Distance, Chapter 52

52

Saturday afternoon,

September Ninth

2:40 p.m.

Hospital time, it is well known, is some of the slowest time that can pass.

Arriving at the hospital at half-past twelve, Molly was received and immediately assigned to an isolation unit.  Most hospitals had created some sort of physical separation between ‘routine’ emergencies and respiratory patients—Mount Pleasant had done this as well, with a complete separation between the conventional emergency room and respiratory emergencies treated within a separate building.   Doctor Jameson had met them within minutes of their arrival, and Doug found it odd that preferential treatment seemed to be given to the Seghers so easily. Doug waited until he and Julie could be alone to discuss it.  Peter, Arie and Maria spoke with the doctor and his staff in a private room off of the waiting area, and Julie and Doug gave them some privacy.

“Jules, there’s one thing that bothered me here,” Doug said quietly.

“What’s that?”

“How is it that Molly is getting this….well, extraordinary treatment?”

“I’m not sure,” Julie replied. “I didn’t really think about it.”

“It’s just that…there were several people that appeared to be waiting, and Molly was ushered right in,” Doug said.

“Now that you mention it, there were other people,” Julie said. They had by now though, been taken through the glassed vestibule into the treatment area, Doug noted.  A few new patients had taken their places in the waiting area.  He’d activated the tracking program on the PDA, while they killed time.

By two o’clock, Doug was famished, and he knew that Julie’s ever-present pregnancy snacks wouldn’t hold out for long. With Peter, Arie and Maria now meeting with another doctor, Doug headed over to the main building to find a cafeteria.   Within a few minutes, he found the long-closed cafeteria, but one of the staff gave him a photocopied menu for a local restaurant that was still in business and able to provide take out.

“Any luck?” Julie asked.

“No. But I’m happy to take orders,” Doug replied, handing her the menu.

“Take out? I haven’t had restaurant food in months,” Julie said, diving into the menu. A few minutes later, she’d marked several items, all of Asian theme.

Doug took orders from the Seghers as well, and drove the few blocks to the restaurant, noticing a sign for a National Guard center not far away.  He took a little detour to get closer, in case the program in the Palm picked up anything, and then realized he could go inside to check email from Denver…that would have to wait until later of course. Doug found the restaurant and parked on the side, a little surprised to see a horse hitching post and a watering trough in a parking space.

Eddies had adapted from pre-War operations to the new reality of a collapsed economy, little in the way of recognizable money with actual value, and customers who could actually afford to pay.  There were ten or twelve people in the half-lit restaurant, most appearing to have a thin soup and a sketchy-looking sourdough. All of them quietly sized up Doug as he entered.

Doug had been given the heads up by Roeland that no one possessed a volume of the old Federal Reserve Notes that would actually buy anything in most any business—he’d have to either use trade goods, silver, or in the case of something very expensive, a gold coin.  His own Regent salary, adjusted for the collapse and with his most recent raise, had changed from over two hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year in FRN’s to just under fourteen thousand dollars a year, payable in gold or silver coin or Regent’s internal Silver Trust Account…which was effectively paper that could in theory be exchanged for physical metal. In theory.

“Ready to order?” a middle-aged waitress asked. Her faded nametag read ‘Meg’.

“Yes, thanks.  This is to go, order for some folks at the hospital,” Doug said, handing the waitress the order. She scanned it quickly.

“You got money for all this?” she asked quietly, eyebrows raised a little.

“Uh, yeah. What’s the total?”

“Three dollars, silver,” Meg replied quietly, after adding it up quickly.

“Yeah,” Doug said, fishing out several silver dollars. “Here,” he said, handing them over. She looked at them and weighed them in her hand, assessing that they were real.

“Anything else?” the waitress asked, hoping it appeared, for Doug to spend more money. 

“Not right now, thanks. How long?”

“Oh, ten, fifteen minutes or so. You can wait at the counter if you like. Coffee? It’s real. Two bits for sixteen ounces,” Meg asked expectantly, with a raised eyebrow. “Cream included.”

“OK—set me up,” Doug replied, sliding her a silver quarter dollar as he took out the PDA, made some notes, and reviewed his travel list for the trip back to Denver.  Meg smiled a little as she slid him a travel cup of coffee.

Good to her word, Doug’s take out meals were bagged up in two grocery sacks, within fifteen minutes of his order.

“Thanks, Meg,” Doug said. “One more thing before I go,” he said quietly. 

“Sure. Whatcha need?”

“After I leave, buy everyone in here a cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake. This’ll cover it,” Doug said, sliding over a short stack of silver dollars. “OK?”

“Absolutely. You some kind of rich guy or what?” Meg asked.

“No. I’ve been lucky is all. Don’t tell them whom it’s from, OK? And this one’s for you,” Doug said, sliding another silver dollar to her on the worn linoleum counter.

“You got it, hon,” Meg said softly patting Doug’s hand. “Thanks.”

Julie and the Seghers were seated in a smaller waiting room off of the main entry. Doug arrived to find them in mid prayer, and waited until they’d finished before entering.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“She’s got the flu. The next mutation,” Peter said. “They’ve got her on IV’s and they’re doing what they can.”

“Did she have it in the winter?” Doug asked as he opened up the sacks.

“Yes, mild case. That’s in her favor,” Peter said, passing the boxed meals around. “Still, she was down for almost a week.”

“Bong Bong chicken, fried rice, vegetables and sweet and sour sauce,” Doug said, handing Julie her container. “And green tea,” he said, before handing Peter and Arie their bacon cheeseburgers and fries, milkshakes, and finally getting Maria’s sweet and sour pork, noodles, and tea.  “That place has quite the menu.”

“What did you order?” Julie asked, between bites.

“Almond chicken,” Doug replied. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything like this.” He didn’t mention spending some of his money to buy a few hamburgers.

“This had to be spendy,” Julie said.

“Worth it,” Doug said, taking his first bite of fried rice. ‘Worth every bit,’ he thought. “After I finish, I’d like to go over to the Army Guard installation—it’s over by the restaurant. I figure I should see how my letter of resignation has been received.”

