Serve & Protect

by L. J. Breedlove

  The YMCA he used was nearly empty at 3:30 p.m. when he arrived. The one advantage to a workday that started early was that it ended early, Mac thought, as he changed. He’d have the gym mostly to himself for an hour or a little more.

  He warmed up on the treadmill, then did a strength routine that focused on his legs. Too many men only did the shoulders, which made them look ridiculous, Mac thought. Worse, it made them weak. His current routine was three parts: legs, shoulders, abs. He rotated them throughout the week, although he did some abs each time. He ran three to five miles per day, either here or from his house. Once a week he played basketball. Occasionally, he used the punching bags.

  He considered that as he ran on the treadmill, setting it to a hills route. Today might be a good day for a speed-bag workout.

  So, what had put him in defense mode, he wondered. Something had. Something he hadn’t registered consciously, but here he was, prepping for a fight. Or flight and he didn’t really do flight. If he had Angie along, he needed to prepare mentally that flight might be the right option. That made him grimace. Taking her was right journalistically. But his subconscious was thinking more like a Marine with a recon mission ahead.

  Which was it? A news story? Or a recon mission? He thought about the journalists he’d known in the Marines — the ones who would embed on a mission. Adrenaline junkies, the lot of them. Even more than Marines. Marines went where they were told. The embeds did it because they wanted to. It was as if they needed an adrenaline fix — sometimes it didn’t even lead to a story. He’d hated having them along, because you had to watch out for them while engaging with the enemy, even if it wasn’t a direct conflict. And yeah, some of them were nearly as capable of taking care of themselves as he was. That wasn’t the point. Command had made it clear, if an embed went out with you, they’d damn better come back in one piece.

  And suddenly he knew what had set all this off. Craig Anderson wasn’t acting like a Marine with an embed. He was looking forward to something, amused by something — something beyond tweaking Norton’s nose by allowing Angie to go. Well, really, there was no reason Anderson should act like a Marine, he told himself. This was a wilderness weekend with a bunch of desk jockeys, and now two journalists.

  But it wasn’t. Mac knew the weekends were related to the dead bodies. He didn’t have proof — not yet. But he knew it. So, Anderson should be wary. And he wasn’t. Probably wasn’t going to include a ‘blooded’ hunt with them along, but still? He hadn’t been wary at all. Eager even. Eager to what? Test his mettle? Why did it feel like Anderson was looking forward to a test to see who was stronger — Mac? Or who?

  Norton?

  Anderson?

  Having Angie along raised the stakes. Anderson was practically salivating. Mac took a deep breath, let it out and rotated his shoulders to reduce the tension building there. Prep for the worst, he thought. If it turned out to be a feature piece with great art? Great. If it went south? And he was pretty sure it would — then he’d be ready. And he would ensure Angie was ready.

  And to be honest, he wouldn’t mind pitting himself against that asshole of a sheriff either.

  Mac got off the treadmill, and got the key to the room where the punching bags were. He danced with a speed bag, then did three minutes with the heavy. Back to the speed bag. That was enough. Supper called.

  And he wanted to talk to Shorty about Facebook and social media.

  Turned out Shorty wanted to talk to Mac about social media too.

  “I’ve been ghosting your account,” he said. Mac started to ask him what that meant, and decided not to bother. He just grunted. He’d been eating a roast-beef and provolone sandwich at the kitchen table when Shorty called.

  “You’ve got two instigators among your gun nuts. Sensei who keeps a very low profile, and MLK4whites who is much more aggressive and public. I thought they might be the same man, but now I’m pretty sure they really are two different men, not just two accounts for one man. The writing is decidedly different,” Shorty continued.

  Mac kept eating his sandwich. This is what speaker phones were made for, he figured.

  “Keep going,” he said. “I’m eating supper. But I’m listening.”

  “OK,” Shorty said. “Grunt now and then so I know you’re still there. So MLK4whites knew about your trip to Skagit. I’m thinking he’s the sheriff. Thoughts?”

