Byrd Man

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Washington D.C.

Russell Reed glanced out the third-floor window of Blair House. The home's previous owner had been Washington legend Francis Preston Blair. Blair, a southerner and adviser to both Jackson and Lincoln, tried in vain several times to broker an early end to the Civil War to no avail. From the window facing out of Blair House, Russell had a clear view of the White House. The close proximity to the White House and West Wing eventually led to the government's purchase of the home. Today, it was used as a guest house for any heads of state who came to Washington. Two floors below in the parlor, Blair and a hodgepodge collection of Whig and Free Soil Party members formed the Republican Party. Russell thought it was an odd place for the current Democratic president to hold his weekly breakfast meeting with the Democratic vice-president.

The two men sat at the dining room table and ate a simple breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast with grapefruit and orange juice. The food was part of the president's effort to curb the weight gain that came with the transfer from military life to civilian life. By contrast, Russell always had a heavy breakfast of sausage, grits, and eggs with country gravy and a large mug of black coffee. He would always burn the calories in his day of constant motion, meeting and greeting and glad-handing nad never stopping until that night. The two men ate their meal in silence while they absorbed the news from that morning's east coast national papers. Russell handed Norman a copy of the Boston Herald as he handed Russell a copy of the Washington Post.

"Seems your tour is in all the papers," Russell said as he flipped open the paper.

"It's my first serious trip out of Washington since the inauguration," Norman replied. "It's bound to make at least passing news."

Russell reread the details that appeared in the papers of Boston and New York. While Russell was doing whatever it took in the election down south, the White House had announced the president was going on a western tour of the country. He'd be going through the midwest and stop in Wisconsin to witness the groundbreaking ceremony on the Eric Fernandez Presidential Library. After that, it was off to California and up the Pacific Coast. The highlight of the tour would be Norman's return to the Cascadia Territory, his first time back there since the war.

"And besides, Jim Sanderson's win is making news as well," the president said between bites of food. "I know you're glad to have him back in the Senate. I've heard that you and the former governor down there don't get along."

"Hampton Taliaferro is a son of a bitch," Russell stated flatly. "Always has been. We've clashed more than once over the years, but I can't say I'm too broken up over the scandal. I hate the way Jim won, but I'm glad everyone knows what kind of son of a bitch Taliaferro really is."

Russell did not show anything other than remorse at the circumstances surrounding the Senate race. Nobody had asked for a statement on it and he hadn't given one. As far as the public was concerned, he had stayed out of it leading up to the last week of the race. Nobody knew about Sledge's actions, Ash McCall's betrayal, and the relatively small amount of money it took to engineer the events in Macon. And nobody would ever know because everybody benefitted. McCall got the governor's chair, the members of the governor's security detail would quietly make rank in the Georgia State Patrol. Those that didn't get promotion got money. The two colored girls found with Taliaferro were now somewhere in Florida, laying low with a friend of Sledge's with a few hundred dollars in their pockets.

"What about the blowback from your meeting in Tennessee?" Norman asked, looking over his reading glasses at Russell. "How bad do you think that will hurt you and the administration?"

He tossed the Washington paper aside and picked at his food. "The people down south will rant and rave for a while, but they'll forget about it."

Norman put his paper down on the table and looked at Russell. "I want to apologize about that, Russ. I know you've been taking a beating on it in the papers."

"It's what the VP does, sir," Russell shrugged. "Sometimes I'm the hatchet man and sometimes I'm the fall guy. I was fully aware of the possibilities and limitations of the job when I accepted the nomination."

He kept his feelings about being hung out to dry to himself. He fully knew that on a risky prospect like meeting with leaders of the burgeoning civil rights movement, the president couldn't risk exposure like the VP could. But Russell still felt slighted by not receiving even private reassurance from the White House. That was why he kept his promise to Wolde and the Calhouns to himself. If the president knew he had promised to push a civil rights bill through Congress on his own accord, the wrath of the White House would be far worse than anything anybody in the south could do.

"I'm afraid this might rile up our southern friends in the Senate," said Norman. "I'm sorry I didn't take your advice sooner, Russell, but the fight over that NEWI bill showed me just how those old men can hijack legislation."

"They are sons of bitches when it comes to working the Senate towards their advantage. The Ethiopian foreign aid bill is going to a vote in the House today, right?" Rusell asked. "I've read that you're marshaling all the Democratic forces behind it."

"Your protegee, Clay, and the leadership team in the House are moving heaven and earth to make sure every House Democrat to vote for it."

"Not an easy feat, but that won't work in the Senate. That shuffling sack of phlegm Wilbur Helms has made it crystal clear the price for southern cooperation in the Senate. Those old bastards will not be moved until we let them know we won't push for civil rights legislation. My trip to Tennessee will make them that much more adamant to get assurances."

Norman flashed Russell a soft grin.

"Divide and conquer, Mr. Vice President. Reach out to Pete Kelly and Rod Marston. Talk to them about getting Republican support behind the Ethiopian bill. I'll deal with Senator Helms and the old bulls."

Russell chuckled and shook his head.

"Wilbur Helms has served in Congress for sixty years. He's seen twelve presidents come and go. For you to tame that old man, it would be a minor miracle."

"People said the same thing to me when I said I wanted Russell Reed as my vice-president," Norman said with a laugh. "'There is no way that man will ever step away from running the Senate to be vice-president.' But yet here we are. Give me some credit, Russ. I'm not the political neophyte you thought I was."

"I've slowly realized the truth of that," said Russell. "And I've come to grudgingly accept it."

"Thank you for your approval, however reluctant it may be."

The president stood and checked his suit for any signs of food on them. Russell also stood, brushing toast crumbs from his lapel.

"See about setting up a meeting with Kelly and Marston. Leave the southerners to me. You'll find my legislative strategy is just as effective as my military strategy."

"Let's hope not," Russell quipped as they shook hands. "Because if it is, we'll be annexing the Senate in two weeks."

-----

Capitol Hill

"Somebody find me that son of a bitch Rowe!"

Traci Lord struggled to keep up with Congresswoman Jen Armstrong as they raced through the long hallways of the Capitol building. Traci was glad she took Armstong's advice and wore sensible shoes to the Capitol. Armstrong still wore black pumps as she hauled ass down the corridor. Today the House was voting on Harlan Lewis' Pan-African foreign aid bill. The article Traci had in mind for this installment involved following Majority Whip Armstrong and her team of deputies. It was an amazing study in contrast to see Armstrong at work. In most things, she had a sunny disposition that never seemed to falter. She was polite and always considerate, that was part of her charm in Congress. That attitude fit perfectly with her being a forty-something midwestern mother of four.

But when there was a hint of weakness or dissent inside the Democratic ranks?

"I swear to god, I will shove my foot so far up Dave Rowe's ass that he'll have stiletto marks on his tongue."

The target of her discontent was David Rowe, a four-term congressman from Pennsylvania. Rowe was just one of two dozen Democrats the Whip team had drawn their sights on as the bill vote drew closer. Based on the vote counting and speculation, the vote was going to be landslide with both sides of the aisle voting but in favor of it. Even with the bi-partisan support there was no way it would be a unanimous vote. The large size of the House, along with the idiosyncrasies of its various members, would prevent that.

Republican Congressman Ben Barker from Maryland was a devout Quaker that voted against any military measure no matter how small, and Barker made it clear on the floor debate that this foreign aid would prolong war. Barker was one of the few pacifists in the House. They and other hard-line isolationist congressmen who would either vote nay or abstain from voting altogether. That was fine for the Republicans, but Clay Foulke wanted to send a message. The Speaker wanted every single Democrat in Congress, all two hundred and fifty-four of them, to vote aye on the bill. He wanted to show Washington, the country, and maybe even the world that Republicans could write and propose legislation, but only Democrats could get it through the House.

"Pursuant to the rules regarding House Appropriations Bill 2601, it is now in order to vote on the measure." The voice of the Speaker Pro Tempore filtered through the halls of the capitol thanks to speakers mounted on walls throughout the House of Representatives side of the building. "Voting will be opened up for a period of thirty minutes--"

"C'mon, Traci," Armstrong shouted over the droning voice of the Speaker. "Pick up the pace!"