“OK, but don’t dawdle,” Julie said. “We’ll need to be home and by curfew.”

“Curfew?” Doug asked.

“Six p.m.,” Arie said. “Governor’s orders, effective today. They announced it on television while you were out. There seemed to be much the man was not saying through the few words he spoke.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Doug arrived at the Army Guard center, where a black-clad security policeman, inside an anti-ram barrier, greeted him.

“Sir, step out of your car please,” another man, asked. Doug hadn’t seen him approach.

“Sure. I work for the…” He was cut off.

“Please step out of your car,” the man repeated.

“OK,” Doug replied before complying. He was directed about fifteen feet away from the vehicle with an M-16 leveled at him.

“Any weapons in the vehicle, sir?” a third man asked.

“Yes. There’s a .45 in a range bag in the back, and an AR-15 in a padded case. They’re kind of required for us in the field,” Doug said, lying. “I’m with the Food and Drug Administration. Based in Denver.”

“You carrying?” the third man asked.

“Not right now,” Doug stated.

“We need to search your vehicle, sir,” the first man stated. “Richards, get his I.D. and get it scanned.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir, did this have a Government designation on the doors?” the first officer asked.

“Yes. That designation was not viewed favorably among several populations,” Doug said. “I removed it in an effort to not get myself shot,” Doug replied, embellishing his story.

“Federal I.D. number, Sir?”

“Three one six six eight four seven one,” Doug replied without hesitation. That number was the prefix to his FDA security log in on the computer network.

“Last two of your alpha?”

“Echo Zulu,” Doug answered.

“Checks out, Connors,” ‘Richards’ replied.

“OK. Stand down then.  Mr. Peterson, your vehicle isn’t allowed to enter the facility.  You can enter the facility through that door over there, escorted by Mr. Davis. You’ll have about a half hour of secure communications before this facility locks down. Understood?”

“Yep. Just checking in with Denver. Shouldn’t take long,” Doug said, playing along with the ‘we’re all on one side’ vibe.

Doug entered the foyer, and then was directed into a windowless room with a half-dozen cubicles with abnormally high enclosures. The door clicked shut behind him, reminding him of the sound of a prison door in all too many television shows and movies.

Logging into the network, Doug was immediately faced with a half-dozen URGENT emails, directing him to return to Denver ASAP.  Each email listed departure times and flight numbers from Des Moines to Denver, dating from two days ago. He’d also miss today’s flight, departing in a little more than an hour.

He was immediately faced with the requirement from the FDA to ‘extract’ immediately in the face of ‘looming travel restrictions on 9/11’ making return on that date and for several following days ‘impossible’. By logging in and downloading his messages and files to his flash drive, the Department knew that he’d received the orders.

He would now need to tell Julie that he had to leave in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later, Doug was back in the parking lot, and was met by Julie, Arie and Peter. Maria volunteered to spend the night at the hospital, and had brought an overnight bag in preparation.  Peter would need to get home to little Ian; and the Farm needed Arie.  Julie and Doug’s labors would also be needed in Maria’s absence, Arie explained.

“I’ve got some news,” Doug said. “I’ve been ordered back to Denver, first thing in the morning.”

“What’s happened?”

“I have no idea,” Doug said, starting up the Jeep. “I’ve got quite a number of emails to review. There’s…desperation, or panic, or something going on. I don’t understand it. They’re saying that there will be travel restrictions by 9/11 that will continue for quite some time. I don’t know what that’s about.”

“Another attack?” Peter asked.

“If there were one, they know in advance and won’t stop it?” Doug asked.

“Or perhaps they cannot stop it,” Arie answered.  

The Farm hadn’t taken care of itself during the emergency…but the network of friends and extended family responded immediately. When Doug drove his Jeep up to the equipment shed, he noticed a half-dozen horses grazing in one of the pastures nearby—none of them belonged to Arie.

“This is really something,” Doug said as he pulled up to the door. Twenty men and women met them, coming from the house, barn and sheds.

“Friends,” Arie said. “We have many friends.”

Dinner for the many Seghers and their friends was served from a row of large stewpots and a handmade willow basket containing miniature loaves of sourdough. The crowd stood, sat, and milled around the main floor of the home, while listening to the report on Molly.  Several of the older women shared knowing looks as Doug looked on.

None of those looks appeared to be optimistic.

Julie was showing the strain of the day, and while Doug could see that she wanted to stay up, she was fading. 

“You should get some rest, hon,” Doug told her quietly.

“I know,” she said. “But I’d like to visit more. We never get the chance.”

“You need to stay healthy. That means you eat right, you sleep when you need to, you stay hydrated,” Doug replied, quite seriously. “Now off to bed!”

“Julie’s off to bed everyone,” Doug told the assemblage. “She’d love to stay up and visit of course.”  With that, several of the motherly influences in the room quickly rose and escorted Julie to her room, giving her a little more time for talking.  Most of the men by this time were assembled in the dining room, looking over a map of the region.  The conversation ceased when he entered the room.  Jake excused himself from the group, and took Doug to the equipment shed.

“Got that PDA?” Jake asked.

“Sure,” Doug said, fishing it out of his pocket. “You think I picked up something today?”

“No time like the present to find out. Did you happen to keep track of where you were, and when? I mean, with some specifics?”

“More or less. Give me that map,” Doug said as Jake hooked up the PDA to a laptop.

Doug penciled in the route, approximate times of arrival at the hospital; the restaurant; back to the hospital; and to the Guard center.  Jake brought up his decryption program and it immediately listed the elapsed time since activation. “That Palm has a GPS in it doesn’t it? Isn’t this redundant?”

“It’s not quite a GPS. It’s more of a three-dimensional track recorder that can ping off of commercial geographic information systems transmitters and perhaps a commercial GPS satellite. I need to overlay the track with your known coordinates to better understand what the device has learned. That helps locate, within reason, a large cache of tags or groupings of tags. It could locate individual tags of course, but those are of less value,” Jake said. “Holy crap,” he said as the screen filled with hits.  “Where were you at ten after four this afternoon?”

