by Glen Tate
Jerry, Mike, and Chrissy were still silent until Jerry said, “Parking at Mecconi’s is so much better now that no one can get near the capitol campus.” The other two nodded solemnly.
“Hey,” Brad said as he pulled into the Mecconi’s parking lot, “what’s going on?”
“Meatball sub?” Chrissy asked. “You still like the meatball sub, Brad?” She remembered Brad’s favorite sandwich from the hundreds of times they’d eaten there.
The three unbuckled their seatbelts and started to get out. It was like they were robots or something weird. Very weird.
Brad stayed in the car. After a few seconds, they noticed that he was still in the car and turned around and returned to him. Brad rolled his window down.
“What the hell is up?” he asked them.
“Come in for a meatball sub, Brad,” Jerry said and tugged at his left ear with his left hand. That was the signal they used back when they worked together. It meant, “Just roll with this. Trust me.”
Brad knew instantly that whatever was going on was planned and was going to be okay. He got out of the car and started to walk toward the others.
Mike made the hand symbol of someone talking on a cell phone and then motioned to keep the phone in the car. Brad nodded, took his cell phone out of his pocket, and threw it in the car. The Bluetooth in the phone could only record conversation from about ten yards, so leaving it in the car would mean their conversation couldn’t be heard by whoever might be listening. Lately it had been common for the authorities to record, and sometimes listen to, the conversations of sensitive personnel. The authorities were paranoid about Patriot spies and thought everyone, even trusted people like EPU agents, could be one.
Brad was trying to catch up to the other three, but stopped suddenly. They were getting into another car, Chrissy’s personal car, instead of going into Mecconi’s. Mike motioned for Brad to join them, so he did.
When Brad got in the front seat of Chrissy’s car, they let out a cheer and started high-fiving him.
“Welcome back, brother,” Jerry said. “We missed you.”
“What the hell is going on?” Brad asked.
“Something better than a meatball sub,” Chrissy said as she drove. Mike and Jerry smiled and nodded.
“And that would be…?” Brad asked, starting to feel a little annoyed by this charade. He had just been demoted in a career-ending humiliation and now his friends were acting all mysterious and weird. Chrissy drove a few blocks to the industrial area of town, known affectionately as “Bum Town,” and parked in front of the Union Gospel Mission. It was teeming with homeless men. She didn’t seem the slightest bit afraid.
The homeless men saw the government-looking occupants of the car and started to run, likely because they were used to not being treated well by government agents.
The three got out of the car. Brad stayed in the front seat. He refused to go in because he had no idea what was going on and no one would tell him, which was unlike the EPU unit. They always communicated about everything – who was going where, who was taking lead, taking the rear, who would wait in the car – because they had to move and operate that way. It made the silent treatment he was receiving extremely odd and very unsettling.
Finally, Mike noticed Brad was still in the car and turned around. He yelled at Brad, “You coming, or what?”
Brad lost his temper. He rolled down the window and yelled, “What the hell is happening, here?” He paused for their reaction; they just smiled. “I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s going on,” he said. They smiled even more.
Jerry rolled his eyes and gave Brad the ear-tug signal again. Then Jerry signaled for Brad to hurry up and get into the mission. Once again, Brad unquestionably reacted to the ear-tug and went into the mission.
It smelled horrible inside. Brad had been in the beautiful and meticulously maintained Camp Murray for several months. He hadn’t been around people who hadn’t showered for weeks.
Jerry, Mike, and Chrissy looked so out of place in their suits in this sea of derelicts and dirty street people, yet they seemed completely at ease.
Brad was thoroughly confused at this point. He looked at Mike.
“What am I doing here?”
“Going into the kitchen,” Mike said. He tugged on his left ear.
Chrissy and Jerry went into the kitchen first, as if they were checking the room for a threat. They didn’t draw their weapons, but they moved like they were securing the room. Mike got behind Brad to cover any threats from the rear. Brad felt like he was under strict protection and his team was securing the kitchen for him. Brad started to wonder if he really should go into the kitchen, but then remembered the multiple ear-tugs. He pushed the swinging kitchen door and strode in, confident that his team was taking care of him, just like they always had.
To his surprise, there was a homeless man standing there with a Mecconi’s bag.
The homeless man, who had a long beard, a hat, and sunglasses smiled.
“You want a meatball sub?” he asked. Then he pulled off his fake beard.
“Russ!” Brad screamed as he ran over to hug his son. He hugged him so tight he thought he would snap him in half.
After he caught his breath and came back to his senses from the shock of seeing his missing son, Brad asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Asking you to work for the Patriots, Dad.”
Chapter 218
Render Unto Caesar
(August 2)
They were still absent. Another Sunday had come and gone and the Matsons were absent from Olympia Christian Church. Rev. Martin Tibbs was looking out into the growing number of empty chairs as the Collapse wore on, but he understood. Despite the sharp increase in people attending church immediately after the Collapse, people were starting to run out of fuel to get to church and it was dangerous to walk there, even in Olympia where there were more police than elsewhere.