The two women suddenly found themselves fighting against a current. As the voting on the measure opened up, congressmen and women began to head towards the House floor to vote. Traci stuck close to Armstrong as they navigated through the crowd.

"Anyone seen Rowe out of Pennsylvania," she asked people as they went through the crowd. "Chance!" She snapped at another passing representative. "Remember what we talked about the other day? Vote that way."

"You're very committed to your job," Traci said. "What do you think makes you work so well as Whip?"

"I'm a mom to four boys," she said with a look back at Traci. "And being Whip is like being a parent more than an enforcer -- Preston! Hey, Preston! Yes, you! Don't back out on me-- you have to wear many hats, as a nice guy or a bad guy. The tone I use on the members of Congress is the same tone I use when I catch my youngest sucking on his thumb. You have to bully, flatter, cajole, and even shame people to get them to vote how you want."

"And do you always get what you want?"

"No, but I win more than I lose that's for sure."

Armstrong took Traci by the wrist and they ducked into a side office. She caught the name on the plaque beside the door just as they went in. Congressman David Rowe, Pennsylvania 14th District. Armstrong walked past the secretary without a word and burst into the office of Rowe. They were greeted by a rail-thin man with a retreating hairline that would be non-existent within five years. He stood up, towering over both Armstrong and Traci, and gave them a puzzled look.

"David," Armstrong said, placing her palms flat on his desk. "Don't know if you know this, but there's a very important vote on the floor at the moment."

"I'm aware, Jennifer," Rowe said, stepping backward slightly. "I... don't think I'll vote."

Armstrong walked around the desk and started to slowly encroach into Rowe's personal space. Traci watched with rapt attention as the little woman who was easily six inches shorter than Rowe, even in her heels, made him squirm. Armstrong was small, but the way she moved made her seem ten feet tall.

"The Speaker passed word through all every caucus that the vote on this measure is to be unanimous on that front. Did you get the memo?"

"I... I did, but I still can't vote for it."

Armstrong placed a hand on the end of Rowe's tie and started to pull on it. Slowly, Rowe had to crouch forward and forward until he was hunched over and just inches away from Armstrong's face.

"Why, David? Why can't you vote for it?"

"This could lead to war, I don't want that. I fought in the last war we had and I don't want to send any other sons off to war."

"Very noble, Congressman."

Armstrong let the tie go. Rowe snapped back like his spine was a rubber band, bolting upright and again trying again to put some distance between him and her. Armstrong kept shuffling forward until Rowe was nearly backed into the far corner of the office.

"If there is a measure to declare war, feel free to vote against it. But for this bill? This foreign aid bill to help starving people, you need to vote yes."

"I'm voting my conscience," he stammered. "That's what you always tell us to do first, right?"

"Right, but that conscience conflicts with what the party wants. And you owe the party for your reelection. You won reelection last time by just ten points, right?"

"Twelve, actually."

"Twelve points," she clicked her tongue. "And that was with the DNC's funding and backing. It's a hard district, lots of Republican voters. Now imagine what happens the next time you run for reelection when there is no funding or backing. Not only that, but the DNC picks a dashing young liberal to step up and run for Congress against you. You'd be a lame duck by the summer and forced to watch the general election from the sidelines."

Even from across the room Traci could see the beads of sweat forming on Rowe's large forehead. He took a second to wipe them away with his sleeve and tried to find a response. None seemed to be forthcoming as he just stammered and tried to reply. Suddenly, a change came over Armstrong. The tough mask was gone. She reached out and placed a hand on Rowe's shoulder.

"Easy, David. Come on, have a seat."

Again despite their height difference, Armstrong seemed to lead Rowe towards his desk like the man was half her size. She helped him sit at his desk and took the seat from across it.

"You're a smart guy, David, very smart. That's why we want you to vote for this bill. The Speaker sees promise in you being part of the leadership here in the House, maybe let you join my staff of whips, but that only happens if you can show the Speaker you're a loyal member of the party. That advancement can only come if you remain in Congress. If you don't like voting for this, then I understand it, but you have to understand the leadership's position. We're getting White House pressure to shove the bill through the House. So by voting with us on this, you'll show the Speaker and President that you're a team player, and you'll have the appreciation of both and the Speaker will owe you one. He's a good one to have owe you a favor, believe me."

Rowe's face seemed to convey a half-dozen expressions all at once. Shock, amazement, concern, embarrassment, etc. The congressman ran his hands through his thinning hair and tried to come up with a response to all that had been thrown at him so quickly by Armstong.

"Okay," he finally said. "I'll help you out."

"Good," Armstrong said as she stood up. "You got twenty minutes to get down to the floor and vote. Move your ass, David."

And like that, she was racing back out the office with Traci in tow. She checked her watch and cursed when she realized how little time was left before the voting finished.

"Is that the usual force you apply in every situation?" Traci asked.

"Depends on the congressman and the measure. Something like this, we have to go full for--" she stopped talking as she eyed one of her deputies coming down the corridor. "Kevin! What's the vote look like?"

"So far it's two hundred and ten to ten," the deputy whip said as he rushed by. "All the nays have been Republicans. We've still got about a hundred Dems who have yet to vote."

"Stampede them to the floor if you have to!" She yelled as he disappeared around a corner. "Cattle drive."

Armstrong led Traci through the halls and out onto the House floor. The chamber was packed with members casting their votes with electronic signals, each one unique to the representative for accurate vote tallies. The big board on the wall read that Appropriations Bill 2601 had passed with a clear majority of House members, three hundred and sixty to fifteen. There were still sixty congressmen who had to vote, but it was mere formality at this point.

The word stampede was right, Traci said to herself. The White House backing gave the Democrats impetus to vote in mass for it, and general public opinion on the bill mixed with the Republican authorship of the bill gave Republicans reason to vote for it as well. Traci looked across the way and saw Harlan Lewis holding court with a group of seven or eight congressmen. The Republican congressman who nobody knew was suddenly popular among his peers. She caught the man's eye and nodded to him. He smiled and waved before turning his attention back to the other men around him.

"That's done," Armstrong said as she vote, sending the tally one more in favor of the bill's approval. "And here he comes..."

They watched David Rowe walk down the aisles towards his seat. He sat down on the bench and picked up his electronic voter. He pressed a button. Both Armstrong and Traci looked towards the big board. The yay vote increased by one. Rowe put his voter down and left the floor as quickly as he arrived.

"There you go," Armstrong said with a wink to Traci. "That's how the sausage gets made."

-----

Natchez, Mississippi

James Calhoun dipped his paintbrush into the can of paint and pulled the brush out with its bristles coated in primer gray. He gently applied the paint down the side of his trick to cover up the horrible words that had been scratched into it. Sarah and the boys saw it and were mad. James got them to calm down, something that would have been damn near impossible if they knew about his meeting with Alex Miller, how that money the family need to live on had been denied.

He told Whitney of course. She hadn't shown anger, just a slight sadness before it quickly disappeared and she nodded. She and James knew tough times, something that the kids never did. They were born during the Depression. Back then there was no times but hard ones, especially for the black people in the South. They'd survive, she knew it and he knew it as well. It'd be tough but they could do it.

The sound of a car rolling down the long dirt road driveway made him look up from the truck. A long, black car came to a stop in the driveway. James let a grin slip from his face. He knew the car well. He'd ridden in it, hell he'd even drove it. Out from the car stepped Isiah Wolde, looking immaculate as always in his crisp black suit, black tie and black-rimmed glasses. He hadn't seen him since Memphis a few weeks ago, the man had let his hair grow out. It was all kinky and poofy, not kept short or straightened with lye like a lot of negroes in America. It reminded James of how the people in Africa looked. A lot of Wolde's followers were starting to wear it out like that, men and women. They called it a natural. Luckily Sarah still insisted on keepng her hair long and straight.

"Isiah," James said as he put his paint brush down and approached the Ethiopian. "Nice hair, brother."

