To Iceland, With Love

by I. C. Springman

seemed to have become separated from a tour group. She caught the child’s attention when she took a piece of paper out of her computer bag and began to fashion an origami dove. Sobbing a little less, the child, all princess-pink parka and Pooh-bear backpack, watched in fascination and stuck close to Jen as everyone surged forward toward the parking lot and the buses.

  “Deondra! Deondra!” a frazzled woman called, knee deep in Gap Kids on the other side of the solid black police line. Jen handed the paper bird to the little girl, who woke from her enchantment to shriek, “Mommy, mommy!” At which point Jen picked the child up and bore her like a magic talisman straight through the implacable wall of men.

  John was going for the Invisible Christian effect. He shifted the easel to his left hand, readjusted the sign to make sure it could be read, and concentrated on sending a text message to Jane with his right. No one challenged him as he shuffled between two figures very nearly as taut and muscled as he was himself. But before he could breathe easier, he felt an arm around his shoulders and a voice in his ear dictating a message very different from the one he had been typing.

  “Treason. T-R-E.”

  “Said the pot to the kettle.”

  “I,” James said virtuously, “am not wanted for murder and espionage in 188 countries.”

  “And I have been busy supporting and defending the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic. So if that’s all you’ve got…”

  “What I got,” James said, and his words were underscored by the sound of guns locking and loading, as the guards pivoted to train all their weapons on John. “What I got – is you. And our Jane of course. Birds in the hand.”

  John’s gaze wandered over the guns, with whose muzzles he more or less stood eye to eye. “No doubt you’re hoping for a silent spring.”

  “Silence is golden,” James agreed.

  “Which brings us to the golden rule.”

  “He who has the gold makes the rules,” James said, in no uncertain terms.

  “And he who knows who has the gold and how they got it?” John asked.

  “Is playing against the house. And the house always wins.”

  “Maybe not - if it’s a glass house.”

  “You know,” James sighed, tiring of the game, “it’s a damn shame, but under current law we can’t beat the piss out of you on government property. The sooner we adjourn, therefore, the better. Let’s move.” He signaled to the guards.

  Roughly handcuffed and tightly surrounded, John was marched down the walkway through the shivering evacuees toward the south steps. Across the parking lot with its eight thousand cars, across the tangle of intervening highways clogged with traffic going nowhere on that bright winter day, a mere two blocks away as the crow flew or the blameless tourist walked, he could see the facets of the Pentagon City mall blinking in the sun like the world’s biggest Zircon diamond. At least Jen had gotten away, and Jane was over there somewhere. Safe. Two out of three. Not too bad, considering…

  31 (We’re Never Going to Survive Unless We Get a Little More) Crazy

  High atop the Pentagon City parking deck, Jane had received John’s truncated message and could see some kind of drama unfolding across the street. Then she watched as the white Humvee detached itself from the south steps and headed for one of the many Pentagon exits, swerving into the lane for Crystal City. That made sense in a way, since almost all the congestion was in the other direction, aiming for DC; but why not back to the mansion? Just how many private little prison camps were these guys running? She put the helmet back on and prepared to give chase. She would have to be quick. The car was stopped at a light and she was five levels up. She gunned the Vespa and was arcing around, getting ready to make the jump to light speed, when she heard someone calling.

  “Hey lady!” Jane didn’t immediately recognize the glammed-up bombshell in the blonde wig waving at her from the back window of a stretch limo emblazoned with the words “Party Grrrrrls.”

  “Whitney?”

  “Are you missing that pretty man of yours again?”

  “Funny you should ask. Don’t suppose you have a grenade launcher a girl could borrow?” Jane stretched to see whether the Humvee had moved on.

  “Well, actually,” Whitney said, opening the door to reveal four more of Jane’s old team – all in blonde wigs – and a fairly impressive arsenal.

  “Oh baby,” Jane crooned, unshouldering the AK in favor of a sweet little M4. “Come to mama.” She climbed in and the limo purred forward.

  “Didn’t even have to say ‘follow that Humvee,’” Jane marvelled. “OK, are we officially in the Twilight Zone? ‘Cause there is no way you all can be here.”

  “Oh, way,” Whitney disagreed, passing Jane a Perrier. “The day after you got ‘fired’? We ALL got pink slips.”

