End Times

by P A Duncan

  Natalia looked from one to the other. “That’s it? I thought, like, someone was dead or something.”

  Mai and Alexei looked at each other. “Gone are the days when she cried when we left,” he said.

  “Hey, parents work,” Natalia said. “No big deal. When will you be back?”

  “We’re not sure,” Mai answered. “It might be a few days, but it could be longer.”

  “Business as usual,” Natalia said, with a shrug.

  Mai didn’t know whether to be sad or proud. “We’re concerned because we’re leaving so soon after a significant anniversary.”

  “You mean Mom? Like I told Popi the other night, I miss her and all, but, you know, I’m okay.”

  “Yes, and that was the night before the behavior issue that grounded you.”

  Natalia flushed at the reminder. “It’s okay, really, Mums. I understand you guys have to work. Olga and I will be okay.”

  “And remember,” said Alexei, “what Olga tells you to do is like it’s coming from us. Do as she says.”

  A subdued eye roll. “Yes, Popi.”

  After they left her, Alexei paused at the top of the stairs, eyes on the closed door to Natalia’s room.

  “Is it me, or was that too easy?” he asked.

  “And you complain about my mood swings,” Mai replied.

  8

  An Explosive Mix

  Directorate Headquarters

  In the several years Mai and Alexei had worked from their home office, their visits to The Directorate’s Analysis Department had become rare. Mai was surprised when the head of Analysis, Grace Lydell herself, arrived to conduct the background briefing.

  Grace glanced around the room. “Where’s your lesser half?”

  “Allegedly meeting with Nelson. I suspect it’s a locker room discussion about Nelson’s latest fling, to which I can’t be privy. Nor would I want to be,” Mai said.

  “Do you want to wait for him?”

  “Good God, no. Since when have I ever done that?”

  The two women sat across the conference table from each other. Grace turned to a computer on a credenza behind her and engaged the anti-eavesdropping countermeasures for the room.

  “Did you read your homework from me?” Grace asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Mai replied. “Some of these people are absolutely dotty.”

  “Delving into this has made me almost as pessimistic as your husband, but that happens whenever we probe America’s closets.” Grace turned back to Mai and rested her clasped hands on the table. “Why don’t you talk to me about what you’ve learned? I’m curious to see if we came to the same conclusions.”

  Mai picked up the accordion folder Grace had sent to the house and spread its contents on the table before her.

  “It’s quite the medley of beliefs,” Mai said. “Militias and survivalism. Christian Identity and other obscure religions. A whites-only area of the country. Jews, blacks, Muslims are the cause of all America’s ills—Hell, the world’s ills.”

  Grace nodded. “Indeed. According to what we’ve looked at, a common belief of these groups and so-called religions is that a secret, Zionist cabal actively conspires to deprive Christian, white men of their rightful place everywhere in the world.”

  “And affirmative action, gun control, feminism, abortion on demand, the Federal Reserve, paper money, and the current and several former presidents are part of a global conspiracy to subvert the Constitution of the United States. It almost makes one laugh until you realize they’re serious.”

  “I’m sure you picked up on the part the United Nations plays in this Zionist conspiracy?”

  “Yes, well, I must have missed the memo about training with the former Soviet Army—I suppose Alexei doesn’t count—a contingent of Gurkhas, and battalions of Hong Kong police so a U.N. army can take over America and impose the New World Order, after we deprive Americans of their guns. It’s beyond laughable.”

  “Indeed, until you realize there are people who are deadly serious about this…” Grace broke off and shrugged.

  “Guns are the common thread, and the sacred cow is the U.S. Constitution’s Second Amendment.”

  “I tried parsing that. I think Chaucer’s middle English is easier to comprehend.”

  “Even though I’m English, I always found Chaucer daunting. All of these beliefs are so bleak and apocryphal. Most of these people want the end of the world.”

  “Well, they’re certain of a reward in heaven and want to hurry it along.”