They shook hands, Wolde smiling. "You like it? You should grow it out too. Solidarity with each other and the folks over in Africa. You know they don't try to make their hair look like white people."

"That's a young man's game," James said, pulling his hat off and showing his short hair. "Y'all grow your hair out all you want, you got my solidarity in spirit."

James led Wolde towards the front porch. The Ethiopian nodded towards his truck as they walked by.

"Sarah told me," he said. "Scare tactics is all it is."

"I know," James said before lowering his voice. "But they're using other tactics, brother. The bank I use to get my loan from denied me, the white man who runs it said I need to know my place. We use that money to live on before the harvest comes in."

"Now Sarah did not tell me that."

"That's because she doesn't know."

James led them to a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch.

"What brings you here, Brother Wolde? I thought you had business up north."

"I did, and I met with some people who are firmly behind us. There are a lot of northern people, negroes and whites, who are sympathetic to our cause. We're planning something, James. A demonstration in Washington D.C. Russell Reed gave us a promise, but it's words. We have to show the entire federal government that we are here and we will not be ignored."

"It's a good plan," James said before he scowled. "And I would love to be there. I just don't know if I can. I've got my boys working around town earning money, and I'm gonna have to join them to make ends meet. I won't have the time or energy to take part in any protests or marches."

"What if I loan you that money?" Wolde asked, leaning forward in his rocker. "Whatever it was you were going to borrow, I can provide it."

"I don't want to impose or--"

"I have money, Brother James. Lots and lots of money."

Wolde reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. Big bills, James saw. He'd never seen so much money in his entire life.

"Where did you get that?"

"Those sympathetic northerners?" Wolde asked with a sly grin. "Those that don't want to march like to contribute with money. I can provide you some money out of the general fund to skate by. Besides, I feel bad because these people are doing this because you're affiliated with the movement."

The two men looked as another car came down the dirt road. This one James also knew. It belonged to Mr. Birch from up the road. Behind the wheel was Birch's daughter Nadine, and in the passenger seat was Sarah. Sarah was out and running towards the porch before the car had stopped properly. She pounced on Wolde and hugged him fiercely, yelling in glee that he was here.

James watched the scene with a sense of amusement, but that amusement quickly faded when he saw the looks on both Wolde and Sarah's faces. It was quick, and in a flash they were back to being friendly. But James caught the look. There was no doubt to what it was, because Whitney had looked at him the same way for over twenty years.

It was a look of love.

-----

Vancouver

Silas Crystal felt the lock give under pressure. He pulled his lockpick out and turned the knob all the way before standing and slowly pushing the front door open. Crystal pocketed his lockpick and reached into his jacket to pull out a pistol with a suppressor attached to the end. He loaded a round into the chamber before stepping through the threshold into the apartment. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside, but slowly shapes came into view inside the home of Arthur Stewart.

The one room apartment was listed as the kid's address on his contact information at Simon Fraser University. The two CIA guys took Reg Boland's description of the two terrorists as college kids and ran with it. They made Boland sit in a chair and flip through photos of college students from all schools in the greater Vancouver area. The gun smuggler's eyes lit up when he came to the photo of Stewart, quickly pointing him out and declaring that was him. Unfortunately, Boland never saw anybody that looked like the Alex kid he said was running the Friends.

Crystal stepped further into the apartment once his eyes were fully adjusted to the dim lighting. It was a studio apartment where the bedroom/kitchen/bathroom were all in the same place. The place was sparsely decorated with only a coffee table, two cheap wooden chairs, and a mattress and box spring resting on the hardwood floor. There wasn't much to the place, but Crystal could tell almost right off the bat Stewart hadn't lived here in quite a while. He ran a gloved hand across the coffee table and came up with a thick layer of dust on his hand. The fridge contained only a spoiled quart of milk and moldy Chinese takeout. There was no radio, television, or phone and no books or other keepsakes that a person would have in a home.

He slid his gun back into its shoulder holster and did a quick search of the apartment. The few drawers the apartment had contained nothing but scratch sheets of paper and pens. Crystal flipped the box spring over and found a handful of pamphlets underneath the mattress. He picked them up and pulled out a flashlight from his jacket, clicking it on to browse the contents of the papers. They were political tracts calling for various things. One called for the withdrawal of US forces from the territory, another for an autonomous Cascadia that was under US protection, another the full blown return of the NWC, and even one that called for Canadian annexation of the territory.

Crystal killed the light and tucked it back into his jacket along with the tracts. He left the apartment, careful to lock it back as he left. The apartment was on the third floor of a four-story walk up a half mile away from Simon Fraser University. The rest of Crystal's A-Team were searching for any trace of Stewart through the university campus. The Green Beret slipped a snap brim hat on his head and hurried down the flight of stairs towards the building's exit. He came out onto the street and climbed into a waiting car.

The CIA field agent, the man Crystal knew only as Smith, pulled the car out into the street and glanced expectantly at Crystal. "So?"

He tossed the pamphlets on to the dash and sighed. Smith's eyes darted back and forth between the pamphlets and the road. "What's that?"

"That is the only trace we have of Arthur Stewart. Some crappy political tracts calling for all kinds of radical shit."

"That's a start," Smith said as he pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. "Radical shit is the FCB's milieu. If someone in the territory is printing this, then they'll have a lead on it. My partner has a contact inside the Bureau that can maybe give us a lead."

-----

Hank Kelly sat in the rickety chair facing his desk, looking down at the two photos with a look on his face that could only be dread. The photos were the result of days worth of work. After Reg Boland identified Arthur Stewart, they went back to work on finding an identification for the man Boland knew as Alex. Hours and hours of searching through the rolls at local universities had come up with nothing, the same happened when Hank expanded the search to all higher learning institutes in the territory. Still nothing. He felt intuition gnawing at him, which was an odd feeling. It was Pat who was always the guy who acted on gut feelings, Hank always used facts and evidence and logic. Something was off about these people who called themselves the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty. Something that he couldn't quite place. And then that was when Hank remembered an operation Hank's Canada Section back in Alexandria worked on with the CIA's covert stations embedded throughout Canada.

Copies of the Agency's files had been couriered up north after Hank appealed to the Deputy Director of Intelligence for them. The DD/I was hesitant at first, but soon came off of it after the Friends murdered a prominent politician, the head of the territorial legislature. Close to two thousand pages of documentation were flown to Fort Norman from the Campus. He'd absconded with it back to the makeshift headquarters in the former slaughterhouse. Hank spent the next few days hard at work. He combed through the copious amount of paperwork the way only a seasoned Washington bureaucrat could. And then he found something. He found two somethings.

Operation Penalty Box was an intelligence-gathering mission that took place all throughout 1978 and '79. CIA operatives in Canada, Washington, and embassies across the world attempted to identify Canadian intelligence sources and operatives through electronic and human surveillance of Canadian embassies worldwide. The results managed to identify over a hundred men and women who were connected to the nation's Intelligence Branch in varying degrees. And there were still another three hundred suspected figures that could never be identified or tied to Intelligence Branch for sure. The results from Penalty Box were a closely guarded CIA secret, allowing the blown agents to work in the field oblivious of the fact they were known.

Hank and Boland sat at a metal table and went through every single bit of photo from Penalty Box to try and find anything that seemed familiar to Boland. The man with the bandaged face and swollen jaw silently acquiesced to the long hours pouring over grainy surveillance photos. It wasn't like he had a choice. And Pat had promised him immunity if he cooperated, Hank only vaguely going along with it. They were intelligence agents and not lawyers. A US attorney and judge would work that out, but he might put in a good word for him when the time came.

"That's them," Boland said after nearly nine hours of staring at the photos. "That's the guys. Both of them."

Hank slid the photo over and looked down at it. It was dated August of 1979, a long-range photo of two men huddled together in a back alley. Hank skimmed the report that went along with the photo. CIA's Toronto Station took the photo after tailing a suspected intelligence officer through the city. The picture showed a short, long-haired young man in a jean jacket talking to a tall, blonde man who wore his hair in a short crew cut.

"Who are these people?" Hank asked. "Tell me exactly."

