sanction the Russians? 

I call TOM for the latest intel. Michelle Obama has been confirmed as featured guest speaker tomorrow night in Georgetown. It seems to me that this is the play. Any catastrophic violence involving these headliners would spell chaos for the DNC and virtually guarantee another four years for the incumbent. Or would the populace rally as political backlash and miraculously oust him by popular vote? 

I decide that I am going to bank on the latter, which means that I need to be in DC and not here. I call Frenchy and arrange an Omaha to Anderson AFB trip with a 2000 departure. 

Drysdale remains glued to the news in order to stay current with the rapid-fire flow of events. I officially put him in charge of the local operation and prepare similar assignments for Davis and Saunders in the Arizona desert, Callahan in Vegas and Bromden in Portland. They are to update me in real-time of any and all developments. Drysdale has the additional duty of ensuring the safety of the Queen of Hearts. 

On the short two-hour flight I review assignments with the team and re-connect with TOM. As is typical in these situations he confirms we are in the eye of the hurricane, a calm before the storm pattern. I get a text from Drysdale that the QoH is on the move, heading for what appears to be the private airstrip where they landed two days ago. I ask him to keep me apprised of coordinates and their direction of travel.  He texts back in twenty minutes saying they are airborne with an eastern heading. 

‘They are coming to DC to supervise the end-game,’ I consider, trying to keep my prognostication ego in check.

TOM reports that the presidential party is loaded on Air Force One with a flight-plan departure of 2300 confirmed. We have a secret service liaison in the security entourage providing real-time intel. 

Satisfied with the current level of detail, I decide to grab an hour of sleep and recline to horizontal plus ten. 

My anxiety dreams of disaster narrowly averted are violently interrupted by Frenchy’s announcement of our descent into Andrews AFB. I run to the head for a cold-water face splash. It is midnight in the Nation’s Capitol and it is going to be another long day at the office. Without further intel from Her Majesty we wait. The team reports all normal in Arizona, Nebraska, Nevada and Oregon. We are met at Andrews by Julie. I salute Frenchy and hop in.

“Any latest?’ I ask before a proper hello.

“Strangely quiet,” she says, “did you sleep?”

I shrug. She gets it.

“Where to?” 

“Georgetown.” 

We drive for thirty minutes on the interstate and another fifteen through the streets of DC and Foggy Bottom. Security has already begun preparations for the big show. Julie hands me the official ID which I put around my neck. We arrive and walk towards the campus media center where TV and security are engaged with set up. Immediately my internal sensors detect something odd. We are greeted by the head of security and briefed on procedures. I ask a few questions, take a critical walk-through of the facility and establish the communication protocols. A command center has been established with sleeping quarters for senior staff, so I take full advantage and claim a cot near the door. I dismiss Julie and ask for a conference call with the team at 0900. She nods agreement and turns to go. Abruptly she stops, turns back and whispers a, “glad you’re here, get some rest,” good night. 

The four cities are business as usual. I feel that he target almost is certain to be the Democratic candidate, with the mayor and the former first lady as a three for one package deal. Any sniper worth their weight could make the hundred yard shot with a rusted out Daisy BB gun. I inspect the guest list for abnormalities, and set up my computer in the command center for the conference call. A staffer brings in a cardboard carafe of Starbucks coffee and a dozen assorted from Crispy Cremes. We review the current situation and simulate the highest probability scenarios. Our communications will be critical as we are operating in three time zones. There are no questions as I finish the final brief and for once find myself searching for the appropriate rhetoric to close the session finally settling on a ‘keep your eyes and ears open and watch the shadows and periphery’ advisory. 

I take a walk backstage. Cameras and crew remain active, tuning up for the live broadcast. I check the sight-lines to and from the media center and stage. I cannot shake the nagging feeling that there is something out of the ordinary, slightly off, about the arrangement of lights, ENG cameras on their massive dollies, the crew all wearing headsets and the producers and grips scurrying about like busy ants working overtime. Drysdale texts me with updates on the Omaha rally and location of Q. The former is normal and the latter local. After a short flight on AF1 Tucson is about to begin. Saunders updates with an all-clear text. Vegas is about to begin and so are we. Tuxedoed men with lavishly accessorized escorts slowly fill the auditorium as the house audio softly plays Gershwin and Brubeck. I get another text from Drysdale saying that Q’s position is less than fifty feet from where I currently stand. I reach for my phone and pull up the PDF guest list once again. How I missed it the first time is a mystery but there it reads; VIP section, a V. Hayes and guest. I look towards the VIP seating and see Big and Q, both in formal attire and looking every bit the part of a sophisticated DC socialites. Big seems to be preoccupied with his cell phone as Q demurely sits and leafs through the program. I am behind the curtain on stage left and Julie is opposite. We have enough security here, I think, to safeguard just about anything. I am concerned with the ‘just about’ part and conduct another radio check with the various on-site security personnel.