“National Guard Readiness Center in Mount Pleasant. I was checking email.”

“You were virtually on top of thousands of RFID tags. You were within a hundred feet of them,” Jake said.

“What?” Doug exclaimed.

“Don’t say another word. I want the others to hear this,” Jake said, hurrying out of the shed.

“The guards acted military. They wore dark grey and black digital camo. That new stuff that they’ve been using in the cities…the stuff with the bigger pattern. Black Kevlar helmets. Goggles.  They looked Army to me. I didn’t question them on the matter,” Doug said to the gathering of a dozen men, beyond the Segher family gathered in the equipment shed.

“Jake, what is the breakdown of the tags? Have you analyzed it?” One of the men asked. He was unfamiliar to Doug.

“Forty soldiers per unit; complement including one long gun, one sidearm, one load-carrying vest or sling-pouch, one three day pack or equivalent, six magazines per man per long gun, two mags per handgun or the equivalent in speed loaders. There are enough for nearly thirteen hundred units within range of Doug’s position. Equipment for around fifty-thousand men.”

“Fifty-thousand!” Doug exclaimed.

“Fifty thousand,” Jake confirmed. “Obviously your guards weren’t Army. That facility has been co-opted by whichever civilian contracting force was hired by the National Guard and is being used for secure weapons storage for someone who’s building a private army.”

“We’ll have eyes on it from now on,” another man stated.

“You need more than that. The contents of that building need to never see the light of day,” Jake said. “Or, more correctly, they need to not fall into the wrong hands.”  No one had a quick reply.

“What do we know about that building?” Jake asked.

“Ten foot fences with razor wire on all sides. Ten inch thick concrete walls containing the weapons storage area; hardened steel doors. Outer shell is a reinforced concrete masonry wall. Roof structure is concrete span deck. Air handlers are ground mounted. Glazing is ballistic grade throughout with anti-blast provisions in all frames. Grilles in front of all windows too, similar to RPG protection on vehicles. Oh, and motion-sensing memory cameras everywhere, most of which you can’t see,” a balding man replied. He was sitting atop a workbench, and looked a little bored. “Those remember what things looked like over time. A shadow passing through their field of view triggers an alert, assuming they’ve got the system tuned up that high. Tough nut to crack.”

“Power?” Jake asked.

“Aside from mains power, there is a very large diesel generator for primary power, and a secondary powered by propane. Uninterruptible power supplies within the building run security and life-safety systems for seventy-two hours, minimum. Those backup generators are exercised monthly. Communications are hot-linked to their regional command center, with flash traffic linked from D.C. Hardwire and satellite.”

“Guess on staffing?” someone asked.

“Not more than six. But if you don’t take them all at once, that building gets locked down and it’ll be a noisy proposition getting inside.”

“Night staffing? Watches?”

“If we’re lucky, they’re complacent and are depending on the technology to wake them up. If we’re not, they have at least two people up and about. Recon will tell you that.  If I were a betting man, which I am not, I’d guess they button it up and stay inside all night, rather than send someone out in the dark.”

“You’re making too much out of this,” a tall, thin man wearing a very worn denim jacket said.

“How so?” Jake said.

“They won’t call D.C. if they’re attacked, because if they’re discovered, it’s game over. They’re probably not Feds. They’ll call their handlers, whoever that might be, who will have to come in to rescue them, or abandon them to the wolves. All you have to do is make sure they don’t get out. And we can do that. Weld the doors shut and let ‘em rot in there. Cut the utilities. Disconnect the generators. If no one’s shooting at you, you’ve got plenty of time. You can even do it at night, assuming you’ve got the local gendarmes on your side. This is not a difficult problem to solve.”

“We should move on this within the next few days, and have a contingency in case they try to move that equipment.”

“Doug, what else do you have for us?” Jake asked.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Ordered back to Denver. They’re saying that commercial flights on 9/11 won’t be possible,” he said. Many of the men looked around at each other at that comment. “I haven’t had a chance to go through all of the correspondence yet, but what I did read,” he paused for a moment before continuing, pondering the words on the computer screen, “it sounded like things are coming apart at the seams.”

"Maybe we better step up surveillance," one of the men said. 

"Perhaps more than that," Arie added from the back. "Perhaps much more." 

Distance, Chapter 51

51

Thursday morning

September Seventh

10:00 a.m.

The big, rusty bulldozer smoothed the last of the trench cover as the last of the Weerstand fighters left the muddy ravine.  Down on the Des Moines River, a similar sanitation operation had already been completed, with the attackers boats hauled from the river and trucked to a local borrow pit. By nine a.m. they had been mostly stripped of useable parts and the hulls crushed by bulldozers and a large belly-dump earthmover.

One hundred seven attackers were killed in the fighting, ten were taken as wounded. Thirty Weerstand had fanned out to search for stragglers, none had yet been found.  Five Weerstand had been hurt during the night, none due to enemy fire.

Doug and Arie had arrived on scene after Doug’s shift ended. Roeland was in the northern part of the county all night, far away from the fighting.   No law enforcement officers were present at the site, nor any military. The bodies had been gathered, weapons and ammunition removed, and radios taken.  With utmost efficiency, the raiding teams had been laid in common graves cut by the blades of bulldozers, and immediately covered under several feet of wet Iowa earth.

None had identification of any kind, nor did they carry money, wallets, watches or any coins. Half or so carried a small green waist-belt filled with ‘energy bars’.  The drink holster had some kind of sports drink.   The packs had been loaded in the back of an old Chevy one-ton utility service truck, where Doug spotted them before the metal doors were closed. A similarly beat up Dodge panel van held a pile of mismatched rifles and semi-automatic handguns, on the floor of a cage within the van.

“These are Regent,” Doug told Arie, looking at the containers and packaging.  “These are RNEW. I’m certain of it.”