"The little guy, that's Alex," Boland said, tapping the shorter man with his finger. "And the big guy, that's my contact in Canada. Jones, the one who smuggled that biohazard shit through the DMZ."

Hank grabbed the photo and quickly left Boland alone in the room. He felt like he was going to puke as he went back to the main files and found everything he could on the tall man. CIA files on him were incomplete, but every report confirmed he was a mid-level member of Intelligence Branch. The other man was an unknown person, believed to be the tall man's informant or agent working somewhere in Canada.

Alex, whoever he was, had been in contact with Jones for quite some time... It was Jones who gave them what Hank and Pat believed to be some kind of deadly weapon, it was Jones who funded their weapons and paid Boland to smuggle it across the DMZ. It was all Jones who backed the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty... and Jones was a Canadian intelligence officer.

Hank put his hands on his hip and looked down at the photo. Boland wasn't the most reliable source, but his implications would have major repercussions. Because if it were true, then that meant the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty were state-sponsored terrorists backed by Canada. Hank could see very clearly if it were true, where it would ultimately lead to, and that was the Third North American War.

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

Now Leaving


Y'all Come Back!

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

My first character, from Aaron's Hunger Games thread:

Coming to you from all the way back in 2002 it's....

Name: Dark Master Matt

Occupation: Bounty Hunter

Powers/Abilities: A dual-wand wielding wizard with the psychic ability to see into the future as well as turning into a redtail hawk at will. Also he's a werewolf.

Notable Adventure: Assassinating Osama Bin Laden.

@Byrd Man

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

That makes me think of my first RP posts way back in 2002. I'm glad all the evidence has been wiped clean.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

After that last post, I certainly don't want your broom handle.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

That may be a longer countdown than usual. Turns out my habit of putting off school assignments to write PoW posts seems to have put me in quite a bind with my writing assignments for class.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Also, did Byrd discover meth?

@Vilageidiotx

I only get high on life. And whip-its. Life and whip-its.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Hawkinsville, Georgia

Jim Sanderson walked through the hallways of Hawkinsville High School hand in hand with his third wife Jenny. The school looked a lot smaller than it did when he was younger. It was because he was bigger now. Bigger than this school, bigger than this whole goddamn town. He couldn't wait to leave this shithole behind and go back to D.C. as Senator Sanderson, elected in his own right.

Vote tallies were still coming in from the eastern part of the state, and the CSRA was Taliaferro's political base, but as it stood Sanderson had a comfortable eighty thousand vote lead over the governor. Former governor Jim reminded himself. Hamp Taliaferro resigned from the governorship two days after his arrest in Macon. He hadn't officially withdrawn from the senator race, it was too late to change the ballots, but he said he would not serve if elected. Even with that promise he still got a solid hundred thousand votes just based on name recognition alone.

He was elated when the news broke the morning after Taliferro's arrest. Everyone inside Georgia politics had known about Hamp's predilection for colored girls that were barely legal, but nobody ever really did anything about it. Jim's staff called it a lucky break, a huge misstep by Taliaferro and his people. But Jim knew the truth. The arrest and the sudden change of fortune for his campaign wasn't dumb luck or a slip-up by the governor. It was him who had done it. Jim rubbed the monkey's paw and made his wish, and it came true in the most horrible way imaginable.

The crowd gathered in the high school gym cheered loudly as Jim and Jenny stepped out on the stage. They waved and beamed at the crowd caught up in the moment. Jim held his arms up in an effort to call for silence. He finally got it after another solid minute of cheering.

"Thank you, Hawkinsville, for that warm welcome home. Y'all know how to make a hometown boy feel good!"

More cheers from the crowd. Jim smiled and played up the aww shucks angle. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked sheepish in the face of their applause.

"I have to admit, when it was getting down to the wire and I wasn't sure if I was gonna win... I was looking forward to coming back home for good. This is my hometown, and I am proud to tell the people in Washington that I come from Hawkinsville!"

They ate that up as was to be expected. He beamed and hid any signs of contempt as their cheers and whoops subsided into silence.

" I'd like to thank you and the voters of Georgia who have given me the awesome responsibility of representing them in Washington for the next six years. This is something I will not take lightly, this is something I will work hard at for six long years. Now, I'd like to speak a moment about my opponent, Governor Taliaferro--"

A score of boos filled with the gym, boos mixed in with a few racial slurs. Jim held his hands up and called for silence, doing his best to look solemn and serious instead of grinning widely as he spoke about the disgraced ex-governor.

"--Now we don't know what went on in Macon, and I chose to remain silent about it in the days leading up to the election. We still don't know the whole story and I did not want to comment on it without knowing the whole story. But I do know the former governor, and I will say that Hampton Taliaferro served the state of Georgia for over twenty years in the state legislature, in Washington as a congressman, and as governor. Both Jenny and I send our thoughts and prayers to both him and his family, including our new Governor McCall, as they go through this difficult time. God bless him and his family, God bless you all, God bless Georgia, and God bless the United States of America!"

An even louder round of applause mixed in with hoots and hollers. Jim walked to the edge of the stage and shook hands with people standing up and applauding him while Jenny blew kisses and awkwardly high-fived those near the stage with their hands out. They played it up with the crowd for a few minutes before retreating backstage.

"I can't wait to be back in Washington," Jim said once they were off the stage.

"Me too," a voice said from behind the Sandersons.

Russell and Robin Reed stood smiling behind them. Robin rushed over and kissed Jim on the cheek and hugged Jenny while Reed took Jim's hand and pumped it vigorously.

"We were watching results come in at home and decided to come down here to say congratulations."

"Thank you, Mr. Vice President," Jim mumbled.

"It was a well-earned victory, Senator."

Reed pulled Jim closer, his hands grabbing Jim's lapels on both sides. Reed was a half inch shorter than Jim, but the way he pushed people around and crowded personal space always made him seem much taller than he actually was. Reed reached out and adjusted Jim's necktie, speaking while he futzed with it.

"And let's not forget your promise to me, Jim," he whispered. "The price of getting elected was your loyalty. I lived up to my part of our deal, now you need to live up to yours."

"I will," Jim croaked out. "I promise, Russ."

"Good," Reed said as he let go of Jim's suit. "Robin and I are flying back to Washington tonight. Enjoy Hawkinsville, enjoy the fact that you're just visiting and not back to stay permanently. And then come on back to D.C. because we've got work to do."

Another round of congratulations from the Reeds. They took their leave and Jim watched them walk down the hallways of the school. Russell stopped just before they turned a corner and winked at him. Jim waved as they disappeared around the corner. He couldn't help but feeling like he'd made a deal with the devil. And like any deal with the devil, he got what he wanted at the price of his soul.

-----

Chicago

"Top of the third inning here in Rockford and the Mud Hens cycle back around to the top of the order. Left fielder Billy Carter comes back up to the plate. He drew a walk back in the first inning and parlayed that into a success by stealing second--"

The car radio crackled with static. Johnny Leggario adjusted the dial to make the signal clearer.

"--only batting around .200 since he was put in the Mud Hens' starting lineup two weeks ago, but the kid has made up for it with his legs. He's already snagged fifteen stolen bases in seventeen games. Todd sets and here's the first pitch... ball on the outside."

"What's with the bush league game, Johnny?" Mick Mahoney asked from the backseat. "Let's listen to the Cubbies or Sox."

"Cubbies are off today and I fucking hate the Sox," was all Johnny said.

Not listening to the conversation or the radio at all was Prussian Joe. He was in the front passenger seat looking across the street at the First National Bank of Chicago. The chubby little man held tightly to a notebook and pen, occasionally jotting down notes when he made an observation. The more Johnny worked with the German, the more and more he respected him. He was smart, but not like most crooks. Most guys were like Mahoney, idiots who kept trying and trying until they made a score. The smart ones were like Johnny and Bobby C., smart but their brains were more instinctual than any actual knowledge. It was street smarts more than anything. Prussian Joe with his constant notes and timing was some kind of criminal scientist.

"Two balls and no strikes. Here comes the pitch... it's popped up out into right field. Bradley gets under it and catches it for one out. That'll bring third baseman Matt Robinson up to the plate."

