Contents
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Part 2
Map
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
Forty
Forty One
Forty Two
Forty Three
Forty Four
Forty Five
Forty Six
Forty Seven
Forty Eight
Forty Nine
Fifty
Fifty One
Fifty Two
Fifty Three
Epilogue
For my father, Lynn Elliott Stewart,
who is always reading good stories and has modeled
the kind of thoughtfulness and loyalties I hope to
live out in my generation as well.
PROLOGUE
Friday, April 5, 2013, 05:40—PST
Former Naval Communications Outpost: Bremerton, Washington
Beep.
C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?
C:>|......
Double-spaced and justified at a limit of fifty characters, the row of text and the empty prompt that followed flickered once per second on the comm room screen. Basic, orderly, mechanical. Bright green lettering occupying an otherwise vacant black background. Equal parts surprising and unsettling, the unadorned words collided, and jarringly so, with the complexity of the question at hand. So out of place; at its very core a gross mismatch of format and content.
Nonsense.
Still, this four-word query, better suited for a philosopher's pen or ancient theologians' scrolls, blinked unerringly, demanding a deeper reflection—for which there was no time—and a definitive response, for which there was no easy answer.
C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?
C:>|......
Lieutenant Zebulon Mordecai Dalton, United States Army Signal Corps (retired), fought valiantly against the mental fog enveloping him, threatening to overtake him. His headspace, fluctuating between disciplined reasoning and barely restrained panic, was little more than an untended circus carousel spinning at a furious, increasingly nauseating, rate. Shaking his head, forcing it left to right and back again, he hoped the momentary disorientation might somehow usher him back into the world of clearer thinking. Zeb summoned every power of intellect and emotion he had remaining, willing himself through the unrelenting gray, to think, to assess, to respond.
What are they trying to do?
What could possibly be their endgame?
Dalton's hands hovered over the console, weak, a scant inch above the instrument that at his command would bring untold destruction of life, including his own. In a Faustian play of simple biology, a single line of perspiration trailed down and inside his right shirtsleeve, pooling at the tip of his forefinger, then dropping onto the faded J of the sweaty, sticky keyboard. Zeb desperately needed to buy some more time.
Repeat last transmission was his best shot.
Seconds later it refreshed.
C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?
C:>|......
Dalton froze again, hands outstretched in the same robotic pose. The onerous cloak of human mortality lay heavy in the room. Unshakable, it refused to ease even one ounce of his burden. Necessary, imminent decisions pressed in with a force undeterred, as every second of delay only proved itself more overwhelming than the last. In the crucible of this moment, established and trusted protocols became nothing more than rehearsed, memorized futility. It was the ultimate no-win scenario, with simply no good choices to be made; at least, none that appeared obvious, actionable, or desirable.
Zeb squinted, focusing again on the readout in front of him.
C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?
C:>|......
The surreal, inexorable nature of the circumstance struck the lieutenant broadside as his barely-contained fears transitioned, unabated, toward a hopeless, powerless despondency. He didn't know how much longer he could keep the unthinkable from happening. Honestly, he just wanted it all to end. If this whole thing came down as a worst-case ending, then so be it. It would all be over soon.
"Zeb?"
"Zeb. What do we do?"
The sound of another's voice in the room called him to the present, drawing him back away from the edge. But it did little to satisfy the question still blinking on the screen.
ONE
25 Days Earlier
Monday, March 11, 2013, 7:00 am—Pacific Standard Time Zone
Seattle, Washington
The strong, dark liquid in the ceramic mug radiated its heat upward, forming a small cloud of vapor on the aging, street-side window pane.
Inspiration struck as Zeb considered the readied canvas of glass and condensation before him. Leaning forward in his chair and then reaching out with his right-hand index finger, he sketched with the urgency of an artist already seeing the completed work in his imagination. What followed were bold strokes, fine details; at least as much detail as his chubby digits allowed.
It didn't take long.
On the windowpane before him: round head, two eyes, an over-sized grin.
The classic happy face.
Zeb nodded admiringly, certain his first grade art teacher would be very proud. But then his countenance changed. Something about the unbounded expression put him on edge, the wide grin and carefree attitude grating at him. So he set out to destroy the little man… in his thoughts.
The courthouse setting that began to unfold in Zeb's daydream resembled the screenplay climax of your basic legal thriller. As the gilded presence of prosecutorial power—no, of justice—he stood before judge, jury, and defendant to present his case. His first salvo arced across the bow, more accusatory than questioning. Though he'd not actually attended law school, Dalton's strategy was still flawless, at every turn unassailable. Each line of questioning plunged mercilessly into the accused's right to happiness. No holds barred. No statements defied. No assertions overturned from the bench. Zeb was rolling.
"So, you admit to smiling without ceasing... "
"You do not deny this, do you... Mr... Face?"
A required, dramatic pause.
"Please then, illuminate this courtroom—no, reveal to us your secrets, the reasons for your ongoing condition of unrestricted bliss."
There was no stopping him. No slowing. No break in the remorseless barrage.
"Do you find it plausible in a world filled with pain, betrayal, and greed that someone could be happy all the time?"
Dalton's voice rose again. "Do you find it reasonable they might be happy, ever?"
Unfiltered, no regrets, he fired shot after verbal shot upon the weak philosophical foundations of the tiny man's joyous demeanor. The fantasized litany poured out of Zeb viciously. A burst dam, overcome by a swollen springtime river, would have been more merciful.