“Charlie! A moment please,” Arie called to a forty-something man, clad in farmer overalls and a well-worn farm coat.

“Adriaan.  What can I do for you?”

“Tell Douglas here about these men,” Arie said, waving to the gravesite.

The large man considered the request for a moment thoughtfully before replying. “Single minded. Relentless, but they seemed not to have a skillful leader. I believe that one of the men captured was part of the leader group,” Charlie replied. He seemed the kind of man that would be most at home at a feed store.  He carried a beautiful lever-action Winchester.

“What happened when the shooting started? How did it start?” Doug asked.

“One of our young ones made a noise from that hillside. They heard it. It seemed like every gun they had fired at the noise. No random fire, no discussion, no order. It was directed right at that spot.  Look at the tree there,” Charlie pointed.  The sixteen-inch diameter tree had been felled by rifle fire, and many of the trees around it had been torn apart. “That tree landed next to the young man who made the noise.  Had it not been for the earth berm, he’d have been cut to pieces.”

“Singular focus,” Doug said to himself.

“When most of them had ceased firing, two or three of them tried to move them forward. We then fired on them from the west side of the ravine before they could reload. They then began to fire on us, and the east side caught them in the back. They never panicked or ran.  They stayed their ground and fired until we killed them,” Charlie explained.

“The wounded? What of them?”

“Most were wounded several times. Some had spinal injuries.  Some were shot in their gun hand. Even so, they all were trying to fight up until the point where they were disarmed.”

“Did they do as they were told once you disarmed them?” Doug asked.

Charlie seemed surprised by the question. “Well, yes. They gave up.”

“They received new orders. From you.” Doug said.

“Douglas, we need to leave now,” Arie said, looking to the east. A helicopter was moving toward them, several miles away still, but close enough to warrant caution.

“These drugs in food. You are sure of this?” Arie said to Doug as they drove further west, away from both the Farm and the ambush site. Arie noted that the helicopter continued to fly west, apparently up the Des Moines River.

“This is more extreme than what I witnessed personally, but from what I read of the research, this is in keeping with the effects of the RNEW when fully activated,” Doug said. “Do you think that’s their helicopter?” he asked, looking through the rear window at the disappearing tree line.

“It would make sense if they are as organized as we suspect. We do not know if the plans for last night were provided to them, or if they were generated by those that attacked. We have to assume that they are looking for their missing friends,” Arie said, point toward the distant dot that was the helicopter.

“What happens next? What if another bunch comes?” Doug asked.

“Eyes are watching for many miles. If they come, they will be met again.”

“Where did they come from? Do you know?”

“The boats were launched on the Missouri side, downriver at the Fort Pike boat launch.  They then came upstream past the Battle of Athens historic site, where they were first heard, although we couldn’t get a good idea on how many were coming.  Then past Farmington and Bonaparte, where one of our people with night vision told us more. They came up Coppers Creek and beached there. Then they came overland up the drainage. Before the launch point, we do not know.”

Doug continued. “So they know—if they’re looking for them—that these raiders launched from that point…Fort Pike? The trucks and trailers are probably there, so they’d look up river.”

“The trucks and trailers are gone. They were gone before dawn,” Arie said.

“OK,” Doug said, thinking about a logical next step. “So they either come and investigate or they move along.”

“Yes. We hope for the latter but plan for the former,” Arie said.

They drove on, heading to the northwest, stopping at a small cemetery. Arie didn’t speak, but exited the old farm truck quietly, heading into an obviously much older part of the graveyard.  Doug quietly followed from a respectful distance.   Arie came to stop before a large, simple marker, stained with lichen. 

“My grandparents,” Arie said quietly.  “They died this day, seventy-five years ago. They had gone to Keokuk, to market. A madman drove his truck into their car at sixty miles per hour.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, Douglas.  There is madness in the world, there is evil. That same man had that same day run over a ten year old on a bicycle, and before he could be tried, he hung himself in a jail cell,” Arie said, sweeping a few leaves away from the base of the stone. “What you have told us is that the company you work for has created evil that can be summoned with mere words.   That men can be corrupted by eating of this food and of this drink. Douglas, what I heard this morning forces me to say this: You must leave this company, or you must leave our farm. I cannot abide this.”

“I’ve already written my letter of resignation.” 

“Free yourself of this evil. You must do it soon, Douglas. It will consume all those who are near it.”

“I understand.”

2:00 p.m.

Arie and Doug told all at the farm about the attack and outcome, and then Arie had taken a packet of papers taken from the attackers, along with some captured radios, and taken them to Jake.  Doug didn’t remember anything carried by Arie to the truck; the items must’ve been stashed there by one of the Weerstand while they were out of the truck.

Doug was exhausted after his shift and the mornings’ activities. After the mid-day meal, he showered (with Julie, to save water of course) and changed into sleeping clothes.  Julie was ready for her mid-day nap, and Doug was asleep within a few minutes.

His dreams were not pleasant.

Saturday morning,

September Ninth

7:00 a.m.

Doug worked alongside several of the Segher cousins on the morning chores, happy to be relieved from patrol duty.  A second night of cold rain made the experience miserable, with boots that hadn’t dried, sketchy rain gear, and a cold, constant wind. He’d been unpleasantly surprised by Kurt Segher early the previous morning, who stealthily overtook Doug’s observation position unnoticed. Doug’s radio had failed, and he hadn’t noticed it—it appeared to be transmitting, had a full battery pack, but something had failed in the circuitry.  The base station operator, a Segher cousin by the name of Susan, had followed protocol and tried to contact Doug with a code-word response with no luck.  When the other observation posts in the area also failed to reach Doug, prescribed plans were put into motion.

Kurt was the first to arrive, silently arriving in Doug’s observation post as Doug looked out toward a blackened tree line. He’d nearly had a heart attack as Kurt poked him in the back with a bayonet, fixed on his rifle.  Kurt also had the advantage of third-generation night vision, one of four such setups within the Weerstand. Doug didn’t really stand a chance.