"If we do this, we do this at night," Prussian Joe said after a few more scribbles in his notebook. Johnny turned the radio down so they could talk.

"If we go in during the day we don't have to crack the safe," Mahoney said from the back.

"Too much exposure?" Johnny asked Prussian Joe.

"Ja. We'd need at least two men on crowd control, plus a day take means we still have a short window even with the alarm off. If we go in at night, say at eleven then we'd have over eight hours to crack the safe and cart all the money out."

"Taking the bank here would entail more than CPD," Johnny said with a finger pointed down the street. "Two blocks that way is the Murray Building and that's G-Man headquarters. If we go in during the day and it blows up in our face, we got half the goddamn FCB breathing down our necks."

Johnny reached into his jacket and pulled out a roll of bills. He thumbed through it before pulling off two hundred dollar bills and passing them back to Mahoney.

"Johnny? That's... I can't."

"It's not for you, dummkopf," Prussian Joe snapped. "Go in the bank and set up an account. Try and get a good look at the safe while you are in there and see the make and model."

Mahoney nodded and hurried out the car, crossing the street and disappearing inside the bank. Johnny lit up a cigarette and listened to the baseball game while Prussian Joe watched and timed how long Mahoney spent in the bank.

"Alarm system is inside," Johnny said as he blew smoke out the cracked window. "Day or night, how do we get in and overload it before it gets tripped?"

The tubby little man bummed a cigarette off Johnny and pondered his question while he smoked.

"There's a circuit breaker halfway down the block that controls this part of the power grid. We'd have to trip the circuit breaker and then get inside to overload the alarm before the power can come back on."

"What would be the timeframe on doing that?"

"Thirty seconds to a minute, I'd guarantee. That seems about the average response time from Chicago Power and Water when I tried something similar two days ago on the Northside. Whoever is monitoring the power grid, they can temporarily reroute power through another section of the grid until a worker gets out on site and fixes it."

Johnny grunted. "Not a lot of time."

"If we can do it right, we'll have all the time in the world."

Mahoney came out the bank and got back in Johnny's car.

"Safe looks doable. I'll need a few power tools to get into it right, but I can get into it without too much trouble."

"You better not be talking out your ass," Johnny said as he started the car. "Because I would hate to kill you, Mick."

Mahoney squirmed in his seat. Johnny traded looks with Prussian Joe and had to suppress a laugh as he pulled out into traffic.

-----

Blythe, California

"Fuck you, Redman!"

Jacob Tallchief resisted the urge to pound the drunk's face into the casino bar. Instead, he popped his knuckles and flexed his muscles.

"It's time for you to go, pal."

Jacob grabbed the drunk by the scruff of his neck with one hand and started pushing him through the casino with the other. Jacob had a full six inches on the man, causing him to walk on his tip toes as he was given the bum's rush. A few of the gamblers on the playing floor stopped to gawk at the big Indian manhandling the little white man with the big mouth.

Outside, Jacob tossed the drunk across the parking lot. He banged against the pavement and slid up against a parked car. Jacob brushed his hands off and looked down at the dazed drunk. "You're fucking banned, white boy. I see you in here again and I'll beat the shit out of you along with half my tribe."

He turned away from the prostrate man and headed back towards the casino. The bright neon lights of the Tomahawk Casino lit up the desert night for miles around Blythe. Jacob went back inside and back to work. The crowd tonight wasn't too bad, a few dozen gamblers out on the floor and giving their money to the Tribe. Most of the people at the Tomahawk went for slots over cards and dice. Nearly everyone who stopped in here were just passing through to Sun City forty miles to the east. They'd lose a bit of money here and move on down the road, try taking their chances in the big city. Standing Bear created with the Tomahawk for the reason to siphon off some of Sun City's profit before the chumps even got there.

"Jake!"

Web Tallchief came up to Jacob and put a hand on his shoulder. Web was Jacob's cousin on his mother's side and part of the Tribe, even though he was half white. Web was five years older than Jacob, but Jacob had always seemed to be the older of the two in a physical and mental sense. Web was twenty-five, going on fifteen.

"What do you want, Webasha?"

"Let me have some money, cuz."

"Get your own," Jacob said as he took Web's hand off his shoulder. "And what do you need it for?"

"Melanie," he said, nodding towards one of the chip girls on the floor. She was dressed in the stereotypical squaw outfit of leather, this outfit very revealing to show off her log legs and ample cleavage. Her blonde hair was put up and disguised by a black wig. "She said she'd fuck me if I gave her twenty dollars."

"Standing Bear told me not to let you fraternize with the girls anymore."

Web rolled his eyes and pushed Jake. He was too solid to budge. The force instead pushed Web back from Jacob. "That bastard. He knocked up that dealer Minnie last year and now I got a bastard half-brother. He can't control his dick, but I'm the one who gets in trouble."

"He's the chief," Jacob said with a shrug. "And being chief has its privileges. Now let me get back to work, cuz."

Web shook his head and stalked off through the casino. Jacob watched him walk away before his eyes drifted towards Melanie. She laughed a little too hard at whatever the fat man at the blackjack table was say. Jacob caught her eye and winked at her. She flushed and mouthed the word midnight. That was when her shift ended. Jacob knew her crack to Web was a joke. She liked to tease him and remind him that she was something he couldn't have. That was because she was reserved for Jacob.

He looked out across the casino floor and the goings on. He was only twenty-three, but the casino and the Tribe were his birthright. The Tribe was officially known as the Augustine Band within the larger Cahuilla Indian Tribe of California. Currently, the Augustine Band numbered twenty and that included Web's bastard half-brother. Jacob's grandfather Nanuq Tallchief broke away from the Cahuilla's years before Jacob was born and formed his own offshoot. The official members on the tribe roll today were Nanuq's three children and their children. The Tribe would only expand when Jacob's generation had children, the restrictions were such that it would never go outside the descendants of Nanuq. Even though Jacob's mother was pure-blooded Cahuilla she still wasn't considered part of the Tribe. The reason for the exclusion was because all members of the Tribe got a share of the Tomahawk's profits at year end with the biggest share always going to the chief. The Tomahawk had elevated the Tallchief family from common Indian trash to upper middle class overnight, and the influx of cash into the city of Blythe had turned the family into local royalty.

"Jacob to management," the PA system announced. "Jacob to management.'

Jacob cast one last long look at Melanie before he headed upstairs to the office. Standing Bear Tallchief, the head of the Augustine Tribe, looked down his large Roman nose at his nephew. If Jacob ever wanted to know what he would look like as a middle-aged man, he need not look any further than Standing Bear. His hair was still pitch black, but a shock of gray ran through the middle. His body was still muscular, but it was at the point where muscle started to become fat. He had a slight double chin that was becoming more prominent as the years passed. Jacob looked more like Standing Bear than he did his own father, which led to a lot of speculation as to Jacob's parentage.

Standing Bear had been more of a father to him than his own dad, and that was true of the entire Tribe. His grandfather's secession from the Cahuilla's was something to do with some petty feud between the old man and the tribal elders. His emotions got the best of him and he left with no plan or no inclination of what his family could accomplish. But Standing Bear had a vision. He fought and lobbied for years to get the Federal and State government to recognize the Augustines as its own band, and he and other tribal leaders from across the state worked non-stop to get the Indian Gaming Bill through the state legislature. To Jacob, Standing Bear was a true man because he provided. Not just for his immediate family, but the whole Tribe. When the old man died ten years ago, there was no question at all who would be chief. Who else but Standing Bear could be their chief?

"Jake, have a seat."

Jacob complied and sat down in one of the plush chairs facing Standing Bear's desk. He could see the far-off glow of Sun City's bright lights through the window just over his uncle's shoulder. Standing Bear pulled a cigar from the box on his desk and offered Jacob one. He politely declined as his uncle lit up.

"I know you're busy, but I needed to talk to you about something before I go home."

"Anything you need, chief. What's up?"

Standing Bear blew smoke rings above his head. "I need you to put together a small crew. Maybe four of your cousins or brothers. The meanest ones, just for show."