  Mac considered that for a moment. “His ex-wife says he’s barely tech savvy enough to use a cell phone. She didn’t think he’d be on Facebook at all. And I think she’s watching him carefully. Doesn’t mean she’s right.”

  “Other possibles?” Shorty asked.

  “Craig Anderson, Andy Malloy. Actually, that’s a handle I can see Malloy using,” Mac speculated. He took another bite of the sandwich.

  “All right, I’ll look for them online and see where the trail leads there.”

  “Sensei?” Mac asked. “He’s closed down. Quite frankly I’m appalled at how open most people are. All that personal information just sitting there? What the fuck are they thinking? But Sensei is cautious. Sensible. But then how is he getting his message out? These men find him. They become followers. I’ve requested but I don’t think he’s responded. So how is he reaching them?”

  “He has responded, and you’re in,” Shorty said. “Mac, you’ve got to check your account more frequently! You won’t connect with these people if you don’t.”

  “Or you could just run my account,” Mac suggested hopefully. He never got off the Facebook in under an hour. And Shorty wanted him to check more frequently? Who had time for this?

  Besides the millions on it, he thought morosely.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t,” Shorty said. “I don’t have your background to relate to these men. I can use a gun, and I can even hit what I shoot at. But I just use whatever gun you hand me. I can’t talk knowledgeably about them. I wasn’t in the Marines. I don’t know the cop stuff. And that’s what they want to hear from you. So, suck it up. Check it first thing. Check it again when you get off deadline. Check it before you leave work for the day. And then? Check in around 9 p.m. and stay on until you go to bed.”

  “Jesus, Shorty!” Mac said, appalled.

  “Just do it, Mac. Think of it as the calls you make for police blotter every morning.” Shorty was sounding increasingly frustrated. Mac reverted back to the discussion of Sensei.

  “So, Sensei? How is he getting his message out?” Mac asked.

  “Newsletter,” Shorty said promptly. “I can see the sign-up form on his feed. That’s a good strategy. Move it off the site completely. You sign up, he delivers an email to you — and however many there are on his list, no way to tell that either — in your email box. It’s the number one marketing tool that people are playing with right now.”

  “So, sign me up for it,” Mac said.

  “You can do it when you log in tonight,” Shorty said. “They’ll want your email address, and you have to confirm it from your email. Don’t use your work email either.” He paused. “Mac? Do you have another email?”

  Mac thought for a moment. “No?” he said doubtfully. “And if I do it’s so old I don’t remember a password. Oh! I would have had one at Western, but that ends when you graduate.”

  There was silence. Mac waited.

  “OK, now you have one,” Shorty said with disgust. “It’s MacDavis at gmail.com. The password is your first name, and your year of birth. Change it when you log in.”

  Mac grunted, but he wouldn’t change it. It was a good one, and only Shorty would know what it was. “Thanks,” he said, then realized it was going to be one more thing online he’d have to check regularly. Damn it, he thought.

  “So, Sensei? A player I haven’t met? Or didn’t know I met,” Mac said. “Or someone who isn’t even local?”

  “I think he’s local,” Shorty said. “When he posts it is consistent to this time zone. So somewhere on the West Coast. He’s more educated than MLK4whites is, more sophisticated in his pers
uasion techniques. So that puts him in the I-5 corridor, somewhere between Salem, Oregon and Bellingham, Washington. Given the explosive growth in constitutional sheriffs and now these militia wannabes? I’d say he’s in our area. Could be in a college town in eastern Washington, I suppose. Spokane? I downloaded his posts now that we’re followers, and I’m doing a content analysis. It’s still running. But I’m looking for place references so we may have a lead soon.”

  Mac knew generally what Shorty was talking about, and he really didn’t want to get a more technical explanation. Then don’t ask, he told himself, because he’ll tell you. For hours.

  “Can you do a content cross analysis with MLK4whites?” he asked.

  “Yes, and I’ll set that up to run overnight,” Shorty replied. “The program I use is good, but it’s slow. And if I get impatient, it crashes, and I have to reboot and start over.”

  Mac snorted. He knew people like that.

  “So, do you have other names? What other men have you talked to about this?” Shorty asked.