Kurt provided Doug a new radio, and disappeared back into the dark rain. Doug had three more hours of watching and listening to the wind and rain, with regular radio checks.

In his time on the Farm, Doug had learned more about small farm egg and dairy production than he’d learned in twenty years in commercial food production, and a fair amount about small-scale, home based food preservation as well.  When he wasn’t spending precious time with Julie or on patrol, he read from the many resources in print at the Farm. Some were County Extension agent publications; some were commercial. Some, like a well-worn, stained book by Carla Emery, had obviously been loved to death.   Doug made a note to try to find a copy.  All the while, he was counting down the days he had left here, before returning back to Denver.

“Back to a farmhand, huh Doug?” Jake Segher asked.

“Kind of suits me. Peaceful. No one sticking a bayonet in your ribs,” Doug said as Kurt laughed.

“Got a minute? I could use a hand over in the shed,” Jake said. Kurt went off to another outbuilding.

“Sure. I’m sure this manure will wait,” Doug replied, putting down the mucking shovel. “What’s up?”

“Something to show you. You might be thinking about it when you go back to Regent,” Jake said with narrowing eyes.

“OK,” Doug said, not knowing quite what to make of the comment.

Inside the equipment shed, the cage had been dramatically expanded with the additions of chain-link panels with copper wire woven through the sections and grounded.  Six large tables were placed inside the cage.

“This is the gear taken from the raiders,” Doug said. “Why’s it in here?”

“Because every stick of it was chipped. Every rifle, every magazine. Every vest, belt, holster and bandolier. Every meal pack. Every piece of this is traceable.”

Doug noted that none of the gear matched—there were well-worn, filthy equipment packs and brand-new kits and rifles scattered on the table. Someone had at least grouped the equipment by type, with AR types on one table, AK’s on another, bolt actions on two more, handguns of many styles in a pile next to mismatched magazines, bandoliers, vests, and a five-gallon bucket of loose rounds. A pile of knives, bayonets and machetes lay on the floor.

“How…” Doug started before being cut off.

“Someone took a long, long time to do this.  Didn’t happen overnight,” Jake said. “More interestingly are the chips themselves. RFID of course. Eastern European design, manufactured in China; two, maybe three years ago. The coding is interesting, too. The equipment here represents three distinct operational units. The database I’ve compiled inventoried all of it. There’s a numeric order here, where each unit is generally comprised of similar numbers of men, similar mixes of bolt-action and semi-auto, similar varieties of weapons with non-matching ammunition.”

“So each unit…is a mish-mash of men, weapons, calibers…” Doug asked.

“Yes. Three units, generally the same personnel count, generally equipped with the same variety of gear. This had to be deliberate.”

“Why would they do this?”

“So they could shoot with whatever they can find,” Jake said. “They’ve chipped it I’d guess for inventory, but also for tracking. None of this has active transmitter ability—all is passive but has a fair responsive range, up to a hundred meters with an off-the-shelf reader. Which is where you come in.”

“Uh, OK, how exactly?”

“The chips in these do not record signals that ping them—meaning that they can be scanned by anyone, anywhere, and there’s no record of it. Newer chips can tell an administrator who has scanned the chip, when, where, and how many times.  I’ve got a reader that I want you to take with you. It will only scan this type of chip; record what it’s scanned and where; and do it to a five hundred meter radius, very quickly and quietly. Frequently enough to get a good reading, not frequently enough to draw attention.”

“Attention?” Doug asked, surprised.

“Anyone that’s paying attention should have countermeasures in place to detect frequencies that are pinging their equipment. This should register as nothing more than rogue signals or reflected transmissions. It does not operate in a predictable pattern in either timing or signal strength,” Jake said.

“And you don’t think they’re watching?” Doug asked.

“I don’t know. This is not without risk,” Jake said, looking Doug directly in the eye. “You’re heading back to Des Moines, then to Denver come Monday. You then work there until your resignation, when you return. You may then head to points unknown. The data you collect could prove very interesting.”

“What exactly is this scanner? This reader?”

“When we had reliable cell phones, we’d use that. A smart phone with a little quiet upgrading, a little GPS tracking and data recorder. Now that most of the cell system is dead, along with most satellites, most smart phones are paperweights. So are tablets. But not the old-fashioned PDA,” Jake said, sliding an old Palm Tungsten T5 out of his pocket and handed it to Doug.

“Wow. I haven’t seen one of those in years,” Doug replied, flipping open the worn aluminum hard case and looking at the T5 like an old friend.  “I had a T3. Loved that thing.”

“There’s an application on here, buried underneath a chess game. You beat the chess game on the first level, lose the second at ‘check’, win the third, and the program activates and runs for twenty-four hours and includes location tracking and a motion sensor. It’ll shut down if the unit is stationary for more than an hour. The second time you play, you forfeit immediately and the program activates. There is plenty of internal storage that’s dedicated to the tracking program, outside of any other file storage you might want to include,” Jake said. “You in?”

“How do I transmit the information?”

“You don’t. There’s no way to do it outside of a hard dock and a sync with a trusted computer carrying the unlock algorithm,” Jake said, pointing toward an old computer on the workbench. “This is old school.”

“You said motion tracking—but the GPS network is dead,” Doug said.

“Commercial telecom systems aren’t all dead. This will ping signals off of whatever and record the location information by time. You’ll need to record when you activate it—put it on the ‘notes’ app—‘Arrived in Des Moines Oh-Nine-Thirty’. That’ll let us synchronize in general terms, which is good enough. Nowhere near as accurate as a GPS, but easily enough information to provide a more global view,” Jake said. “So…you in?”

Doug thought for only a moment before replying. “Yeah. I’m in.”

11:00 a.m.

Lunch preparations were well underway when Julie’s brother Peter burst into the Kitchen.  Doug had been slicing potatoes and nicked himself.

“It’s Molly.  I think she has the flu,” Peter said. The room, a moment before bustling, went dead quiet. Maria switched off the burners on the stove and quickly took off her apron.