"What's going on?"

"We're having a sit-down meeting in Sun City in a few days with the casino guys. Their Board of Directors is going to be there, along with the Horde's officers."

The Horde. Fucking trailer trash on bikes. Jacob had a scar above his left eyebrow because of a pair of brass knuckles from one of those redneck assholes. That attack had put the Tribe on the precipice of war with the biker gang two years ago, but Standing Bear managed to negotiate a truce with their president. Now the Horde stayed away from Blythe, and the Tribe stuck to the casino and the city.

"What's the play, chief?"

"Negotiations" was all Standing Bear said.

"Anything else you feel the need to clue me in on?"

"No," Standing Bear said as he blew smoke rings towards Jacob. "Just do as your chief says, Jake. If you can't do it, I'll get Web. Little Web hanging out with those bikers and mobsters, he'll feel like a real gangster."

"I'll do it," Jacob replied with a sigh. He knew Standing Bear would never let Web handle anything so important, but he didn't want to put his cousin in the position to fuck it up. "I'll get Sammy and Gene's boys. They look mean enough."

Standing Bear stood and walked around his desk, motioning for Jacob to follow him out the door.

"If this comes out like I want it to, Jake, then you'll be my number two man here in the casino and everything we do outside of it."

He wrapped a big arm around his shoulder and held him close. Standing Bear guided them out the office and downstairs to the casino floor. They walked together closely across the floor while Standing Bear talked over the din from the action.

"Big things are in store for the Tribe. Just follow me and trust my wisdom and you'll see. You can you do that, can't you?"

"Why not?" Jacob asked with a smirk. He motioned towards the clang of slot machines and the clatter of the roulette wheel. "Look where it's gotten us so far."

----

Washington D.C.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be making our approach into Andrews Field and will be landing in Washington in ten minutes."

Robin Reed stirred at the captain's announcement and looked around the cabin of the plane. Russell was given the use of a private US Army Airforce plane for flights around the country. It was a shabby thing with two prop engines and a dozen seats. Even with Russell's small staff and secret service detail managed to make fill the cabin up with ease. The small enclosure meant there wasn't much privacy for the two of them, but they managed to take the two seats furthest from the front and out of earshot from anyone else.

"Did you sleep?"

Russell was staring out the window, lost in thought. The look on his face was one she hadn't seen much, but she'd seen it enough to easily identify it. It was self-doubt. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He stirred at the touch and looked back at her.

"I've been weighing the cost."

Robin took Russell's hand and rubbed his knuckles with her thumb. The man beside her was someone nobody else ever saw. To the world at large, Russell Reed was a ruthless political animal who played legislatures the way a conductor played an orchestra. She was the one with the heart, the one who charmed and beguiled with her great compassion. The Washington wags called them Beauty and the Beast. The truth was that Russell's hardened image was partially an image. He condemned and belittled liberals and idealists along with the rest of the Southerners, but deep down his compassion and empathy was strong. So strong that he'd spent thirty years of his life keeping it down and keeping it hidden from everyone but her.

"What happened this week in Georgia is something that I can never undo," he said as he squeezed her hand. He made sure nobody was around before he softly said, "I ruined a man's life, and I did it simply because he stood in the way of something I wanted."

"And you got what you wanted. Do you want me to make you feel better by saying you did the right thing?"

"Yes," he said quickly. "I want to know I did the wrong thing for the right reasons."

Robin looked away from him and mulled that one over. This was another side of the Second Couple no one else saw. For all her warmth, Robin Reed was every bit as ambitious and pragmatic as her husband. Russell's yearning ambition was hard to maintain after forty years. She remembered him telling her the truth the first night they made love. Ever since his father's disgrace in local politics, young Russell was hellbent on being somebody and doing something. That constant, never-ending desire took its toll after decades. And every now and then she needed to feed that fire.

"Right and wrong they no longer exist at this level," she said as she gently rubbed the back of Russell's neck. "Hampton Taliaferro was a drunk and a pederast. The only thing you did was show the world what he really was. You got Jim Sanderson elected, and you showed the president you still have influence. What does this do for your plan?"

"It can go forward without any changes," he said as he took her hand from around his neck and held it in his. "And I've got a southern senator sworn to me. It's a start. With Jim on my side, I can create cracks in the Southern Caucus."

"Good. You'll need Jim and every bit of that presidential trust for what comes next. Was what you did right? No, it was not right. But it was necessary."

"'Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done, is done'," Russell quoted with a raised eyebrow. "Is that the long and short of it, Lady Reed?"

Robin smiled as Russell pulled her close and kissed her cheek. She glanced out the window and saw the lights and skyline of Washington D.C. below. The city all lit up at night looked peaceful and still. From afar, it looked like a peaceful place and not the nest of vipers it really was.

"'By the pricking of my thumbs," she said as the plane began its descent over the city. "'Something wicked this way comes.'"

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

I've got a fourth one I could post... but I'll wait.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Boston

The Boston Hall of Records sat right in the middle of Charlestown. The mid-afternoon sun in the sky cast a shadow on the building thanks to the tall obelisk that next door to the building. The large monument was erected and dedicated to those that fought and died in the Battle of Bunker Hill. Elliot Shaw watched traffic that drove past the Hall from his car. He looked for any signs that he'd been followed on his route here.

Jane Wilson was still at Helena's apartment with Helena herself watching overt the girl. He hated leaving the two of them alone, but after Helena's bombshell he had to confirm what she told him. He carried a single paper from Jane's cache of incriminating documents. When he was satisfied, Elliot stepped out into the street and went inside the Hall.

The antechamber just inside the front door had a receptionist at a desk. The young woman pointed him towards the land transactions section near the back of the main room. Through the antechamber he came out into a long, wide room that looked like a library. Instead of a wide selection of books, every item on the shelf was a large, thick leather bound book. It was big because the Hall was one of the oldest such buildings in America. It held copies of records dating back to the early 1600's when the city was founded. He was one of a dozen or so people seeking information that day. After watching to make sure he wasn't being watched by any of his fellow researchers, he made a beeline for the land transfer records.

The records were listed chronologically starting at 1630 and going all the way up to last week. Shaw found all the books for late 1979 through early July 1980. All told it was six of the thick books. He managed to get his arms around all of them and carry them to a nearby table. Shaw took out a notepad and pencil along with the folded up paper in his jacket. The geological study Elliot hadn't bothered to really read had been read thoroughly by Helena and explained to him in detail by her. He was a good cop, but he'd never been to college and didn't know much that wasn't covered outside of high school. By contrast, Helena was going to BU Med to be a doctor. The call girl shtick was putting her through med school.

Elliot went through the ledgers in search of records containing the land mentioned on the sheet. He found it slowly but surely. A corporation named Bunker Hill Land Management had been buying up land in and around the Boston marshes for pennies on the dollar. It made sense since the land was still swampy. What confirmed Helena's explanation was the size of the land purchases. The proposed land development outlined in the memos Jane stole had been bought by South Boston Construction, Big Jim Dwyer's construction firm. All but the land bought by Bunker Hill was owned by SBC. Bunker Hill had to be Dwyer and Liam Kane's company, used to undercut SBC and the other big investors buying into the marsh development deal. Elliot couldn't figure out exactly why Kane and Dwyer wanted to sabotage the development deal until Helena brought the survey back up.

In the process of examining the marshes for construction feasibility, the geological study had discovered something big just below the surface. A massive pocket of petroleum rested down under the marshes. That was why Kane and Dwyer wanted to fuck over their partners and buy up the land themselves. Why make a million dollars on construction deal when you could make a hundred million dollars selling it all to Dixon Oil? Big money was at stake here, bigger than Elliot could fathom. It was so much money that it was worth snuffing out a quasi-hooker and Mick PI.

He quickly put the books back up and headed outside. He found a pay phone down the block from the Hall and dialed Helena's number. There was no answer from her phone. He dialed again and waited five more minutes. Cursing, Elliot hung the phone up and ran towards his car. He felt his heart racing as he sped off and hurried towards Helena's place.