Calahan reports a minor disturbance in Vegas at the T-Mobile Arena. It appears to be a counter demonstration by protestors carrying signage about kids in cages and Gestapo-like ICE agents raiding hotels for undocumented workers. He relays that security is forcefully removing them from the venue as the red-hats taunt and hiss their disapproval. Bromden in Portland repeats the trend as perhaps a thousand people have gathered outside the Moda Center to voice their first amendment rights to free speech. He says that they do not seem too happy about the overall agenda of the right-wingers about to celebrate hatred and fear-mongering in their backyard. 

Lights dim. I feel a surge of adrenaline as the Mayor is first up and gracefully walks towards the decorated podium and its elevated lectern. There is a disturbance behind me and I turn to see a stage director admonish a sound man carrying a telescoping boom microphone for unknown reasons. The Mayor is a dynamic speaker, extolling the myriad administrative success’ enjoyed by the diverse demographic of her city. Julie uses her com to inform me that local news is reporting that tensions are escalating in Vegas and Portland. I look at Big and Q. The Mayor concludes her speech and introduces the former first lady to uproarious applause. Every alarm from my thirty years of front-line experience is ringing in my head. 

The audience begins to reseat themselves and I look to see Q sitting alone. Drysdale texts to say that The Queen has just engaged the SOS sensor embedded in her GPS. Before I can order a lock down, the house lights go out and what sounds like the silenced firing of a high-powered rifle fills the hall with terror. The emergency fire alarm is engaged adding to the pandemonium as I rush towards the podium in the midst of total chaos and panic as the four-thousand attendees are suddenly pouring towards the exits. The security detail assigned to the speakers have them physically covered on the stage awaiting some type of direction, I can see with my penlight that the Mayor and First Lady are safe and instruct the agents to quickly get them to the motorcade waiting just outside the south exit. Another snuffled pop, unmistakably now I recognize it as a modified Remington 700 rifle. I get a barely audible com message. It is Julie screaming NOT to use the motorcade. 

I run to the room adjacent to the stage where the former VP was to wait for his introduction and see the two special agents assigned to the location both laying in separate pools of blood. The door is closed, but the emergency lights are now on. I hear a terrific explosion from outside. I kick open the door and stand ten feet from Big and the VP. Big holds a small caliber handgun to the temple of the VP. 

“Put the gun on the floor right now or your guy takes one to the brain.” 

I comply and raise my hands above my head anticipating his next command. Another outside explosion rattles the floor. I also hear the sounds of a chopper landing. 

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I want the same things you want, justice, truth, peace, prosperity.” Big says. 

“This isn’t the way to do that,” I desperately try. 

“Perhaps it is the only way,” Big concedes. “Now, you are going to escort us outside to the chopper that just landed. Lead the way and if there is any interference, even the slightest attempt to impede our progress, the VP dies with you right behind him.” 

“And then you,” I warn. 

His shrug of shoulders indicates the courage of his convictions. “Drop your radio and let’s go,” he instructs. 

I obey and slowly turn to lead the way out. 

We are one step outside the room when I hear a “Drop the gun motherfucker.” 

I turn to see Julie with her Glock nine pressing into Big’s left ear. "NOW."

Hoya

120.

My cell phone vibrates. Caller ID: Q. Txt msg: Fox @ 1100. 

I immediately route the intel to our team, TOM and Julie in Virginia, Davis and Saunders in Tucson, Calahan in Vegas and Bromden in Portland. The cable news network, infamous for its allegiance, and therefore chicanery, to the right-wing conservative republican agenda of racism, cronyism and corruption, and now viewed by the intelligence community and ninety-percent of the free world as the state operated voice of the immoral, deceitful and seditious POTUS, a network whose own tagline suggests their content to be entertainment rather then news, will air a special campaign report at 1100 EST, or thirty-five minutes from now. 

TOM, responds with an update that DC has just reached the ‘off-the-charts’ chatter level of the other cites we are watching. Something, I muse, is going down, something big, going down very soon and on our current watch. In a rare breach of protocol, Drysdale, sitting beside me with his screen showing the same content as mine blurts, “Not gonna happen, not on THIS watch.” 

I survey the team to ensure readiness and a gentle reminder of our code, “Show time folks, let’s go to work.” 