“Fever?” Maria asked, gathering up some things into a bag.

“Yes. One oh two. It’s been climbing since eight,” Peter said as Arie entered the room.

“We should see Doctor Jameson at once,” Arie said. Doug didn’t even know Arie was in the house.

“Where is his office?” Doug asked.

Julie checked the calendar. “He’s in Mount Pleasant today,” she replied.  Doug didn’t know there was such a schedule posted on the calendar.

“Peter, is she here?”

“She’s in the Suburban. Beth is watching Ian,” Peter said. Baby Ian was not quite eight months old.

“Maria, you go with Peter and Molly. We’ll follow.  Douglas, would you care to drive?”

“You bet,” he said as Julie handed him his jacket.  The rain was picking up again. “I’ll let Jake know.” Julie looked very worried, as did Maria. 

Doug retrieved the Jeep from the equipment shed, and filled Jake in on Molly’s condition. He quickly informed the rest of the family via radio, and word then spread throughout the network.

Arie helped Julie into the front seat of the Jeep, before sitting behind her on the passenger side.  They quickly made their way through the barriers at the Farm inner driveway, and then headed west to Mount Pleasant, a little more than fifteen miles away. Doug turned on the AM radio as they followed Peter’s Suburban.  The host seemed bitter, complaining about the President’s inability to gather enough momentum to deal with any one crisis effectively, causing all of the immediate problems to be much worse.  The bombardment of multiple crises was just beyond Lambert’s ability.   Arie reached over and shut off the radio. 

The rest of the trip was made in silence. 

Distance, Chapter 50

50

Wednesday morning,

September Sixth

8:00 a.m.

Julie’s appointment with the family OB/GYN provided Doug an opportunity to check in with the FDA office via email from Fairfield, and hopefully get a better perspective of the world outside of the Farm. Doug would’ve preferred to stay for the appointment, but was shooed out of the office for an hour, with both of the ladies smiling.

The National Guard center had three civilian guards in full body armor, watching over the mostly empty facility.  Doug checked in with his Federal I.D., signed in on a digital pad and then had to use a thumbprint pad to gain access to one of the secure computer terminals. He wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of email, voice message and conflicting messages. He checked the emails in order, oldest-first, skipping over the departmental briefings, security memos and news summaries.

The first surprise was the replacement of Lorraine Bancroft with three new executive assistants.  Each had prepared what appeared to be a personal greeting; each greeting appeared to be jockeying for position or preference, as if the FDA were now a multi-level marketing scheme and each ‘Doug-level’ liaison was worth a certain number of points.

The next shock was a completely new itinerary and ‘encouragement’ to proceed with best time to the first location on the new itinerary, which was in the next email, abandoned in favor of a completely different strategy. 

The newer emails limited the travel, and then revoked it completely. The most recent emails directed Doug to return to Denver on September eleventh for meetings on the twelfth.

Doug skimmed the emails again quickly, seeing the pattern of confusion but sensing more.  Unlike his previous visit, the briefings, memos and news summaries were fully downloadable…which Doug thought was probably a breach in FDA security protocol. Doug weighed the risks, while fishing out a flash drive. He downloaded all of them for later reading.    As he completed the download, one of the assistants ‘pinged’ him for a video call. He authorized the call, and was greeted by an overly groomed late twenty something male. None of the names provided in the prior emails looked ‘male’. 

“Good morning, Mister Peterson. Sorry to disturb you are on vacation. I’m Britt Redmon, first assistant to the Secretary.” ‘First assistant my ass,’ Doug thought.

“Good morning. Just getting caught up on emails. Looks like things have been busy,” Doug said, not asking about Lorraine.

“They have, yes. You’ve by now seen your new itinerary, correct?” Redmon asked. Doug instantly disliked the man.

“There is a substantial reorganization coming to the Department, and to several other departments.  The Assistant Secretary and Under Secretary wanted to include you in the conversation, hence the meeting next week.”

“OK, fair enough. What about the production issues here in the Midwest? Are those issues magically resolved?” Doug said with some irritation.

“Oh, no. Those are just lower priorities at this time.  Given the fluidity of the security in that region, the Department does not believe that your prior assignment is worth the risk.”

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Doug thought to himself, but forced himself to sit back in his chair as if surprised at the revelation. “Sorry. I didn’t really believe the news.  I should be able to get out of Des Moines on Monday for a Tuesday meeting.”

“Would you be in a position to receive any additional information from the Under Secretary prior to your return?” Redmon asked, looking at the camera over the tops of his overly thin glasses.

“No,” Doug replied flatly.  “This is my last trip into town before I come back on Monday.”

“Unfortunate,” Redmon replied with raised eyebrows.

“Such are current communications. I look forward to meeting you next week, Britt,” Doug said.

“That will have to wait. I will be in another location. Good day,” the ‘first assistant’ said before ending the videoconference.

Doug had about ten more minutes before he had to leave to pick up Julie.  In that time, he wrote his letter of resignation, effective September thirtieth, and sent it directly to the Secretary, bypassing the assistants, the Assistant Secretary and Under Secretary.  He cited the need to be close to Julie during the later months of her pregnancy, and wished the Department well.

“How’d everything go?” Doug asked as Julie and Cath climbed in the Jeep. He turned the radio down, after listening to the forecast…rain by evening.

“Couldn’t be better!” Julie said with a big smile as she kissed Doug. “Everything’s just fine.”

“And what did you do for entertainment?” Cath asked.

“I read a bunch of emails, departmental news and then resigned from the FDA.”

“WOW! Effective now?  Say yes,” Julie said definitively.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so excited to be married to someone unemployed,” Doug said. “September thirtieth.”

“Not soon enough,” Cath said. “And of Regent? When for them?”

“Soon as I can,” Doug said as he started the Jeep. 

“Remember to stop at Stefana’s before we leave town,” Julie said.  Stefana was a friend of the family who had a retail maternity shop before the collapse. The shop now ran on trades of all kinds. 

