Battle Road

by Gerry, Frank

  Communication systems had crashed throughout the metropolitan Boston area. Nobody knew why. The only thing still working during the commute was satellite radio. National Christian Radio surmised the problem was due to one of the mainframe computers in the city's infrastructure command center going down.

  Dylan breathed a sigh of relief after closing the door to his condominium behind him. It had been a long day. He dropped his briefcase next to the hallway closet as he took off his jacket and hung it up. The condominium was brand new. So was everything in it: new furniture, new paintings, new appliances. The place even smelled new. It was decorated in the monochromatic modernist style with varying shades of white. The walls were white, the furniture was white, the rugs were white, the TV and all the appliances were even white. The colorful artwork and decorations provided the contrast.

  The building was a thirty story high rise built on the site of the last remaining city block of old Brownstone homes in Boston's South End. Or to be more precise, the last available block of the old Brownstones. The Boston preservation society had bought up all of the buildings on one block in the early twenties. Tourists were just now beginning to flock to the area to see the old architecture of the homes people in the nineteenth and twentieth century once lived in.

  Dylan changed out of his work clothes. Putting on the same pair of navy blue sweat pants he's had for the past four years, and his favorite gray tee shirt with the emblem of the Patriots Super Bowl win of 2033. He walked into the living room, issuing orders for the home computer. “Zeus, set the lights to seventy five percent and turn the TV on, channel seven eighty eight.” The computer system set the lights in the apartment accordingly and turned on the two hundred and ten inch 3-D Ultra-HDTV that took up most of an entire wall. Channel 788 was broadcasting the local news. Dylan stood in front of the massive screen. “Increase sound level to six point five,” he said. The news was broadcasting the story about the evenings traffic logjam. The male and female co-anchors were trading witty banter about the story.

  Dylan walked over to the kitchen. He didn't intend to watch the TV yet. It was just a routine to turn it on when he got home. Acting as a companion, the chatter from the television made the place a bit less lonely. He opened a door to one of the upper cabinets and pulled down a bottle of twelve year old scotch. The cabinet was jam packed with every imaginable type of alcohol; vodka, gin, whiskey. All top shelf exotic, expensive brands. Definitely no rot gut.

  After pouring himself a double over ice, Dylan made dinner the way he did most every night whenever he was home alone. Taking a frozen meal from the freezer and tossing it into the microwave. Tonight it was a gourmet Indian chicken korma dinner. Not a cheap frozen dinner that most people might buy from the supermarket. This meal was prepared by a chef down at Fredo's, a specialty food shop around the corner that catered to the professionals who dominated the neighborhood. He'd buy a dozen of the gourmet meals at a time and freeze them.

  The bell to the microwave rang at the same time as the home video phone signaled an incoming transmission. Ignoring the phone, he took the container out of the microwave and used his index finger to check the temperature. It was still a little too hot to eat. The phone switched over to video mail while he started scooping his dinner onto a plate, taking his time to scrape every bit out of the microwave bowl and licking the spoon. “Awesome,” he said aloud.

  Dylan brought everything into the living room and put it on the glass coffee table. He kicked off his slippers and sat down to enjoy his dinner. The last of the local evening news was still on, reporting about a grizzly manufacturing accident up in Maine. The story held his attention for a few moments until he grew bored. “Zeus, search the TV for New England Patriots.” The TV screen changed to a teal green background with white letters that read, “Searching....” A dot appearing every second as the search was continuing. Simultaneously, Zeus's synthesized male voice broadcast from the speaker system, “Searching, New England Patriots”.

  Moments later the giant TV screen displayed twelve individual windows, divided into three rows down and four windows across. Each window displayed a different digital video feed that contained the story or news clip of the search parameters. Seven of the windows contained digital video of the Patriots. The eighth window had last Sunday's game ready to play. The remaining windows were empty, with just a white background.

  “Zeus, play screen four, then play screen one.” The entire TV screen filled with clips from the last Pats game while the reporter provided commentary. Dylan picked up his fork and took a small bite to check if his dinner was cool enough. It was still too hot. He washed it down with a swig of the scotch.