TOM announces that local agencies have been alerted to the security levels, including specialized resources of Airspace, the Counter Sniper Team, Hazmat Response, Agent Mitigation, Medical Emergency Response Team, Magnetometer Ops, and specialty teams to provide protection from threats including chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear materials and IEDs. He ends the list of agencies on alert with the announcement that the entire operation from this point forward will be administered from his office with me running point. 

It is 1058. I wish we had a better idea of what is going on now that I am the eyes, ears and brain of a national network of highly trained law enforcement professionals, but I suspect that I soon will. I instinctively reach for a bottle of water and drink. 

The nauseating echo-chamber theme of the network comes on and it is their number one guy, another spineless sycophant spewing hateful, racist propaganda at the behest of the administration. The Breaking News chyron is full screen. I watch calmly despite my rising blood pressure. I brace for lies, mistruths, calls to hateful action. The host opens as if he is introducing the Oscar winner for best picture, citing a new direction of American Greatness, with the promise of a powerful and exciting new campaign video just released for our viewing pleasure. With a disgusting, mocking, snickering smile he says, “Let’s watch.”

The POTUS appears at his desk in the Oval Office. Behind him, posing as if in police line-up, stand a dozen grim looking septuagenarian males. If one looks close enough one can see the puppet POTUS reading from a hidden teleprompter. He says, obviously closely on script, that tomorrow will be a key turning point in his reflection campaign, that the polls indicating an enormous eight point lead for his Democratic opponent are all fake news, and that the four city whirlwind whistle-stop tour of Omaha, Tucson, Las Vegas (and here I lip-synch the last city along with him) and Portland, Oregon, will dramatically influence the election and guarantee another four years of Greatness for all Americans. He finishes the extraordinary brief announcement by saying that he is counting on our enthusiastic participation in the celebration of freedom and the complete eradication of his socialistic opponent's treasonous attacks on our fundamental liberties. The propaganda piece ends with a collage of highlights, including footage from previous rallies, the chanting of ‘lock her up,' the construction of an oxidizing steel wall, photo ops with world leaders, poorly doctored shots of smiling minorities, a gay rights parade on Wall St. and a room full of serious looking blue-haired republican women. 

The bootlicking host ends the segment by saying that while the courageous incumbent is out inspiring America to further greatness, the Dem candidate, now guilty of several past sexual indiscretions, will be speaking at Georgetown University Law School. His condescending look into the camera as the segment fades to black reminds me that this media war is Terrorism versus Democracy - and that I am unsure which side the host represents. 

My cell vibrates. Caller ID: Q. Txt msg. Hoya. 

Caller ID: Q

119.

It is something I never considered. Why couldn’t this evil thread wind through a disinformation campaign, using extreme distraction, in order to sew together the swaths of social dissent and artificially created consent? In an environment of chaos and confusion, the weather is often the deciding factor between participation and constriction. In a more popular metaphor, if you can steer enough people into looking West, the East is left vulnerable, open, exposed and susceptible to emotional or physical harm. It is becoming increasingly clear that MBI is interested in the synergy of the two by manipulating the mental, the psyche, the human propensity to react in predictable Pavlovian ways, and the corporal, the real, the body, the collective populace. I consider the possibility of the current MBI plot having a long conspiratorial history, all leading to this very nanosecond in eternity. Is the same management, or filial chain of command responsible for JFK, RFK, MLK, 911, Columbine, OK City and most recently Jeffrey Epstein and the insertion of the current useful idiot Russian puppet POTUS, all one seamless terrorist plot line? If anywhere near fact, why would they, whomever they truly are, want to take down the puppet they set up? 

TOM and Julie have signed off, she pledging a new executive summary of analytical modeling and TOM reminding us that our main assets remain readiness and accurate probability response. 

Drysdale is entering his notes as I scribble mine. We will share them with each other and try to create some type of road map, one that will present and provide a direction of movement, a cartographical answer to the novel questions that the latest intel has opened, like a Pandora’s box of possibilities. 

Calahan signals he is in place and we begin the down-stream briefing. He has his initial questions as well so I begin the assembly of team input into a shopping list of questions. It rapidly shows that there is overlapping interest in the motivation of MBI. What is their end-game? With as many whys as hows submitted, I try to move them into the what category, as in ‘we may not currently understand the reasons behind their intentions, or exactly how they will put their plans into action, but if we have a clear enough idea of how we respond and what tools to use in our counter-insurgency strategy, we can stay in the game.’ It is another cogent example of ‘what’ being more critical than ‘why’ or ‘how.’

We are lost at sea in shark-infested waters floating helplessly in a leaky raft. The Queen of Hearts is the search and rescue sea-plane. She has the big eyes and canteens of fresh, clean water. With a phone, a homing device, a flare gun or even a small mirror we could dramatically increase our odds of survival, but we have only these ragged shirts on our sunburned backs. If it is to be it is up to she. 