  Mai shifted through a stack of papers until she found the sheet she wanted. “Listen to this poem written in the 1980s by a neo-Nazi named Robert Matthews. ‘Give your soul to God and pick up your gun. It’s time to deal in lead. We are the legions of the damned, the army of the already dead.’”

  “The analyst in me won’t allow the simplicity of saying these people are harmless nuts who hoard food, live off the grid, and reject the so-called sins of modern life. To be sure, many of them are ignorant, but it’s scary how sophisticated some of them are.”

  Mai nodded and said, “One consistent theme I found is these groups, the individuals in them, lack a sense of personal responsibility for failure.”

  “I noticed that, too, plus a tendency to blame others—people of color or the catch-all, foreigners. When you add in their virulent hatred of the federal government, it becomes a potentially explosive mix.”

  “Especially considering these right-wingers are far more paranoid than I could hope to be. The other scary thing is they have no qualms about brandishing their weaponry. I must say, I thought it started with Ruby Ridge, but your info shows it goes back to perhaps The Civil War.”

  “The Domestic Analysis Branch has been watching this a long time.”

  Mai frowned. “Why?”

  “Nelson’s pet project. He thinks a secret group of rich, white men are conspiring to turn America into a Christian theocracy. Sometimes I think he took The Handmaid’s Tale to heart. Don’t laugh. I can’t prove it one-hundred percent, but I’ve seen some interesting threads and a long list of curious events. Ruby Ridge is only the most recent.”

  Mai’s head tilted to one side as she thought over Grace’s words. “If our analysts have seen these threads, as you called them, and given these groups’ growing presence on the internet, surely some FBI analyst has seen the same thing.”

  “Mai, this is the same FBI that made serious, tactical blunders in a high-profile event that resulted in a dead teenager, a dead dog, a dead U.S. Marshal, and a dead mother holding her baby. Six months later, they may be poised to have history repeat itself.”

  Mai shook her head. “This was such a nice day, and I was looking forward to spending it on my deck. This is all too depressing. I need to pull my head out of it, especially when it begins to make some perverse sense.”

  “You and Alexei should interview this civil rights lawyer, Norton Ball, in Mississippi. He’s studied these extremist groups a long time. He was one of several lawyers who bankrupted the Klan with lawsuits.”

  “We head for Killeen tomorrow. No time. Is he a stringer for us?”

  “No, but I’d love it if he were.”

  The computer dinged an alert, and Grace looked over her shoulder. On the monitor, she and Mai saw Alexei standing outside the entrance to the conference room, staring at the security camera. “Ah, your husband’s here. Should we let him in or let him cool his heels for a while?” Grace asked, smiling.

  “As tempting as that is, let him in.”

  Grace typed a command on the computer; Alexei entered. “Alexei, you handsome old dog, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “And you, Grace, have brightened my day, as always.”

  “Hey,” Mai said, feigning indignation, “the wife is sitting right here.”

  Grace laughed, Alexei’s mouth quirked in a brief smile, and he sat beside Mai.

  “I see you started without me,” he said.

  “You snooze, you lose, Bukharin,�
� Mai said, but smiled at him. “Your arrival is fortuitous. I was about to query Grace some more about the Second Amendment.”

  “Fairly cut and dried,” Alexei said.

  Grace and Mai looked at each other. “Hardly,” Grace said.

  “Well, if you believe the NRA, but they have a not-so-hidden agenda. Let’s see if I can remember the exact text.”

  “Alexei, we’ve both read it,” Mai said. “Spare us. Aside from the dubious grammar, it does seem to guarantee individual ownership of guns.”

  “With a major exception. Legal precedent and judicial interpretations don’t agree.”

  When he didn’t continue, Mai looked at Grace. “He likes it when you ask him to expound upon his declarations. I usually threaten to withhold sex if he doesn’t start talking.”

  “I don’t think that would work in this instance,” Alexei said.

  “Oh, you never know,” replied Grace. “All right, Bukharin. Explain yourself.”