  Mac considered that. “Head of the Northern Cascades National Parks,” he said. “Guy named Edward Peabody. He hates Norton. Might look at all the rangers, they’re probably on the website. The wilderness trek guy Ken Bryson. Pastor of that church Daniel Nielsen — spelled with an e. Sheriff deputies? One of them got shot at, and the guy who shot at him didn’t even get a ‘bad boy’ from the sheriff. He’s a local gun dealer, who also sells porn, and probably meth. Lucas Jorgensen.”

  “OK, I’ll add them in,” Shorty said. “By the way? You’ve now got 120 followers. I followed them all back for you. But I’m not going to keep doing that.”

  “Damn 120 followers?” Mac said, startled. “I don’t know 120 people.”

  “You do now,” Shorty said. “And 115 of them are men. Someone named Angie followed you — looks like she’s at the Examiner — and Janet. And Kate and Naomi Fairchild both followed you. Shit, Mac, I thought you were ending that.”

  “Got an invite to Sunday dinner, didn’t go because of the Skagit trip,” Mac said. Then he changed the subject and told Shorty about his plans to go on the wilderness survival weekend.

  “Mac! You do know how risky that is?” Shorty demanded.

  “Yeah,” Mac said.

  “And you’re taking a woman photog with you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you have a death wish? Why?”

  Mac considered that question seriously. “I think we’re headed toward trouble as a country, Shorty. The constitutional sheriffs. The anti-government movement like that Bundy family in Nevada. Now these white managerial types playing at militias and buying into conspiracy theories?” He paused for a bite of sandwich while he thought about what was bugging him.

  “And Rodriguez? He’s afraid, Shorty, I can feel it. Afraid of his own colleagues in the police force. Afraid that one day he’s going to call for backup and no one comes. Because he’s seen the white supremacists in operation last fall, and it scares him. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Never thought I’d see the day when you were worried about a cop,” Shorty murmured.

  “Yeah, me either,” Mac said.

  “OK, then,” Shorty said. “I’ll see what I can pull in from this discussion. I’m going off your account, so you can log on later. Both of us can’t be on it at the same time — well, shouldn’t be. But I’ll worry about that. You just need to get on there. Post a bit about your trip north. Did you say you got shot at?”

  “I think it was just a shot to scare us off, the ranger probably more than me,” Mac said. “There wasn’t a second shot, and quite frankly we were sitting ducks. Bottom of a ravine. Everywhere was higher ground.”

  “Huh,” Shorty said. “Post something about it. I want to see what the reaction is.”

  “OK,” Mac said, resigned to an evening online. Was this what his social life had come down to? Shorty and Facebook? That made a man rethink his life priorities a bit, he thought sourly. And yeah, he needed to make up his mind and be honest with Kate. As Shorty was fond of saying: either shit or get off the pot.

  Damn it. He went upstairs to log on to Facebook. First task was to sign-up for Sensei’s newsletter.

  Turned out to be more of a task than he expected. Sensei was a secretive son of a bitch, Mac thought, half in exasperation, half in admiration. He signed up. Got an email in his inbox to respond to if he truly wanted the newsletter and to receive a free strategy booklet for preparing for SHTF. That all seemed automated, he’d have to ask Shorty. He responded. Then he got another email, asking for background to confirm he was already vetted by the Facebook site. He answered the questions. Got a third email with a link to download his free strategy guide. He downloaded it. And then a fourth email, saying welcome.

  It was personalized. Not just the personalization of a good marketer, Mac thought, his eyes narrowed. It truly felt like he was getting an email from a person in real time.

  “Glad you’re joining us, Mac,” it read. “You’re the kind of person we need when shit hits the fan. I’m a fan of your work, and I look forward to discussions with you in the future about the troubles ahead. As you can see, I’m sure, we’re in for turbulent times; men who can make the tough decisions, who can lead other men, need to be prepared. Right now? White men have gotten complacent. Well our enemies haven’t. The enemies of the republic haven’t. They’re girding themselves up for battle. And we need to motivate the men who have been the builders of this country from the very beginning. We must help them see another battle is coming. Another revolution.