“Not a problem,” Doug said.

A few minutes later they arrived at the small storefront, sandwiched between closed franchised coffee and sandwich shops. Stefana Groesbeck’s family had leased the land to the national franchises and had built the three shops turnkey in exchange for a sizeable signing bonus and favorable terms over the lease.  With the closure of the franchise outlets, the property and penalties were paid to the family, more than covering the development cost.

“You stay put and we’ll be right back!” Julie said to Doug, now feeling like a chauffeur.  He noted that Cath took a file box into the store, which Doug figured was a front for a cell of the Weerstand.

Doug had not been invited to attend the meetings, held on three consecutive nights off the farm. He didn’t take offense at all—as he’d finally been cleared for night patrol.  In the distance, two nights before, Doug had been in a watchman’s location, a half-mile from the house.  The still night was interrupted by rifle and semi-automatic weapons fire…and not a single word was heard on any of the radio frequencies about it. 

It had been impossible to tell the range of the brief firefight; Doug wasn’t that experienced in such matters, and the fickle wind could’ve carried the sound for a very long way.  With no reports coming in from any of the farms, men from the Weerstand had to be hunting raiding parties.   The following morning, Arie took one of the small pickups from the farm, alone, and returned two hours later. Doug noticed that the bed of the pickup held a covered bundle of something that was missing when Arie returned.

The town was ‘quiet’ of course, with only a handful of shops of any kind open for trading, and Doug noted that each of them had someone nearby with a shotgun or rifle in plain sight.  On top of the hardware store, two men with rifles were positioned, and he noted that at least one other person had a large spotting scope atop the roof.  Most of the traffic in town was composed of bicycles with cargo trailers, although a few people rode in on horseback.  He turned up the radio to kill some time.

“…no idea what they’ve done. The shortages are everywhere, another unintended consequence of unending incremental regulation. Of course prices have been through the roof for years now, but as soon as stock becomes available, any ammunition not already in a pipeline to the Army or Homeland Security is snapped up in a frenzy that sharks would be proud of. It seems the only state left that has half a brain is Texas, now the home to ninety percent of firearms manufacturers in the country, and sixty percent of the ammunition manufacturers.”

‘You’ve visited the clue store,’ Doug thought of the talk show host.

“I don’t really see that changing any time soon, either, America. There are things going on in the East that demand our immediate action and the President is giving it lip service.  We’ve got thugs running around in packs and attacking entire towns from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes! Little towns! Farms! Where’s the Federal response? Where the Hell is Homeland? It’s on you, my friends, because they’re covering their own asses. The Feds are sending ‘advisory teams’ to the states. Right. Like we need more people playing dictator and demanding our allegiance!  It’s on you to defend yourself and your family…but thanks to the actions of this creeping regulatory parasite we know as the Federal Government, a whole lot of you will be defending yourself with bird guns and revolvers and no more than a hundred rounds of ammunition of all kinds per address. You’re in violation of that? Federal implications. You defend yourself and are investigated by even your local cop? He is mandated to report any and all findings of firearms, ammunition, reloading equipment of any kind. Unregistered thirty-round mag in fifteen states? Jail time and forfeiture of assets, citizen.  If Officer Friendly doesn’t report you? Well, thanks to the latest National Defense Authorization Act, his jurisdiction can lose all Federal funding and HE can be investigated!”

“This guy’s on a roll,” Doug said aloud, wondering whom the host was.

“This is where we are, America.  This is what we’ve come to.  Too late to fix it within the framework of legislation, because the legislators threw you under the bus.  Re-read the first sentence of the Declaration of Independence my friends, and keep going from there. Then ask yourself honestly, are you are in any better shape NOW, than the Founders were as they contemplated revolution. Are you? Hell, no you’re not. In fact, you’re probably much worse off and you just don’t realize it.”

“Where’s your flash point? Where do you decide that you want the Constitution back? Is it after the thugs steal everything you’ve earned and built? Then you’re late—because they already have.  Your retirement funds were nationalized, remember? That 401K you worked so hard for? That investment account? That 529 plan you worked so hard to fund so that your kids could go to school? Remember when you could choose your own doctor, and decide for yourself if you wanted to buy insurance—or not? BAM—nationalized so that the Ponzi could continue. Remember when you could order ammunition and have it delivered? As much as you could afford? Remember walking into a gun shop and being able to walk out with a rifle? Or three? Remember those days? Remember folks who had licenses for Collectible and Antique firearms? They used to buy weapons and have them shipped to their houses!  That’s now a Federal prison sentence!  Mark my words: They’re going to come out with some cockamamie scam with rainbow colored money and start it all over again. If you get in their way, they’ll run you over—they’ll find a way to outspend you, wear you down, deny your God-given rights, deny your Federal train-wreck of a medical insurance program…and kill you by doing so.  This is how they plan to win. This is how they plan to wipe out opposition,” the host said as Julie and Cath opened the doors to the Jeep. Cath was carrying a different box that seemed heavier.

“Whatcha got on?” Julie asked.

“Some guy on fire,” Doug replied as the commentator continued. Cath answered.

“Rice. Danny Rice. He’s down in Hannibal,” Cath said, listening to the continuing monologue. “It’s too bad no one’s been listening to him. He’s been saying this for years.”

“It’s coming. It’s coming as sure as the sun will rise. There’s a real fine line between sovereign citizen and partisan. A real fine line.”

“Honey, you should be getting some sleep. You’re on watch at midnight,” Julie told Doug at half-past four. 

“I know. Almost done,” he said. “Arie’s up at six, right?”

“Yes, then on watch,” Julie said. Doug couldn’t get over how pretty she looked.  “Why?”

“I think he should read this. I’ll write a note for him.”

“If you’re not in bed in fifteen minutes, I’ll not be happy,” Julie said with eyebrows raised and chin lowered.

“I’ll be there,” Doug said with a little grin. She’d made him a light dinner that would be followed by ‘breakfast’ before he went on watch.