  “Zeus, display today's phone messages,” he issued the voice command while sitting back in the couch with the drink in his hand. He grew a little impatient waiting for his dinner cool. The TV screen displayed 'Three video messages for November 5, 2036' while Zeus spoke the words over the the sound system, Several other video messages were marked as spam and stored in the junk mailbox. He'd check those later, making sure the computer didn't accidentally mark a good message as spam. It's been known to happen.

  Zeus's digitized voice echoed through the sound system again, “Message one of three.” The TV displayed a snapshot of the person calling, a middle-aged woman wearing a T-shirt that read 'Mom's for Christ'. Zeus continued with the identification of the caller, “Elizabeth Fraser, incoming message one thirty three pm, November fifth two thousand thirty six.” Dylan ordered the computer to play the message. “Hi Eddie,” Dylan saw his mother's image flash large as life upon his TV screen. He hated the name Eddie. “Give me a call when you get home tonight, dear. I'm planning for our Thanksgiving dinn'ah. Are you still seeing, what's her name, Evelyn? Will she be joining us?” I haven't seen Evelyn in almost a year, Dylan thought. I must have told her at least six times. Dylan's mother could be seen fumbling with her old fashioned hand held remote control unit before finally saying good bye, “God Bless you.”

  Zeus reported the next video message, “Message two of three. “Patricia Hennessey, incoming message five fifty two pm, November fifth two thousand thirty six.” A young perky blond appeared on the high definition television. “Hi, Dylan. Remember me, Tricia? You gave me your number last week at the Station 9 Nightclub. Call me on this number, let's get together for drinks. See ya.” Dylan spoke aloud before the next message appeared, “Oh, I'll definitely be calling you.” He took another long swig from his drink, almost emptying the glass.

  Finally the TV displayed “MESSAGE 3 of 3: Encrypted Transmission, incoming message 6:48 PM, 11/5/36. Please enter your quantum ssh encryption key.” Zeus echoed the same words. “Why the hell is someone sending me an encrypted video message?” Dylan downed the last of his drink. “Zeus, produce my q-ssh encryption key. My authorization; soccer22 dash 1399 dash 3341comm.” Zeus performed the quantum calculations within a few seconds and displayed the message.

  Jack Brooks appeared on the high definition television screen. He was a bit disheveled and obviously excited. “Dylan pick up buddy. Where are you? Something unbelievable just happened. I'm at the Karma Club. Call me as soon as you can. This is really important.”

  Dylan was used to Brooksie's wild stories. What is it now, he thought. He was tired from a long day and in no mood to listen to another of his friend's wild adventures.

  He pushed forward on the couch and checked his dinner. It was ready ready to eat. He swirled the the ice cubes in his glass and sipped the remaining mixture of water and scotch. “Zeus, call home,” he ordered. The calling signal from the phone rang a couple times over the sound system before the face of a middle age man appeared on the giant display. “Hi, Dad. How are ya?” Dylan smiled as he saw his father. “Good to see you, son. I'm doing good for an old man,” the elder Fraser said. Dylan laughed, “Come on Dad, fifty five isn't that old. Besides what are you going to say when you're eighty five?” “I'll figure that out when the time comes,” the elder Fraser said, letting out a laugh. �
�Hey I'm call'n mom back about Thanksgiving. Is she around?”

  SEVEN

  Agent Goodman stood in front of his oak desk and stretched his arms out as far apart as they could go. He let out a brief yawn. The home office in his finished basement was beginning to get a little too cold. He walked over and manually turned up the old fashioned thermostat to sixty eight degrees.

  A modern voice controlled computer had never been installed in the old house, which Goodman didn't really mind. He had spent most of his life in Marine barracks, tents, or foxholes. An antique house without all of the computerized home conveniences was just fine for him. Not to mention saving tens of thousands of dollars on upgrades. Money that could go towards the kids education someday.