It has been less than an hour. Julie’s promised probability modeling report hits our screens like a viral volcano. Chatter is off the charts at code-red alert levels in three of the four target cities; here in Omaha, in Tucson and in Vegas. She adds that a fifth metropolitan has entered the radar screen, Washington DC. 

I am thinking, district, distract, distract and hit. Without a reasonable working motivation theory I am left wondering if the five wheres are worth one why. Or, chillingly, if a why and a when beat five where’s. 

My cell vibrates. Caller ID: Q. Text msg: How intel soon. 

Last of the French Roast

118.

The extremely short notice leaves us one man down, Calahan scrambling in Portland to set up and unable to meet the time restraints. TOM decided to start without him and tasks me with the responsibility of getting him up to speed once he is up and running.

TOM and Julie come on looking their usual capable and competent selves, although a touch fatigued. There is just no way to hide the look of weariness around the eyes I think as Drysdale and I bring our chairs closer to the screen. 

TOM opens with the usual updates, a compilation of input from a dozen world-wide reports, condensed and prioritized to the top five or six most relevant. International chatter is still trending upwards in the towns where we now have a counter-terrorism presence; Omaha, Tucson, Portland and Vegas. In what is rapidly being considered a changing of the guard from the old-school to the new, it appears that this battlefield will be a virtual one and not a line drawn in the sand, with terabytes and deep fake video edging out saber rattling and arms movements, processing power versus boots on the ground. 

TOM concludes his comments and turns the briefing over to Julie. I am immediately taken by her sophisticated command of the moment. She is in total control and wastes no time in moving straight to her assignment: Getting us up to speed on the modern look of high-speed, multi-level guerrilla warfare. In yet another metaphor of the passage of time, I sit scribbling notes on a legal pad with a ball-point pen as Drysdale listens and types notes in his iPad at six-five words per minute. Thinking back upon my Dad and Grandfather's military careers I wonder what they might think of all this new technology, ending the fantasy indulgence by chuckling as the cliché of this not being my Grandfather's Buick comes to mind. 

I am watching and listening to my college sweetheart lecture my elite squad on modern terrorist techniques trying not to interrupt her flow of vital information with dumb questions that might slow her down. I find the dichotomy to be an interesting paradox, and urge myself to stay attentive and professional. I sip the coffee and jot notes as Davis raises the issue of how do we combat all this activity when in actuality no laws have been broken and no shots fired. Julie, with the opportunity to improvise and forecast possible activity, simply says that our entire operation is now hinged upon the amount and substance of intel The Queen of Hearts is able to transfer from the MBI brain-trust to us. She takes another question from Saunders, herself no slouch when it comes to internet technology and cyber warfare, about the counter measures we can be taking right now as we wait for what we all hope will be a steady stream of incriminating information from inside the MBI cell. 

“We can be ready to move at a moments notice, because if, as I suspect, they are about to add the final piece of the puzzle to their campaign, a high-value target is almost certain to take fire,” she flatly says, ”and then the advantage becomes ours because that is what you guys are the best on this fucking planet at stopping.” 

I wash down the suddenly formed lump in my throat with the last of the French Roast. 

Love, Bogart

117.

We navigate the grid-like layout of Omaha making our way towards the safe house to set up operations, Drysdale at the wheel. Filling the short commute time with thought, it  takes me less than two minutes to come to the conclusion that I need a crash course in contemporary internet technologies. Without it, my advantage of strategically keeping one-step ahead, is lost. I understand the game, but not its rules, limitations or potentials. 

We arrive at what Drysdale has already code-named the Husker House, off-load the Expedition’s cargo and begin the routine chore of setting up shop. It is actually a rather charming old Tudor with a magnificent Spanish oak centered on the lawn. On the way to the front door I tuck the For Sale sign under my arm. 

The single most important piece of auxiliary equipment we carry is the surge-protector power strip. In no electrical engineer’s wildest dreams would the once standard four outlet, ungrounded, receptacle be totally insufficient. The second most important utility is the coffee maker. Once we establish our connections and stow gear I head to the galley and happily see a vintage Mr. Coffee along with a humidor of what appears to be fairly dark roast of what my initial olfactory test confirms to be French Roast. In the solid oak cabinet above the countertop I find a pair of mugs advertising the services of RE/MAX real estate with a somewhat pithy “Homes that Match” tagline. I am not one-hundred percent certain if they reference lifestyles or socks but I am pleased that we can match their mugs with our steaming fresh joe. 