The Matsons, though, were a different case. They were absent not because of scarce fuel, but because, rumor had it, they were wanted by the government. Martin was afraid for them. He always liked them. He remembered helping them through the difficult time when they learned their son, Cole, had autism.
Martin also fondly remembered baptizing Grant a few years ago. There weren’t too many men in their mid-thirties getting baptized. He liked Grant’s recent-convert enthusiasm for the Gospel, even if he did swear a lot.
Martin remembered being fascinated with Grant’s political views. He never cared too much about secular politics; humans were sinners, so politicians would fight for money and power. Nothing new there; that’s what flawed human beings do. No use getting caught up in the details of which politicians were doing which bad things. None of that earthly stuff ultimately mattered.
Martin just accepted the government as a part of life. In his Olympia congregation, most parishioners were either government employees or contractors. They didn’t dislike government; they were part of it. But Grant was different. He seemed to have example after example and persuasive argument after persuasive argument, why government had become too big. Giant government crowded out the church’s ability to help people, Grant would always say. Martin was starting to see things Grant’s way.
At seminary, Martin was repeatedly taught that Christians must “render unto Caesar.” That meant, he was told, that Christians must be obedient to the earthly governments that ruled over them, which were the Romans in Jesus’ time. Besides, earthly government was just temporary, to be replaced for eternity with a supremely just and merciful ruler. Life on earth was full of injustices that Christians must suffer through, so putting up with corrupt, and sometimes evil, government was just what Christians needed to do.
Grant’s examples and arguments got Martin thinking. A few months before the Collapse, Martin read the “render unto Caesar” passage with a fresh perspective. There were actually two parts to that passage, not just the single “render unto Caesar” part. The full passage said, “Render unt
o Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's.”
What are God’s things? Martin asked himself. Everything. If God has everything, how could earthly government crowd out God and take over? Wasn’t God still in charge of everything? Of course. So, Martin concluded, Christians should generally honor government, except when government starting being unjust and corrupt and doing things God wouldn’t want. God would not want people to submit to injustice and corruption.
This was a watershed thought for Martin. He started to see all the horrible things that government was doing. Killing innocent people, allowing (and, in some cases, committing) rape, and working with gangs to steal. God would never want that.
In the days after the Collapse, Martin started to pray about what he could do. He asked God how he could preach the sermons he felt were necessary; sermons that would get him in trouble with the government. He was willing to sacrifice his liberty or even life, but he wanted to do something effective, not just be a martyr without accomplishing anything. He needed to figure out a way to have a free pass to preach what needed to be said without getting in trouble.
Then one day, he heard a knock on his office door. He had the strangest feeling that the answer to his prayers had arrived. He opened it and a well-dressed man extended his hand.
“Hi,” the man said, “I’m Logan Henson with FEMA’s Clergy Response Teams. Do you have a moment?”
Martin had heard of the Clergy Response Teams. They were an official department of FEMA that worked with clergy of all denominations to get information out to people through the churches. Martin had assumed that meant getting out information about how to prepare for a tornado or things like that, but he quickly learned that the Clergy Response Teams were asking clergy to tell their congregations about how people of faith need to follow instructions from their government. The message was that the government is a large and very effective charitable organization that helps people, just like Jesus did. Martin was uneasy about churches, especially his, being used to get the government’s message out.
“We’re here to help,” Logan said.
In an instant, Martin knew exactly what he would do. He would lie to this man, and God would forgive him. He would lie a lot and it would be okay. He hated lying and hadn’t done it since childhood, but he knew he needed to do it now. He was amazed at how easy it was to put on his “game face” and start lying to this man.
“Great,” Martin said to Logan. “How can I help you help my congregation?”
That’s what Logan wanted to hear. He loved it when a clergy member played ball. This was his last church to visit today and then he was done. This one would be easy and he’d be home early this afternoon.
Logan explained, to a very attentive Martin, how the Clergy Response Team could help. They would provide a weekly update for Martin to hand out each Sunday. The handout would describe all the things the federal and state authorities were doing to help people and how the “terrorists” were trying to thwart all this good work.
“Sounds great,” Martin said. “I’d be happy to.”
Logan explained the other programs that FEMA offered to churches, including grants and loans, in some cases. Martin listened carefully and showed great enthusiasm.
“Lastly,” Logan said, as he closed Martin’s office door and lowered his voice, “There is a program we have that you might be interested in.”
“What’s that?” Martin asked.
“Do you have any parishioners who might be hoarding food or doing things that are not best for the whole community?” Logan asked. “Maybe parishioners who have expressed anti-government sentiments.”
Martin laughed. “Oh, not in my congregation,” he said, instantly thinking of Matt Collins, a friend of Ron Spencer’s and a suspected Patriot. “This is Olympia, after all,” Martin said. “Most of my people are state employees. We all fully support the Recovery.”
“Every single parishioner?” Logan asked.
“Absolutely,” Martin said and, extremely uncharacteristically, slapped Logan on the back like a used car dealer.