  “So welcome. I usually send out emails to the larger group every week. But I’m putting you on a select list of men I see as potential leaders in the coming days, and you’ll probably receive an email a day. I welcome responses from this leaders’ group, and often share what others are saying in my next email. So please feel free to respond. I’d be interested in hearing what you have to say about the free guide, for starters.

  Welcome aboard,

  Sensei.

  Mac read it a couple of times. Sensei knows me, he thought troubled. And I don’t know him. He made a print out of the email, saved it into a special folder in his email, and then he forwarded it to Janet and to Shorty. He called Shorty.

  “Yeah, I got it,” Shorty said. “He knows you, Mac. I don’t think that was part of the automated onboarding sequence for a marketing newsletter. The others leading up to it, yes. But he’s vetting his subscribers, saw you, and segmented you into a leaders’ group.”

  Minus all the jargon that he only vaguely understood, that was how Mac saw it too. “I cannot figure it out,” he said. “Who is this guy?”

  “I’ll see if the writing style matches anything,” Shorty promised. “Read the pamphlet. Then you need to respond. Let him seduce you into this.”

  “If he really knows me, he wouldn’t expect me to sign on,” Mac protested.

  “Remember our discussion about Kate and cults?” Shorty asked. “Same thing. People want to belong to something. It’s human nature. Think about what he’s been doing with all these gun nuts from white collar jobs in Seattle. It’s a seduction. None of them thought they were getting in deep, and now you’ve got people cracking up all over Seattle.”

  “Yeah,” Mac said troubled by the notion he could be as susceptible as any other. But then he thought about clean language and celibacy. It made him feel vulnerable. Well, he was, he acknowledged. Everyone was. And as soon as you realized it, you could guard against it.

  No different than being under fire. The scary guys no one wanted to go out with were the ones who thought they were invincible. They took risks that got others killed. No, better to go out on a mission with a scared rabbit. Once you learned that you could be shot, that you could end up dead, that anyone could? Then you could learn to protect yourself. To be wary and cautious.

  “So, read the brochure,” Shorty said, when Mac didn’t say anything more. “Respond to it. Think of it as drawing out a source. Not unlike w
hat you did with Howard Parker.”

  Mac nodded, that made sense. A good part of his reporting with that story had been phone calls between the two of them. Parker liked having a sympathetic ear, even while he was trying to kill Mac. And he knew Mac was trying to bust him. Those tapes had been a three-day sensation. So yeah, he could do that with Sensei, through email, he thought, gaining some confidence at the thought. Let him think Mac was coming over to the dark side.

  Or in this case, the white side. He rolled his eyes.

  “Thanks, Shorty,” Mac said sincerely. “You’re right. That I can do.”

  “No problem,” his friend said. “And send me a copy of the brochure if you can.”

  Mac followed the instructions and downloaded it to his laptop. He printed it out too. By then, Janet had responded, equally troubled by the sense that Sensei knew who he was.

  He read through Facebook quickly, made a few responses, and gave a few thumbs up. He added a post about getting shot at on a story, like Shorty wanted. Made it amusing. Bait, he thought. Just like his happy-hour stories. He snorted.

  Then he settled in to read how to prepare for the coming SHTF.

  An hour later, he put it down, even more troubled. It was well-written, thoughtful. It actually had some helpful ideas about emergency preparedness. Lists of things to stockpile — and not just weapons. But its emphasis wasn’t the prepper community; it had a militia mindset. Of being prepared to step in when societal structures failed so that they would be the ones to restore order.

  It talked a bit about the possible causes of the societal failure, which Sensei defined as continuing on this path that would lift up multiculturalism over respect for authority and the structures of authority: the military, the police, the church. And wasn’t that a god-awful grouping, Mac thought troubled. It also talked about a man’s authority within his family, and that a failure in society to respect that authority was making us weak.

  So that’s how the child custody issue is playing in, he thought. And the change Vicky had described in her husband as he got in deeper and deeper. The changes that Carole Jorgensen had mentioned, too, come to think about it.