  The fleeting smile came again, and Alexei said, “The Founding Fathers abhorred standing armies, given their recent experience with the British. The Second Amendment was to ensure that state militias could be assembled, fully armed, to defend the country.”

  “That doesn’t seem objectionable,” Mai said.

  “In the eighteenth century, it wasn’t.”

  “I think I see where you’re going,” Grace said. “When they wrote the Second Amendment, no mass-produced, army-issued firearm existed; no local gun store to stroll down to and make a whim purchase.”

  “Yes. It also doesn’t mean an individual can own any type of arms by right, certainly not a bazooka, a tank, or a cannon, and it doesn’t grant the individual the right to hoard or stockpile guns for the common defense. Providing for the common defense—”

  “Is the government’s responsibility,” Mai said. “But some of these patriot militias are well-regulated. Regular meetings, drills, courts-martial.”

  “Yes, but compare them to a state national guard unit, and you’ll find they mostly sit around and swill beer while they bitch and moan about the government. The Supreme Court has ruled on that as well. A well-regulated militia is the National Guard, which receives its armament and ordinance from the Pentagon.”

  “Why don’t more people understand that?” Mai asked.

  Grace replied, “Alexei touched on it. The NRA and other gun rights groups need membership funds to stay in operation. They play on people’s fears, use the worst-case scenarios. The government is coming to take your guns, but if you send us money, we can stop it.”

  “There’s something scarier,” Alexei said.

  “Scarier than that?” asked Mai.

  “The more militant militias and gun groups believe private ownership of weapons extends to matching what the government has; this is called the insurrectionist theory of the Second Amendment. It’s based on a Jefferson quote, which goes something like this: ‘The strongest reason for the people to retain the right to keep and bear arms is, as a last resort, to protect themselves against government tyranny.’”

  “Some people in, say, Ireland or the Balkans, might agree with that theory,” Mai said. “But, presumably, these militia fellows believe if the government has a nuclear weapon, they should have one, too?”

  “Yes, some do believe that. The militias use the insurrectionist theory to justify their desire for increasingly vast firepower.”

  “Another aspect of the insurrectionist theory is that they believe the Constitution requires them to rise up and overthrow the government if they decide it’s tyrannical,” Grace added.

  “In the most generalized sense,” Alexei replied, “but that’s what they prefer—generalities. However, the government considers it something else…”

  “Treason.” The three said it in concert.

  “Well, off to the Tower with them,” Mai said. “Let me see if I have this straight. The militias believe their guns are a check and balance on the power of the government?”

  “Mistakenly, yes, and they conveniently ignore a much more powerful check and balance.”

  “Which is?”

  “Elections,” said Grace.

  Mai again pointed to the research material.

  “According to this, these so-called patriots also believe the Constitution requires them to form militias and that all white men must join. I suspect I know the answer, but why white men?”

  “Because when Americans were subjects of your Crown, only free white men made up the colonial militias,” Grace said, “but mostly it’s to justify their racism.”

  “It seems to me when people say, we’re a well-regulated militia, and we can arm ourselves however we want to fight a government we think is tyrannical, all you get is anarchy.”

  “Precisely,” said Alexei.

  “Any more questions on the Constitutional stuff?” Grace asked.

  “Since I have this font of information here,” Mai said, nodding toward Alexei, “I’ll save my questions for him. What’s next?”

  “The History and Evolution of the People of the Eternal Light in the Overall Context of Twentieth Century Protestantism,” Grace said, moving to turn on the projector. “Quite gripping, I assure you.”

  Behind Grace’s back, Alexei mimed hanging himself. Mai suppressed a laugh.