He was tired, but he plowed ahead, with just a few more pages to cover.  He’d been reading more than two hundred pages of briefings sent out to Federal administrators, succinctly covering news events, foreign and domestic, that could have an impact on Federal operations.  The distilled news briefs had been provided for decades to those in D.C., and now were produced and coordinated in all Federal zones in North America and in the handful of remaining overseas bases. 

The briefs clinically described ‘bandits’ robbing numerous local, state and Federal locations; first of food, later of other equipment; later still of people, thought to be held for ransom. No analysis or other commentary was made—the statements were reported for the analysis of the reader.

President Lambert’s coverage included meeting with families of two Medal of Honor winners from a battle in Monterrey; his looking forward to the Supreme Court ruling on a number of crucial issues in October; and a pending address to the full Congress—the first since January—on September fifteenth.  No mention of the Vice President or any Cabinet members was made.

In Mexico, the briefs described current efforts in ‘pacification’ in the most general terms, without unit descriptions of any kind or any enlightenment of how the war was progressing.

Throughout the review of the briefs and the FDA departmental memos, there was very little—perhaps only a hundred words—covering the New Republic.  For such a dramatic threat—even a small group of radicals—Doug could not understand why so little coverage was provided.  The dearth of crop production in the Midwest in a general Federal briefing covered eight hundred words, and that particular brief was an update of a monthly projection.

For threats of secession, there was virtually no ‘news’ to report.   Doug wrote Arie as much, posing the question for Arie’s consideration.

September Sixth

11:35 p.m.

Julie’s wind-up alarm clock sounded next to Doug’s head, and he gently extricated himself from the soundly sleeping mother-to-be, curled into him after some brief, intense lovemaking.  Doug hadn’t ever dreamed that sex with a pregnant Julie could be so…incredible. To the contrary, he’d expected to be ‘cut off’. To their mutual delight, he was quite wrong.

‘Breakfast’ included hot tea, hard boiled eggs, smoked ham and biscuits, retrieved from a sealed container that Maria had set aside for the night watch.  The tea was quite strong, brewed automatically on a timer, and he poured the thermos full, saving a cup for the meal.  Doug ate quickly and suited up in black, cloth-type raingear before heading out to the equipment shed for a pre-patrol briefing.  The rain was spattering into the windows despite the wide, covered porch.

The waterproof rain shell and overalls were made of some kind of soft cloth that shed water, remained quiet when rain hit it, and blended in well with the darkened watchmen’s positions.  Roeland called them Elven Cloaks.

Doug entered the blanketed vestibule in the equipment shed, and found Arie, his daughter Elisabeth and son Hendrik gathered around the radios. Hendrik and Arie’s watch wrapped up at midnight, and it was not customary for them to be anywhere but in the watchmen’s positions until relieved.

“What’s going on?” Doug asked.

“There’s an ambush about to be sprung. We didn’t want to be in the middle of it,” Hendrik replied. Doug noted that neither of them was wet from the rain.

“What about patrol? Watch?”

“Not tonight. The Weerstand is close,” Arie said. “Hendrik, show him on the map,” Arie said, listening to one of the headsets. Doug thought he heard someone on the radio speaking Dutch.  

Hendrik motioned Doug to a large map of the farm, marked with a coordinate grid that would normally correspond to GPS coordinates for nearly automated farming. With the loss of the GPS system and most communications satellites, the map was a bit of a relic.

“The Weerstand put out some information that we were having some storage issues here—implying that we had supplies at risk because we didn’t have enough men,” Hendrik explained.

“A trap? Here?”

“Sure. Good reason too,” Hendrik continued. “They came up from the south, through these farms that pulled back defensive and patrol lines. This is a funnel that they had to pass through,” he said, showing three and a half miles of woods and streams through a well-defined drainage, leading toward the Des Moines River.

“How many men?”

“Enemy count is one hundred thirty, more or less. They have boats at the river and men there.  When action starts here, they’ll go down too,” Hendrik said.

“Where is the target? I mean, where do you spring it?”

“Half mile south. The Gunder cattle barn.  The red one,” Hendrik said.

“The Weerstand is there?” Doug asked.

“No, just south of that in force. There are a few men there, to make it look like a soft target. If it goes as planned, most of the enemy will never reach the barn.”

“Hendrik, why wasn’t I told about this?”

“We didn’t know where they’d be striking or when. If they had picked another night, you’d be out in the far post, looking at black rain. They picked tonight, so tonight it is.”

“Where did they come from?” Doug asked.

“We’re not sure. If we catch some alive, we might be able to find out.”

Doug heard Arie say something firmly, that sounded like ‘Aanvallen’.

“What did he say?” Doug asked.

“Dutch. ‘Attack’.”  Hendrik replied.

Elisabeth took off her headphones and flipped on the speakers for all to hear.  As Doug had been instructed in this eventuality, the men in the field at this point were in charge to direct the battle. There was nothing to do now but to listen and wait. Six frequencies on each of the radios and scanners competed for attention. The enemy conveniently had a single unencrypted frequency; the Weerstand had eleven that were encrypted, covering various parts of the route from the Des Moines to the Gunder barn.   The fighting was over within fifteen minutes.

“All right then. It is over for now,” Arie said. “Douglas, you may proceed to Wilde boom,” the ‘wild tree’.

Doug knew that even with a large raiding party being wiped out, there could be stragglers or lone attackers, waiting for advantage.

“Thomas will be at the spring house soon,” Hendrik said. “He’ll be covering that side. Kurt is down with a fever.”

“Anything serious?” Doug asked.

“Too soon to tell. He didn’t get the flu in the spring, so we’ll have to wait and see,” Hendrik said, handing Doug his radio and his pack. Doug tucked the thermos into a pocket.

“We talk tomorrow, Douglas. Ja?” Arie asked. “This news of yours. Interesting.”

“For what it didn’t say and for what it did.”

Arie nodded without speaking, looking at the map of the farm. “You sound as if you are surprised that your government is lying to you. Surely you are not that naïve, Douglas.”