  Reclining in the black leather chair to his desk, Goodman could hear the faint sounds of the TV in the family room above on the first floor. He recognized the girls cartoon show they watched nearly every night at that time. Before focusing on his work, Goodman put his hands behind his head and leaned all the way back in his chair, and just sat there looking up at the basement ceiling.

  Less than a minute later the computer on his desk beeped, jolting him back into the awareness of his surroundings. A window had popped up on his display notifying him of an incoming video transmission. Goodman straightened up and pushed his chair in a little closer to the computer. “Engage transmission.”

  A middle aged Hispanic woman with obviously died pitch black hair appeared on the screen. “Hi Mike. I've got some news for you,” Senior Agent Selma Rivera spoke in a straight forward manner over the computer video link. Rivera was a member of the National Command Staff for Homeland Security. She was stationed in Burlington and had worked together with Goodman throughout his career at DHS. In fact, it was Rivera who hired Goodman out of the Marine Corps.

  “Good evening Agent Rivera. I'm hoping it's good news,” Goodman said. Rivera didn't respond to his friendly banter. She went right to business. “I just got out of a command meeting and wanted to say congratulations. The decision was made to assign you to lead the counter terrorism efforts in the New England security zone. You've been promoted to Senior Agent. Your command is effective at eight am tomorrow morning.”

  Goodman wasn't surprised with the news of the promotion. He expected the job after the failures of the previous counter terrorism chief. He knew his experience made him the best person for the position. Political infighting would have been the only barrier. “Thank you, Selma. I know it was you who pushed for me. I'm not going to let you down.”

  Senior Agent Rivera let out a slight smile, “I know you too well, Mike. I know you'd never let me down. Be in my office at eight thirty. Skip the morning prayer services. This is more important.” Goodman responded in standard military fashion, “Yes, Ma'am.” Agent Rivera could be seen on the video display reaching over to shut off the video camera while saying goodbye, “God bless you.” He replied in kind.

  Goodman took notice of the clock sitting on his desk. It was twenty past seven. Before his conversation with Agent Rivera, he thought he'd be able to finish his work in an hour or so. Now he knew he wasn't going to get to bed before midnight.

  Connected to the Homeland Security high speed encrypted network, Goodman began downloading the field reports from that evening's operations on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston. Viewing the number of dead and wounded he shook his head. He knew from his overseas assignments that more terrorists would be created that night. Regardless of the piss poor handling of the operation, he had his job to do. As the new Counter Terrorist Chief one of his first jobs would be personally overseeing the interrogations of the rounded up terrorists.

  Before starting work on his new assignment, Goodman opened the files on his tablet computer to the project he'd been working on, his most important since starting at Homeland Security. An almost imperceptible grin crossed his face while he swiped his thumb across the display of the tablet, leafing through the pages of the documents. He was beginning to realize that in his new position he was now free to proceed as he liked, unfettered by anyone. I'm the goddamn boss now, he thought while flipping though the documents until he found what he was looking for. The title of the file read: “Fraser, Edward Dylan, Jr.”

  EIGHT

  The next morning, Dylan was in his office pretending to review lines of computer code. If anyone knocked on his door, that's what he'd have them believe if they walked in. He was actually spending his morning goofing off; surfing the net, tossing a foam mini basketball through a hoop stuck on the wall with a suction cup, and snacking on M&M's. Most days Dylan worked hard. But today a lot weighed on his mind. He had to go down to Grace's office and smooth things over with her. He was doing whatever he could to delay taking that walk.

  The office v-phone signaled an incoming transmission at nine thirty am. Joanne Neely was visible on the other end. Her hair was a mess as if she had just got out of bed. She was wearing plaid pajamas and sipping a mug of coffee. He picked up the call. “Hi Joanne, how are you?” He considered Joanne to be more of a 'friend of a friend' than anything else. He'd only hung out with her and Brooksie a few times. Dylan actually liked Joanne and respected her regardless of the fact that her politics were somewhat radical and even possibly subversive. Joanne took another sip from the mug and spoke into the phone. “I'm doing well, thanks. Hey, the reason I'm calling is I'd like to pass along an invitation for a party I'm having at my place Friday night. Last minute sorta thing.”