I check in with TOM, now just two hours ahead of our Central Standard time, and ask for a conference call with the team, hosted by Julie, on the subject du jour; modern internet techniques and the path most likely to be taken by the MBI hackers. He concurs, and suggests we allow an hour for preparation and to allow the other team members to settle in to their temporary shelters. A 'Ted Talks' video presentation will be initiated in exactly one hour. 

It is my experience with these critical exchanges of information that, since they are immediately deleted upon completion, I need preparation myself and begin creation of a quick Textedit list of questions to have Julie answer or specifically ask of her upon the completion of her talk. The list includes:

How is Big Data militarized?

How does one counter the sowing of discord?

Provide an example of high-volume, multi channel propaganda.

Provide graphic exposition on the tactic of rapid, continual repetition.

Explain the ’not committed to objective reality’ idea.

How is the illusion of truth modified to fit a terrorist agenda?

How high does the current reach of corruption rise?

Is this ‘wag the dog?’

And lastly, what techniques will provide us with the highest probability of success in diverting their efforts, quickly and completely? 

In a moment of rash emotional sentimentality, I finish my notes with the complementary close; Love, Bogart. 

126,000,000

116.

The medium, the message and the audience. Concepts born from the genius of Marshall McCluhan, he of the optic versus the haptic, where vision is to light what haptics is to resistance, is the starting point. The arc of this powerful paradox is the game of monetizing, scaling and for the purposes of the MBI effort, militarizing the immense capabilities of a well funded propaganda campaign. A game with the sole purpose of regime change at the highest levels of political office, most often by installing UIs, useful idiots, where the Dunning-Kruger effect has reached chronic critical mass, and who are thereby extremely susceptible to bribery. Bribery in this case using the alias of campaign contributions and PAC support, as well as the tried and true cold-hard cash of corrupt lobbying. As I consider the potential of a well-run army of bots programmed for an information war against America, a lightning bolt of ebonic carbon strikes my spine like a razor-sharp poison dart. The scene from Lord of the Rings with Orcs in mass production as the run up to war, seems frighteningly and graphically appropriate. 

Our mission, having completely changed direction in the last ten minutes, must now pivot on the fly. This will, it now appears, be a battle not fought with conventional weaponry. Computers have replaced cannons and bytes of data, bayonets. This pixel monkey battle for opinion is not the gorilla warfare I am used to. But here we are. I give a silent nod of thanks that we have the Queen inside the MBI war room, and Julie, back in our version of command central. Those two alone can keep us in the game, provide analytical counter measures and suggest computer generated probabilities. Their IT chops are solid and up to date. It is our new responsibility to throw as many wrenches into their machinery as possible until we can develop an overall long-range strategy. As I say, that means by noon tomorrow. 

We start the tedious project of setting up safe houses, boring and absolutely squeaky clean looking urban centers for our local operations. I am particularly fond of the housing track homes where every other one looks exactly the same. Fences are good, as are two car garages. However in this business, as most real estate brokers will agree, it is mostly about location. We need to be close, but not too close, to the action. 

We’ll need three for the present, here in Omaha, for Davis and Saunders in Tucson, and I am having the remainder of our squad, Bromden and Calahan deployed to Vegas and Portland respectively. Bromden will replace the local analyst, LA, who was instrumental in the Luxor operation, but who must now be returned to the agency from whom he was borrowed, and Calahan to the Pacific Northwest, a site still spiking with on-line activity. That will give us the coverage to act quickly should Her Majesty and Julie come up with actionable information. 

With astonishing speed, perhaps a harbinger of things to come, I receive a text from Julie providing the street address of our ‘about to open for business’, Omaha operation. 

“Pays to be connected,” deadpans Drysdale, as we fasten shoulder harness’ and enter local traffic. 

“One hundred and twenty-six million,” he says.

“One hundred and twenty-six million what?” I play along.

“Number of US Facebook accounts reached by Russian bots in the 2016 election.”

Be Patient

115.

Knowing that the photos were sent as an emergency situation report, I do not respond. The two jpgs carry answers to a pair of questions: One proves that she is safe and apparently moving into an upper-management position with the cell, and, two, that the cell is actively creating dangerous disinformation campaigns. 

The immediate follow-on questions are why, for who and for what purpose. My immediate suspicion suggests that the answers to those are; anarchy, the Russians and, in their skewed version of a perfect world, massive profit, political power and prestige at the expense of America. 