  “Do boys get baby blue slips?” Jen asked from the driver’s seat. She was looking oh so official in a chauffer’s cap and Ray-bans.

  “Tweed maybe,” Wallis said.

  “A tasteful shade of gray,” Willa offered.

  Jane narrowed her eyes at Jen, a stranger. “She come with the car?”

  “She came with your husband,” Jen answered, a tad sharply.

  “And apparently lost him somewhere along the way?”

  “Take it down, Pussycat. John’s side of the family.” Whitney put a hand on Jane’s knee to emphasize her next words. “LES’-ALL-BE-FRIENDS.”

  Jane looked from Jen to Whitney and back. Smiled poisonously. “You must be Jen.”

  “Back at ya, Prom Queen.”

  “Laadeez –“ Whitney said warningly. “We can fight each other, OR – we can fight them? The point is we know what these jokers are up to and we are all in this together.”

  Jane flounced back in her seat. “Kumbayah already! Now where does that leave John?”

  The limo paused at an intersection about half a block behind the white Humvee, which had stopped in front of a twin-towered building with a façade of dark glass. James, John, and several guards got out and immediately entered the building. Whitney pointed.

  “Planet Merck. Official non-existent black site.”

  “Black hole,” Jen commented.

  “People go in –“ Willa said.

  “And they don’t come out,” Wallis finished.

  Jane was silent a moment. Stiffening the old backbone. “Alrighty then. Cue the intrepid tiger wife. Thanks for the ride, boys and girls. Don’t take any wooden nickels – or any synthetic CDO tranches for that matter.” She drew a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

  “You think that’s how we roll?” Whitney scoffed. “Uh-uh, girlfriend. This is everybody’s party.”

  Jane looked dubiously at the camo miniskirts and cutoffs her friends were sporting beneath long military coats. At least they were wearing Doc Martens instead of four-inch heels.

  “C’mon. You are the last person to be played by a pair of hotpants.” Whitney held out a pair of scissors as the others strapped on drop leg pouches and loaded up on ammo. And airplane bottles – scotch, bourbon, tequila. Whitney put on her jivest face. “Dey jus’ the price of admission.”

  32 Raise Your Glass

  On the black marble wall between the two elevators, two building directories. One for the left hand tower - American Legislative Exchange Council, Americans for Prosperity, Club for Growth, Council for National Policy, Focus on the Family, Heritage Foundation, Peterson Institute, Voxx News. And one for the right. – BAD Systems, Foeing, KBRU Kidding, Lockhead Martin, Northrop Gunmann, Raypeon, SaICK, and Darkwater USA. Merchants of deceit and merchants of death. Joined at the parking garage.

  “One stop shopping,” John nodded. “How convenient.”

  “Minipax, Minitru, Miniluv,” James said, pressing the button.

  “And you work for –“

  “All of the above. Same as it ever was. Never seemed to bother you before.”

  “What can I tell you,
man?” John said, “Lose your job, lose your identity.”

  On that note, well-known talk-show host Glenn Dreck entered the lobby. In a pink shirt and navy suit, he strode purposefully toward the other elevator. Stopped. Just stood there. James looked over at him.

  “Saw the show last night. ‘One-world eco-nazi brie-eating climate commie.’ Good one.”

  “Uh, thanks. Thanks. You too,” Dreck said. He seemed confused. Possibly he was trying to remember who James was. Or wondering what a man in handcuffs was doing in his office building. As James tried to hustle John into the elevator, John leaned over and whispered loudly: “Psst. You have to press the button if you want it to go.”

  The elevator doors closed, followed by the sound of a sharp blow and a grunt of pain. A red-faced Dreck reached out to press the elevator button. As he did so, he heard a furious knocking sound. He drew his hand back. The knocking stopped. Cautiously, he reached out again and this time he heard banging. Once again he drew his hand back and the banging stopped. He was about to experiment a third time, when he heard the guys at the security desk say:

  “Are you serious? Can you see those breezies? No man, no. Just buzz ‘em on in. Enough with the Barnie Fife routine.”

  “That is exactly the attitude that brought us 9/11.”

  “Now don’t you start. What brought us 9/11 was a bunch of oil dudes with long-range plans, short-term greed, and no kind of morality. We should learn from them. Carpe diem. Means ‘seize the woman.’ Ain’t nobody in their right mind going to come