  “Well, I'm kinda...” he spoke hesitantly before being cut off. “Come on, Dylan. It'll be fun. This is why I called you instead of having Brooksie invite you to the party. I knew you would make some lame excuse,” she said, finally getting the chance to take another sip of her coffee. Dylan didn't answer right away, giving Joanne another chance to speak. “Actually, I have a girlfriend that will probably be there. You should meet her.”

  Girlfriend...., his face betrayed his thoughts. Again, before Dylan could get a word in, Joanne spoke up. “Uhhh noooo, not that kind of girlfriend. I can see your expression. She's not one of my artsy, feminist, liberal friends. She's just really cool and I think you'll like her.” She took another sip of coffee.

  Dylan hated to be fixed up on dates. Most of the fix ups he's ever had ran the gambit from awkward to miserable. Though it was still a better way to meet women than in bars. He finally spoke, “OK, I'll be there. But only if you promise a casual no pressure introduction.”

  Joanne acquiesced, “I promise. I promise. So, good. Stop by anytime aft'ah six thirty.”

  “OK, I'll see you Friday. God Bless you,” Dylan said his usual good bye.

  “Ahhhh, yeah. You too. See you then,” she said, while powering off her video phone. Dylan's computer screen went blank for a second before switching over to video of a gentle waterfall in some remote tropical rain forest.

  Dylan returned from lunch at quarter to one that afternoon. A high priority message icon flashed on his computer screen. “Computer, play voice mail,” he said, while sitting down and getting himself settled into his office. “Hello Mr Fraser. This is Agent Goodman. Please meet me at my office at one thirty this afternoon. I checked your online calendar, your schedule is clear.” Man, not much time, he thought. Dylan had intended to walk down to the third floor to see Grace right after lunch. Though, now it occurred to him that maybe meeting with Agent Goodman was a good thing. He could wait another day before seeing Grace.

  At just that moment however, by sheer coincidence, Grace stood at the open door to his office. She spoke apologetically, “I'm sorry for the terrible things I said yesterday. It was totally uncalled for.”

  “Hi, Grace. I'm glad you stopped by. I planned on going down to see you today but my schedule is so hectic. And I didn't want to use the phone.” Dylan responded in a truly genuine manner, that surprised even himself.

  “Well, it was all my fault. I feel so stupid. I acted like a schoolgirl. If you're not interested in me I can accept that,” Grace said. Her face betraying a look of wo
unded pride.

  Grace entered his office and closed the door behind her. She continued, “I need to talk to you about this privately.” Dylan agreed and offered her his office chair. She sat down and took a deep breath. Dylan leaned back against the side of his desk, trying to make her has feel as comfortable as possible.

  Grace spoke slowly at first, eventually speaking in a more evenly paced manner. “Dylan, I should have said this before but I'm asking you to not tell anyone, I mean no one, about our encounter this past Labor Day. If word got out that we had sex, well, you know that DHS management would terminate my employment. I've worked so hard in my career. I can't loose my job because of this.”

  Dylan pushed his body sideways along his desk, moving a little closer to her. “I understand Grace. I won't say a word to anyone.” He paused for a second, looking down at the floor before bringing his head up to look her in the eye. “Though, to be honest with you. I did tell one person, my best friend. He doesn't work here and isn't a Party member. I'll talk to him tonight. Ordinarily, he would never say anything. Though, I'll make sure of it.”

  A slight smile almost broke out across Grace's face. “Thank you.” She let out a sigh of relief and leaned back in the office chair. She continued to speak, “You know, this is so fuck'in unfair. If our bosses found out about us, I would loose my job and you would only get a fuck'n reprimand. They're such a bunch of fuck'n hypocrites!”

  Dylan had known Grace for over a year. And in all of that time, he had never heard her say a foul word. Not ever. It took him a moment to think of what he needed to say. “Wow, uhm, You're right. It's completely unfair. It's just the way it's always been. I think. But you're right. They are a bunch of fucking hypocrites.”