I recall our initial conversation, Violet and I, after the breakout. The soul-barring discourse on the state of the state as seen from the points of view of opposing extremes. The Queen of Hearts, nee Maria Satriano and nee Violet Hayes, confessed to me at the time of a deep resentment, a contempt for the blatant political crimes committed in the name of democracy and freedom by the USA, basically for the last two-hundred and forty-four years. Her discourse on the subject began almost in synch with our rebellious stand and subsequent bloody break from the tyranny of King George III of England. The principals of independence, laid down through the collective wisdom of men we now call the Founding Fathers, was assembled into a monumental document of lasting value. One that has also been at the core of countless interpretations and translations. It is, as she said, like the bible in that regard, basically a work of fiction designed to sedate and rule the masses with a bit of chicanery, a little hubris, a sprinkling of pixie dust and a lot of weasel wording. As much as I tried to protest by indicating several of the positive points in our declaration, citing the difficulty and obvious challenge in the creation of any philosophical political manifesto, be it religious, fascist, communist, liberal, progressive, conservative or the current villain, socialistic, she wasn’t biting. Until we got the to the pragmatics. What do we do with what we’ve got, where we are? And the kicker, isn’t peace and prosperity for all better than relentless chaos and forced violent insurgencies? Aren’t a cohesive set of rules, fair and shared, impacting the one percent to the one hundred, better than a martial law free for all? Or, in popular vernacular, should the shotgun sing the song?

Taking an ounce of pride in my personal justification for the path I chose long ago, that of the defense of the constitution, the recollection of her change of heart over the course of one exchange provided me with a degree of hope I hadn’t experienced in many years. Perhaps it was our difference in age, or experience, or that we belonged to completely, and mostly at odds, generations. It provided me with another empirical example of ‘teachers joy’ — that magical moment when an esoteric, obscure, exploited and mismanaged ideal, is transferred from teacher to student. Or, in this case, from student to teacher as well. It reminded me of one of the most import reasons behind our oaths; to protect and defend. Of course the very need for protection and defense is exactly her point, and a good one. 

She has succeeded in phase one of the master plan. We have a plant. She is inside the organism that, by all traditional methods of analysis, appears to be orchestrating some type of criminal operation with felonious intent. By industrial comparison, they are manufacturing mass-market consent. A quick review of Orwell’s infamous treatise on the fragility of freedom tells us as much. I ask TOM if we can use the media hits as search headers, specifically those with the key words taken literally from the second MBI poster: Victimization, vermin, infestation, law demonization, media scapegoating, enemy of the people, bully, mock and threaten, and the number of repetitions, and areas of concentrated density for each. 

He immediately sees the point, assigns the chore, and ends our quick update with the specific advice I didn’t need to hear: “Be patient.” 

Sir George

114.

We arrive at the location gathered from the GPS device planted under the Queen of Hearts’ magnificent tattoo. The site is a true landmark of the city, the WoodmenLife building, thirty stories, almost five hundred feet tall and visible from a seventy-five mile radius of flatland USA. I call in the location along with a brief description to TOM requesting a background search as Drysdale parks the Expedition across the street in a public parking lot. In five minutes we are provided the location of MBI, a private corporation leasing the entire twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth floors. On hearing this I feel the same sense of dread similar to once learning of the troop numbers, and advantageous positioning, of a foe with whom we were about to engage. It is a shot of adrenalin whose manifestation comes with a tingling of the spine and neck hairs springing to attention, it signifies, to coin the naval adage appropriately, an all hands on deck moment. 

It is 1225. Big and Her Majesty have been inside, involved in their meeting long enough for some form of detail on the operations objectives to surface. I am fighting the urge to default to my knee-jerk response and raid the stronghold with guns ablaze and under the protection of the elements of surprise. But I am reminded by experience and necessity that the key element here is patience. Let it play out, wait for The Queen to initiate counter-intel. 

Drysdale has packed the GPS gear and opened a laptop for a group intelligence dump. He quickly ties in TOM, Davis and LA on a secure line conference call. TOM opens with the standard compliments of ‘getting safely to where we currently are’ and then asks for real-time updates from each of the teams, Davis going first. 

“Not much to report, we have been watching the building suggested by TOM as responsible for the increased chatter, but there are no signs of any traditional operations,” he reports voicing with a hint of frustration.

“What is happening in Vegas?”

“About the same,” LA replies, “normal activity for the warehouse complex, nothing unusual, a few trucks coming and going, a sleeping security guard, looks like the dullest place on Earth.” 

“Bogart?”

“We have Big and The Queen inside the WoodmenLife building, two complete floors under MBI branding. No idea of what they are doing and no outward signs of any buildup. A day in the life of the upper midwest.” 

Julie comes on and begins a monologue of itemized potentials, what we call the punch-pack. It contains people, places and nefarious possibilities, a game of dot connection and quick statistical recall of specific fact. As she is speaking I get a text message from the QoH, it is a picture. A picture of a poster. The poster appears to hang in a large open office space. I scan it quickly and then forward it to the group.