  9

  Neutrality

  Near Killeen, Texas

  Hills broke the rural landscape surrounding Killeen, Texas. The rolling farmland buffered the residents who liked country living from the urban ills in Dallas-Fort Worth to the north and progressive leanings from Austin to the south. Killeen, despite a large Army base and a decent college, was a provincial town in the midst of the Bible Belt, a place where high school football and cheerleading took precedence over religion or anything else of social significance. The countryside held quiet and detached people, uninterested in big-city issues and problems, impatient when those issues and problems disrupted the time-honored traditions of idyllic Texas life.

  Until recently the only community debates had centered around sports. Now, the international media had descended en masse, and federal marshals and Texas Rangers guarded roadblocks to keep a motley collection of protesters at bay.

  The roadblocks barred entry to a ramshackle collection of buildings, sheds, and vehicles housing a religious sect and the hastily constructed FBI fortress of interconnected travel trailers, RVs, Suburbans, and portable showers and toilets.

  From the road and below a slight rise, the unwanted local-turned-national issue wasn’t apparent to the reporters with perfect hair and overdone makeup, the slovenly camera personnel, who looked as if someone had dropped them onto an alien landscape. The locals would have found it amusing were it not for the reason they were here. Killeen’s business owners had conflicting emotions. The influx of media and federal cops meant a boon for business, but no one much liked the attention or the cause of it.

  Along the country road leading to the fracas, a white Suburban kicked up a plume of dust as it approached the final roadblock before the federal compound. Demonstrators in support of the People of the Eternal Light leaned on parked trucks and battered cars until the oversized SUV with the government license plates drove into sight. They snatched up their hand-lettered signs and began to shout and gesticulate.

  As the Suburban crawled by, waiting for the roadblock to open, angry faces pushed toward it, mouths shouting unheard curses.

  Inside the Suburban from behind her sunglasses, Mai Fisher watched. She could see them, but the polarized, bullet-resistant windows on the Suburban meant they couldn’t see her. The signs the people carried, the bumper stickers on their vehicles espoused a common anti-government theme.

  She smiled; in the tank-like SUV, she was the embodiment of a faceless government. In some juxtaposition to their politics, the people outside demonstrated freely, granted that right by a government sworn to freedom of expression. She thought about the governments that would have sent an army to disperse them rather than provide che
mical toilets and bottled water.

  Memories from the Balkans pushed forward again, and she forestalled them by turning to Alexei. “I like this vehicle,” she said. “I may need one.”

  His mouth barely moved, but the lines at his eyes crinkled with a smile. “Really?”

  “Not off the factory floor. I’d have to spec it out.”

  This time the corners of his mouth lifted, and she turned back to the scene around her.

  The crowd’s display wasn’t so much threatening as staged for the media and their satellite trucks on the other side of the road. They’d have some sound bites for the evening news.

  The Suburban passed unmolested through the gate and continued down the road toward the federal “village,” consisting of some six to eight hundred law enforcement agents. Clad in the latest body armor tech, agents milled about, among the RVs and vehicles, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups, which they dropped on the ground, talking, and brandishing their extensive firepower. The large yellow letters on their caps, helmets, or flak jackets distinguished them: FBI, ATF, U.S. Marshal. They were prevailingly tall, white, male, crew cut, ripped, heavily armed, and emulated an army on maneuvers.

  The Suburban angled behind a line of trailers placed end to end. Mai saw the reason for the odd configuration. Bradley Armored Vehicles squatted in a staging area where agents took turns having their pictures taken atop them. Rifle stocks balanced on hips like great white hunters in woodland camouflage, they flashed victory signs or clenched fists for the cameraman.

  “That confirms the tanks,” Alexei murmured.

  “Did we take a wrong turn and end up in a banana republic?” Mai asked.

  The Suburban’s driver parked the vehicle close to a trailer marked “Command Center.” Mai and Alexei emerged into a warm, March afternoon. The driver led them toward the Command Center, but they trailed behind to take in their surroundings.

  Arms folded over his chest, Special Agent in Charge Hollis Fitzgerald watched the Suburban’s approach on the large monitor in the command center. His jaw clenched as he remembered getting the fax from Steedley informing him of the two “advisors.”