-----

Vancouver

Mark Echols hobbled through the crime scene. Crime scene tape had the street blocked off while uniformed police officers kept traffic diverted from the area. A small army of technicians covered the crime scene looking for clues. A medical examiner took photos of the body laid out in the backseat of the taxi cab.

In Echols' hands was the note found beside the body of Peter Leigh, leader of the territory's legislature. The note was inside a plastic bag to preserve any evidence or fingerprints on the surface. The lab had managed to lift a right index finger off the paper and were running it to the crime lab as quick as possible. While the note was spattered in Leigh's blood, it was perfectly legible:

Death to traitors. The price for collaboration is death. Soon we will reap the seeds of discontent that were sewn during the war. Long live the Northwest Coalition.
-- The Friends.

After months of minor crimes and bombings that resulted in no casualties, the Friends had taken their first life and it was a big one. The US government was already foaming at the mouth to get these people, now assassinating a government official would kick it into overdrive. Echols knew just how bad they wanted the Friends. They dispatched a special forces team to deal with the terrorist. Echols' fed partner Simpson tried to track down the man Echols knew as Crystal but was stonewalled by the Army.

Officially, a man known as Master Sergeant Silas Crystal served at Fort Bragg in North Carolina as a drill sergeant. He was on leave to his hometown back in Texas to deal with a sickly family member. No, the Army had no way of contacting him and would not worry about it until he was due to report back to duty whenever that was.

He thought back to the night he met Crystal. The waning days of the war, when the Eighth Army Group was pushing through NWC/Canadian territory towards Vancouver. The gassing of Seattle tore the fledgling country in two, Echols siding with the side against the gassing. He and a group of four MPs rendezvoused near Surrey with an A-Team of Army Rangers led by Crystal. The Rangers were gathering intelligence and laying down the groundwork for a full-on invasion of Vancouver. The mission went sideways and Echols lost his kneecap after a grenade exploded beside him. He would have lost more than that if not for the gruff Ranger pushing him out the way just in time. Echols passed out and woke up in a daze the next day, in a US infirmary with the news that the invasion was on. He never saw Crystal or his group of soldiers again...

Until the other day when he saw Crystal fleeing from a place where a weapons dealer who worked for the Friends was supposed to be but wasn't. Echols eyed the letter again, looking at the taxi and then back at the letter. Crystal, the terrorists, the missing Reg Boland, even the dead Army sergeant Brian Shea. It was all connected. Echols could feel the threads of inference tieing them all together into one case, one giant spiderweb he was tangled in.

"Inspector," one of the uniformed cops said as he came under the crime tape. "The uniformed canvas turned up something. Apparently, Leigh left a nearby hotel with a redhead on his arm. Eyewitnesses say she was a total knockout. Hooker?"

"Could explain why she's not here," said Echols. "Afraid of getting in trouble. But what about the taxi driver? Where did he go?"

One word played in Echols' brain. Bait. Leigh had a reputation as a womanizer and a boozer. A honeytrap at the right time and place would leave him wide open. A quick search of stolen cars would reveal the cab had been stolen within the last few days. He played it through his mind. Get Leigh drunk and promise him sex, get him in a cab and ambush him.

"Inspector," a crime tech called from the car. "We got a print on the steering wheel. Doesn't match the others..."

"Rush it back to headquarters," he ordered. "Priority analyst, along with that other print we recovered. It's to be run it through all our criminal, civlian, and military records."

"Now?"

"Now, goddammit," Echols snapped.

For the first time he was aware that the investigation was becoming a race. Whatever Crystal was doing in Vancouver, he was not bound by the same rules and regulations as Echols. The Rangers could be several steps ahead of him and preparing to close in on whoever these people were. He had to beat them and stop the Friends before whatever they were planning came next.

-----

The thing on Arthur Stewart's bench didn't look like much. Wires were strewn across the surface, wires that soldered to a circuit board. To Arthur's right was the small crate with the biohazard sign on it. He'd opened the crate just one to look inside. The dull gray canister betrayed the deadliness of the contents inside. The new device he created for the nerve gas would work via radio controls. The circuit board and wires would activate the pinhole openings inside the canister and let the VX seep out into the open air.

Arthur sighed and put down his soldering iron. He kept seeing Peter Leigh's dead body every time he closed his eyes. His blood was up when he committed the deed, and now a few days removed he felt a sense of numbness. He'd taken a life that night. Peter Leigh was a horrible person and a traitor, but who was Arthur to decide his death? Who were Alex or the rest of the Friends for that matter? Did Leigh truly deserve to die?

"Hey, guy."

Arthur looked up at the basement stairs. Chris was coming down into Arthur's work area with two cans of beer in his hands. He tossed on Arthur's way and popped his own top, pulling up a stool to sit beside the work bench. Arthur popped his own can and took a sip of the beer.

"Alex wanted me to come down here and talk to you. He says you've been acting in a funk lately. I think I know why."

"Enlighten me."

"What you did the other night. You did something that you can't go back from."

Arthur nodded and took another sip of his beer. Chris' eyes wandered towards his work bench. He took a few big gulps of beer and nodded towards the wires and circuits.

"What we do next is going to be what happened with Leigh times a thousand. It's only natural for you have doubts. But I need to know you're going to be able to see it through."

"It's just... the people. This is going to kill so many people and I'm not sure if I can handle that many innocent people."

Chris finished off his beer and crushed the man with his bare hands, tossing it behind his back and onto the concrete floor. "I don't talk about this much, but I served in the war. I was a private in the NWC Army and stayed loyal right until the end. I saw plenty of innocent people die in the crossfire. After Seattle, the US Army didn't give a shit about innocent people."

"They used this on Seattle and they took our country. If we do this now, what will they take?"

"What's left to take?" Chris asked, taking Arthur's mostly full beer and drinking it himself. "There's no land to conquer or no armies to surrender. There's nothing but ideas now. And they can kill us, they can kill half of Vancouver, but they can't kill ideas. This is a war, Artie, a war that we didn't start and we didn't ask for but we got anyway. And if we want to win this war we gotta do whatever it takes, this is part of that."

Chris stared intently at Arthur with unblinking angry eyes. He kept staring as he finished the second beer and crushed the can as easily as he crushed the last one.

"We've gone too far to go back now, Artie. You've come too far. Either you're with us or you're against us. Understand?"

Arthur understood Chris' visit down here now. Joanna was the carrot and Chris was the stick. They'd been using the carrot so long and it hadn't proved a good enough incentive. Now, Chris with his big frame and hard stare was laying it out in no uncertain terms.

"I understand," Arthur whispered. "Perfectly."

"Good."

Chris' large hand slapped Arthur on the shoulder. His hostile look was gone, replaced by a wide grin and a playful laugh.

"Good to hear it. I need to go sleep it off, so don't let me keep you from getting back to work."

Chris went back up the stairs, pausing just once to look back at him before disappearing back into the house. Arthur turned back to his unfinished device and stared down at it. For the first time since joining the Friends, he was having doubts. The way in which Chris went from friendly to angry and back again unnerved him. It made him wonder just what was real with these people? Was Alex's friendly nature a front? What about Joanna's love? If she was the carrot, was she acting as one on her own accord or under orders?

Arthur wiped a small bead of sweat dripping from his hairline and picked up his soldering iron. Chris was right about one thing, he was in too deep to pull out now. If he wanted to live, he had to complete the delivery system for the VX. The Friends promised upheaval and death to traitors, and they were forcing Arthur to uphold that promise.

-----

Natchez, Mississippi

"Denied."

James Calhoun furrowed his brow at Alex Miller. The banker shrugged at him and shuffled James' loan application into the trash can beside his desk. They were in Miller's corner office on the second floor of the Natchez Savings & Loans. James struggled to find the words while Miller went about straightening other things on his desk and not meeting James' eye.

"Why, Mr. Miller?" He finally managed to ask. "For twenty years you haven't had a problem with approving the loan."

"That was then and this is now."

James leaned forward and put his arms on the desk. "You know I need that money. We still got a couple of months before the harvest can come in and that money is gonna see me and my family through. I always pay it back with interest, sir. Have been for twenty years now."