“Good,” Logan said and clapped his hands. “I could tell this was a good church.”
Martin gave him a thumbs-up, yet another uncharacteristic gesture from the normally scholarly reverend.
“Do you have any questions?” Logan asked.
Martin thought for a moment. “Just one,” he answered. “How can I get more involved in the Clergy Response Teams?”
Logan clapped his hands again and explained to Martin how to participate in FEMA’s Clergy Council, which was an advisory board for the area Clergy Response Teams.
“I’m so glad you came by,” Martin said at the end of their conversation. “I look forward to working with you. You know, ‘render unto Caesar.’”
Logan smiled. He loved hearing that.
In the next few weeks, Martin networked all he could with the Clergy Council. Most in his congregation fully supported his efforts; a few were leery of the church being so involved with a government agency. Martin winked at them and assured them that it was for a good cause.
Only two months after he met Logan and started helping FEMA, Martin had a list of all the Olympia-area clergy working for the agency. He knew all the FEMA liaison staff like Logan. He asked them to sign the church’s guestbook with their home addresses, “for when the mail is working again, after the Recovery, so we can have you over for a potluck.” The FEMA liaisons gladly gave Martin their home addresses.
Today was a warm and beautiful August day. Martin got in his little car and, with gasoline provided by FEMA for his services, he drove to a bar in a bad part of town. Martin hadn’t been to a bar in several years, so he wasn’t sure how to dress or act. His denomination let him drink, but he didn’t go to bars. He found the bar and went inside, feeling strange.
Martin saw the man he was supposed to meet. “Hey,” he said, and almost spilled the beans by saying the name of who he was meeting, “How are you?”
Matt Collins started walking toward him.
When he got close, Matt said, “Thanks for not yelling out my name.” He laughed, knowing that Martin was a rookie at all this cloak and dagger stuff.
They got a little table in the corner where no one could really see them. The music was so loud no one could hear them, either.
“So,” Martin said right off the bat because he was nervous and wanted to get out of the bar as soon as he could, “Can you get some information to the yellow team,” a phrase that meant the Patriots due to the yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” flag they used.
“Maybe,” Matt said. He didn’t know his pastor very well. He knew that Martin was working for FEMA. But Martin had pulled him aside two Sundays ago and, in the privacy of his office, swore on a Bible that he wanted to make contact with the Patriots and was not trying to get anyone in trouble. Matt could tell that Martin was no polished spy and judged that he was sincere.
“I have one condition,” Martin said as he started to pull a piece of paper out of the envelope he had been carrying. “It’s important.”
“What is it?” Matt asked.
“You don’t kill anyone,” Martin said. “No killing.”
“Okay,” Matt said, having no idea if that request could be honored. But he really wanted that list of FEMA liaison home addresses.
“What will you do to them?” Martin asked. “Maybe scare them?”
He tried not to laugh out loud at Martin’s naivety. “Scare them?” Matt said without laughing. “Yeah, we’ll – well, maybe someone – will let them know that they shouldn’t be doing this.” Matt realized that Martin was being a thoroughly decent man about this, and was risking his life to get the information to him. Matt owed it to Martin to do all he could to honor Martin’s very reasonable request. “You have my word, Reverend, that no one will get killed.”
Martin sighed with relief. He had been praying about this for days. He could justify the lying to the FEMA people and his fellow Clerg
y Council members, but killing was not allowed. He couldn’t be part of that.
“What will you do with the addresses?” Martin asked.
“We’re putting together a list of bad people,” Matt said. “This information will be added to that list.”
“Yes, but what will you do with the list?” Martin asked. He feared the answer. Matt was silent.
“For most of the list, the ones already on the list, I can’t guarantee bad things won’t happen to them,” Matt said. “But, for you, Reverend, I will make sure no one on your list gets hurt.” He was serious. The Patriots he worked with weren’t blood-thirsty monsters. They would understand; and they clearly appreciated getting the information, even if it came with strings attached. Humane and decent strings, actually.
“Okay,” Martin said as he handed Matt the piece of paper with the addresses. After a few words of thanks and pleasantries, Martin left the bar.
A scheduled Clergy Council meeting the following morning was cancelled because, that night, most of the FEMA liaison staff on Martin’s list had “FEMA Lima” spray painted on the front door of their houses. They were terrified and many were talking about moving to Seattle where it was safer. Others said if the capitol city of Olympia wasn’t safe, then nowhere was. This led some to start thinking that the Legitimate Authorities couldn’t keep them safe, which led them to rethink their allegiances.
Word of the spray painting and the new security concerns spread quickly through Olympia, including Martin’s congregation. He gave a rousing sermon that Sunday entitled, “Render unto Caesar: the Second Half.” It talked about how the second half of the passage was that God was in charge of everything. Normally, that message would have raised eyebrows and put Martin under suspicion, but, just as Martin had realized after praying, he had a “free pass” to preach almost anything he wanted because he was a trusted member of the Clergy Council.
“Problem solved,” Martin whispered up to the sky.