1. Invoke a terrifying internal and external enemy

2. Create a gulag

3. Develop a thug caste 

4. Set up an internal surveillance system

5. Harass citizens' groups

6. Engage in arbitrary detention and release

7. Target key individuals 

8. Control the press

9. Dissent equals treason

10. Suspend the rule of law

A rap-like chorus follows.

“Orwell,” shouts TOM.

“1984,” adds Davis.

“How to go from A Democracy to a Dictatorship,” wails LA.

“It is a disinformation campaign, fake news sewing chaos and confusion, probably as proxy for an American geo-political rival, China, Russia, the Islamic States. It is an election year, we’re in the cycle.”  I volunteer with emphasis. I receive another text from 'inside'.

1. Create a sense of victimization

2. Blame “them” using words like vermin, infestation, those people

3. Declare only strength can save the nation

4. Demonize established law, the courts and democratic institutions as weak and ineffective

5. Delegitimize a free press as fake, the enemy of the people, and a liberal tool used to attack and further weaken the nation

6. Bully, mock, threaten, intimidate the other branches of government and subsume their power and influence

7. Relentlessly repeat

The propaganda concludes with:

As if your life depends upon it. Which it does. 

Get There Fast

113.

Of this position it has been said many times that success is found through one’s ability to manage stacked protocols, an axiom I have always considered equivalent to the advice, perhaps said by the same people, that one should not bring a knife to a fire-fight.

I salute Frenchy upon our exit and proceed directly into the waiting black Ford Expedition. I ask Drysdale to take the wheel as I have work to do.

Commandeering the GPS tracker I lock on to the signal that seems to be heading directly downtown, good news for us as we could intercept and easily tail from our current position. In reference to this stroke of good luck I whisper out loud "good clean livin’ and church on Sunday.” Drysdale looks at me intuiting the combination of science and sorcery that has brought us to this intersection. I place the tracker on the suction mount device apparatus on the dash and dial TOM.

“Anything on Omaha?”

“Berkshire Hathaway, Marlin Brando, Bob Gibson, Fort Omaha, Offutt, Union Pacific and The Bob, is about it, nothing out of the ordinary except a slight increase in volume of chatter,” TOM answers.

“The Bob?”

“A three-thousand foot long cable and concrete pedestrian-only bridge spanning the Missouri River named after Senator Bob Kerrey who saw to its funding.”

I don’t know if I should laugh or scream, but respect the level of stress under which we all operate, so let it go with a ’hummmmm,” imperfectly capturing the conversational requirement, but wanting to segue to more, perhaps, relative concerns.

“Anything from Tucson, Portland or Vegas?” I ask.

“All three maintaining higher than average buzz levels, nothing nefarious, if anything this feels like a calm before the storm.”

At this I am truly baffled and again insist that we maintain our initial plan of infiltration, a tactic to which TOM agrees.

“I think we should also move Davis and Saunders to Arizona.” Anticipating his resistance I finish my outline, “Drysdale and I can handle Omaha and Portland from here, so moving them from Colorado to Tucson gives us better geographic coverage, quicker, should the need arise.”

“Done.”

“Can we pinpoint any concentrated hot-spots in Tucson that we might check out first?”

“We have a sheet on it from which we can run additional models using the latest intel, I’ll forward them to Davis and copy you,” he says. From his response I sense that the new track, a partial footprint in the sand, has shaken him back to the seriousness of the hunt.

Drysdale informs me that the GPS movement has stopped. He is zooming on the location. My cell buzzes. LA in Vegas has the address of the warehouse in which Muscles and Cy have entered. TOM calls. Tucson just doubled its chatter and Portland is trending likewise. He ends the call with the update that Davis and Saunders are in the air.

“We’re drawing to an inside straight,” I murmur, “we need Her Majesty face up.”

Drysdale says he has the address in downtown Omaha where Big and The Queen have made their noon meeting by ten minutes.

“Stack THIS protocol,” I say, telling my pilot partner to “get there fast.”

To Omaha

112.

Drysdale puts the faux porcelain coffee mug on the table in front of me and provides the brief. The aroma tickles my nose almost as much as the news of the suspected landing location jolts like a quad espresso.

Omaha, Nebraska is a college town ripe for harvesting a young, talented and often radical labor force. It is an agreeable combination of collar colors, mixing a strong work ethic with a lively and energetic fabric, industrialized, geographically ideal and boasting myriad warehousing opportunities. I immediately consider the intel pinpointing Tucson and Portland as hot spots, adding the new site to the mix.