Miller sniffed and shook his head impassively. "If you really cared about that farm, Mr. Calhoun--" Not James like had been for years and years-- "You'd be working it and not running around the country demonstrating, getting people all riled up."

James felt his stomach go cold, as cold as the stare Miller was giving him at that moment. So that was it then. He knew something like this would be coming, but he expected it from the rednecks and peckerwoods. Alex Miller was well-educated and was very friendly to the negro community in Adams County. His bank helped many black families down on their luck with low-interest loans they were patient on calling on.

"So that's it, Mr. Miller?" James asked. "I'm a trouble maker? I don't know my place."

"Uppity. That's the word they've been using around town, Mr. Calhoun."

James stood and looked down at the man he considered something resembling a friend for so long. Now he saw him for what he was: Just another racist white man who saw anything like equality as a threat to white dominance of the South.

"'Know your place'," James said softly. "That's the motto of the White South when it comes to us. When you all were in danger of losing your slaves and property, you sure as hell didn't know your place. You resisted and rebelled and said it was your god given right to protest and disagree. So where is my god given right to protest, Mr. Miller? All men are created equal, isn't that what this country is founded upon? But my 'place' is subservient to white people, no rights and no chance to vote to change that fact."

"Leave," Miller said quickly. "Right now before I call the sheriff's department and they finish where they left off with your jaw."

James stalked out the office and the bank in a huff. He came out onto the sidewalk in downtown Natchez. Not a lot of traffic on the mid-afternoon street, but the people that were there were staring at him. Angry, hostile, white eyes focused on him. Every other business on the street except the bank had their 'Whites Only, Colored Entrance in Rear' signs displayed prominently by the front door. James put his hands in his pockets to hide his balled-up fist and walked down the street towards his truck. The sound of an idling engine made him stop and turn around. A dirty white pick-up truck slowly cruised down the street behind him. Two mean looking white boys sat in the cab, eyeballing James. The front license plate of the truck had stars and bars Confederate Flag mounted on it.

He stared straight ahead and met the boys' stares head on. He didn't show anger or fear, just boredom as they passed by. The driver of the truck rolled down the window and spat, a glob of brown tobacco juice landing right in front of James' boots. Still he held his ground and watched the truck go on past. One of them yelled 'jigaboo' in a thick Mississippi drawl as the truck sped off down the street. His own pick-up truck had been vandalized while he was in the back. The front window was cracked near the middle and long tendrils of fractured glass spread across the windshield. Someone had scratched the words NIGER NO YOU'RE PLACE down the driver's side. The fucking crackers couldn't even spell the word right.

These people with their hateful hearts and their ignorance. These people who got liquored up and beat their wives and kids and raped and murdered and lynched black people by the dozens these... fucking animals. All his life he'd been taught that they were superior to him in every other way, they were smarter and knew better and were more moral and could do things he could never do. He was taught to never look a white woman in the eye and never under any circumstances say anything but "suh" to a white man, didn't matter if he was eight or eighty. He and every other black person across the South had been taught that they were not equals not overtly, but whenever the sheriff of Adams County dealt with a negro killing he never serious investigated it, the registrars at the Adams County voter's office used every trick in the book to deny them the right to vote.

And now that James was trying to make a stand all that covert racism was swept away in place of out and out intimidation and threats of violence. They threatened his livelihood, his family's safety, and even his own life. James turned away from the truck and looked back towards downtown. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to do something. Anything. But... he couldn't. Crying would show them that they were winning, anger would give them an excuse to arrest him or kill him outright. He could take their provocation, he knew he could. The movement was growing day by day, both blacks and whites were coming to their side. He could not act rash or do anything that might jeopardize the movement here in Mississippi.

These white people were on the wrong side of history just as they had been over a hundred and fifty years ago. It took a war to prove them wrong, and if it took a war to prove them wrong again so be it. There were more than a few white eyes still watching James as he got into his truck and headed back home to his farm. He knew they thought they had won some victory today and taught him a lesson. They were partially right. He'd learned a lesson about how far they would go to keep James and his people down, but the victory was his because he knew how to take the fight right back to them.


-----

Chicago

Nate Parker slipped the headphones off his ears and sighed. The conversation in the headphones kept going but he stopped listening. He took out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He smoked in silence while the two voices kept talking. He knew the two men talking and he knew what they were saying. It was the same thing they always talked about.

Nate hated his job. It wouldn't be so bad if he did something worth a damn, but his current assignment was a horrible one. The entire eighteenth floor of the Murray Building in downtown Chicago served as the midwestern headquarters for the Federal Crime Bureau. There were other smaller offices in adjacent states, but the chain of command ran from Washington to Chicago down to those offices. The eighteenth floor buzzed with investigations into kidnapping, bank robbery, racketeering, and domestic terrorism. All those things were part of the FCB's mandate.

And what was Nate doing? Sitting in a moldy backroom transcribing a conversation from a wiretap. Ever since the country's political realignment away from socialism, the FCB made investigation into radical and subversive ideas a top priority. That was why they were working hard to crack down on the violence going on in Vancouver. It was also why the FCB had a network of sub rosa wiretaps installed across the country. It was also why they were illegally surveilling the burgeoning civil rights movement happening in the south.

Sidney Siegel and Anthony Rosenbaum were members of the Chicago Communist Party, Siegel serving as president and Rosenbaum as secretary. As of January 1 1980, the Party in Chicago had a whopping fifteen registered members. The two men spoke on the phone every few days about the direction of the party. It always ended with them getting drunk and maudlin and decrying the state of politics in America today. The nation's pivot towards socialism was part of the Marxist theory. Pure communism was to follow after the socialist turn... but it never came. Their revolution had been denied and the forces of reaction and capitalism had taken the country back.

Nate hated listening to their talks. They were sob sisters if the word ever existed, but they were harmless. They weren't plotting insurrection or mass violence. They got drunk and cried to each other. Nate wasn't sure what disgusted him more, their pathetic weeping or the fact the Bureau considered this a priority. Guys like Bobby Colosimo filled the midwest with drugs and destroyed lives in the name of profit, but to the FCB guys like Siegel and Rosenbaum were the real terrorists. He'd give anything to go after guys like Bobby C., either the mob or go out west and work on finding those radicals in Vancouver. Real bad guys and not imaginary ones the Bureau dreamed up.

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the ashtray on his desk. He knew why he was in the backroom and not out in the field. As the country purged any socialist influences, they also purged socialist leanings. Nate was what they called a bleeding heart liberal and in the new order of the country, he didn't fit. Plenty of agents with questionable views had been forced to resign or sent to shit locations and assignments like Nate's. As bad as things were, he was at least in Chicago. Something might happen that would get him out of the backroom. The Bureau had a memory, but it wasn't a long one. They were chewing, but they'd spit him back out eventually.

Nate picked the headphones back up and slipped them on. Rosenbaum was in the middle of a drunken rant about the contradictions and hypocrisies of the country's sacred founding fathers and how these bigoted, wealthy bourgeoises were seen as beacons of liberty. He finished his work transcribing the conversation and writing up an accompanying report. He submitted the papers to his supervisor's inbox and headed for the elevator. Most of the eighteenth floor was busy was some activity or another, reminding Nate just how much he was missing out on.

He slipped into a bar two blocks away from the Murray Building and got a beer. He and his wife divorced three years ago, their only daughter away at Northwestern studying pre-law. She was following in Nate's footsteps by getting a law degree. There was nobody for him to go home to, nothing to do but get drunk and sleep it off before he had to show up to work the next day.

Part of the reason his marriage collapsed was because of the job. Edith wanted Nate to leave the FCB and practice law. She knew about his desire to help people and correct wrongs, something he could never really do as a federal agent. Nate still refused to leave the job and Mara lost her patience with him. He knew she was right. Nate stood at the bar with his beer and said a silent prayer for the two communists and their hopeless quest. He was a practicing catholic, something else that didn't fit in with the country's new day, and he believed firmly in the church's dogma. His current situation was purgatory, a temporary way station until whatever came next. There was a good chance it would be hell, but he still held out hope it'd be paradise.