I check in with Frenchy, my horn playing pilot pal, to address the potential private landing strips serving the immediate area. He tells me there are several as the topography of the region allows even a medium sized jet sufficient runway length, even a corn field will do in a pinch. TOM is next up with an update and I request ground support from our local affiliates. We are going to need a vehicle waiting on the ground in close proximity if this tail is to continue without additional and unnecessary delay.

From his end there is a pause, longer than normal for the quick-thinking honcho, so I comment; “What are you thinking?”

“Triangulation. Tucson, Portland and Omaha. They create a rather nice geometrical configuration, wouldn’t you say? A triangle of coverage perhaps, perfect striking distances to the entirety of the Western States. We might be looking at the right places for the wrong reasons.” It is now my turn to pause as I consider his intuitive remarks.

“Biological?

“We have no intel to suggest it.”

“Anything from NORAD?’

“Business as usual.”

“DoD?”

“Nothing to report, nothing like the jacked Phantoms and jammed radar from their most recent escapade.”

I suggest that we keep the surveillance tight and allow the Queen of Hearts, hopefully still a viability, to complete phase two of the operation, to infiltrate their network and transfer actionable intelligence back to paint a clearer picture of their plans. My cell buzzes as he agrees, and I hold him to take the call from LA. Once the update has been received I inform TOM;

“It isn’t a triangle, it’s a square, more a rhomboid or parallelogram actually.”

“Explain.”

“Tucson, Portland, Omaha and Las Vegas. Cells joining together like mutations to build a network. But a network of what, and for what?”

I can hear TOM assign the addition of Omaha to the search protocols to an analyst. I wonder if that might be Julie, sitting in the command center with a heat set, six computers and a big screen to share all real-time analysis and projections.

Our connection is ended as we watch the Gulfstream radar indicate that the MBI jet has landed about six miles east of downtown Omaha.

I am silently hoping Julie finds something quick, that Her Majesty is prepared for the unpreparable, that the GPS bug remains active and that an outfitted rig is ready for us as we prep for landing at Eppley Field, less that ten minutes from downtown. Drysdale is watching. I salute his effort with a hoist of my mug in his direction.

‘To Omaha.”

He returns the gesture;

“To Omaha.”

Think Like Them

111.

“I am tilting back for forty,” I announce, “wake me if anything changes.” 

Drysdale looks at me with sympathetic but questioning eyes, the left full of empathy and the right loaded with paradox, blinking with an ‘everything is always changing’ strobe. Seeing this, I add the detail, “Should they change course or initiate descent.”

I reach for the seat lever and recline. My head is throbbing. I massage temples tender with stress and gently rub my eyes. I breathe as deeply as the compressed air of the cabin will allow and relax. On cue my mind takes the bait like a hungry tuna, “Is Violet, Maria, Her Majesty, now a hostage?”,“With a five grand range, where, exactly is the MBI jet heading?”,”What is the master plan?”, and perhaps most critically, “What move can we make to impede their progress, or terminate the plot, the cell, the terror altogether?” Like shuffling a tarot deck I pick a card and consider its symbolism and divination. From an unknown location deep in my psyche I hear the echoed refrain of a long dormant verse. “Think like them.”

Think Like Them. I once used this plea with TOM as we debated the tactical advantages potentially achievable if a particularly risky move was put into play. TOM wanted to take the safe approach but I argued that we were running out of time and if dangerous measures were not immediately ordered, we might lose a major battle. TOM asked what provided me with the conviction of my opinions, what specific bit of experience, training or intel led me to this radical belief. 

“Because I know how they think,” was the tarot.

This is a whole new set of circumstances, an entirely novel situation, but armed with volumes of case histories; the colossal terrorist success like hijacking aircraft to kamikaze skyscrapers in New York and fly simultaneously into the Pentagon and White House, the Oklahoma City fertilizer bombs, or even now the regular school massacres, widely considered as unfortunate collateral damage by conservative Republicans, to the countless failures, many of which we have played a peacekeeping part, all have similarities and tendencies that we can use in our relentless counters to their devious planning. 

“If I am Big, what is my current motivation?”

I consider the possibilities, especially the one where I, thinking like Big, have a new tool with which to further twist the plot. The Queen is a windfall stroke of luck, from this perspective, capable of adding another, completely new, inventive, and therefore dangerous, level of acumen to the contest, one that by all indications is already firing on seven of eight cylinders. 

“I would put her in play, allow her commitment to manifest as further proof that karma takes time to catch up with reality, that the hour is now and the place is ….. Where?” 

Drysdale taps me gently on the shoulder. 

“They appear to have begun initial descending protocols.”