The face s
tared back, unblinking. It was pitiful and beautiful at the same time; an attack making any law professor proud while leaving mothers of happy-faced men around the world infuriated by its cruelty and callousness. A few more rounds of this and the prosecution rested. Confident, even cocky, Zeb re-buttoned his impeccably tailored suit coat and took his seat, from there awaiting the all but certain verdict of "guilty".
Back in the real world a delivery truck drove by, spraying water from the street onto the glass in front of him. The hollow, rhythmic combination of tire, pothole, and rainwater played at the edges of Zeb's subconscious mind, inviting him back to reality.
Like a student awaking mid-lecture, Zeb did his best to re-enter the room with subtlety and grace. A slow glance over his right shoulder. Now, to the left. No rush of concerned citizens. No men with white coats bursting in to take him away. Satisfied all was safe, Zeb turned back to the glass and cleared away any evidence of the last few moments with his shirtsleeve. This case was now closed; the little man could be released from custody.
Whoa there, Dalton.
That was more "Castaway" than you want to admit to.
Pretty soon you'll name him Wilson, apologize to him, and mourn his untimely passing.
Get a grip. Get a flippin' grip.
The sarcasm indicated that Dalton was all present again. Present, yes, but also embarrassed by what had just occurred in-between his ears. And not only embarrassed but keenly aware of his disturbingly raw emotional and mental state this early Monday morning. Some of this was just routine, for the most part only revealing a darker shade of humor residing in Zeb than the general populace. Still, these uninvited forays into the ridiculous and angsty had been occurring more often lately, he reflected. This was probably worth noting.
Feeling a bit more himself, Zeb threw back a generous swig of the still-warm contents of his mug while simultaneously congratulating himself on the choice of this lightly frequented cafe.
Ah, a coffee to be savored by the few, he beamed. Not the over-commercialized brew found amongst the java conglomerates of the world, he preached on internally, but a cup appreciated only by those as serious about this kind of thing as their politics.
He was at least correct in that first assertion. The Arabica bean featured today was exceedingly rare, harvested in small yields from family farms in quite remote places. Zeb raised his cup in unity with the indie coffee brokers and farmers of the world. As he did, he realized he was taking in more than just the scent of the dark brown liquid.
Buildings have smells, too, and this one carried the scent of untold layers of paint and stain cloying on mature walls, floors, and ceiling. Like geologic sensory strata, these elements—the collective presentation of a space standing now for well over a century—concocted a heady, unique ambiance. It came off as more industrial than people-place. Muscular, yet comforting. Like it held a purpose, something more than merely gathering humans for show.
Dalton inhaled again, deeper this time, zeroing in on the room. Somehow the act of breathing, taking in the scene this way, helped him recapture some emotional equilibrium. He needed that. Closing his eyes, he let it all wash over him.
Okay, that's a little better.
More centered now, Zeb sat back, way back, his eyes drawn to the space above him.
Whoah.
The open-beam ceilings were putting on quite a show. A rough-hewn tapestry of solid timbers. Old-school plaster. It all reminded him again why he cherished this place.
Towering overhead, these planked sentries created a sense of majesty and reverence missing in many modern shops and businesses. Here they stood, unflinching, preserving the sanctity of the space amidst a neighborhood of tear downs and new construction. Even from this distance the grain and knot patterns gave away that they were quarter- or half-sawn; basically big old tree trunks squared off to shape and set into place so many years ago. If these ceilings could talk, their stories would hearken all the way back to when this pioneering settlement had emerged from the womb.
Yeah, in defiance of the seemingly unstoppable wave of modernity, this building said been there.
Dalton's head came forward, his eyes focusing this time on the window not three feet from his face.
Slight swirled flaws in the glass.
Must be original.
The seals, he could tell, had been replaced a few times. The workmanship and materials were from another era entirely. How the owner had passed code on this he was unsure but he was in awe. This shop had everything right; the beans and the vibe. One could imagine a crusty old trapper making his way in from the wet and cold, wolf-dog at his side, shotgun in hand, feeling right at home.
Zeb detested the coffee drinking faux-elite that gathered in earthen-toned, pop-jazz infused rooms built for community and conversation. As far as he was concerned they were not welcomed here. This place was an escape from the posturing. And this particular seat—Zeb's regular spot in this fur warehouse turned Shangri-La for introverts—was the best in the house. Tucked, as it was, around and behind two oak shelving units overflowing with yellowed reading matter and next to a small bank of windows, it was thankfully removed from the cafe's normal customer traffic. The trek from here to the front counter, along a darkened thirty-foot long connecting hallway complete with peeling wallpaper and aging plaster, tested your commitment to the need for a fresh cup. But the solitude it virtually guaranteed was glorious.
There were two chairs in this secluded backroom area, the one Dalton occupied facing the street and another, a few feet behind and to the left. In Zeb's opinion, one of them could go. Though he felt this way all the time, this perspective only grew stronger on days when that other seat happened to be occupied by someone wanting to engage in meaningless small talk.
Like this morning.
TWO
For the last hour and a half on this stereotypical Seattle spring morning, Zeb had reigned as king of his coffee and silence domain. Now, out of basic courtesy, he'd be obliged to interact with another human being.
An explosion of sarcasm, heavy and duly noted as such, came from behind an unevenly folded daily edition of The Seattle Times.
"So, the Hawks look like they're gonna blow it again, huh?" the voice questioned and opined at the same time. "Wasting a first round pick on that beat-up tailback from Alabama? Sheer genius."
Keep it simple. Keep it short. He'll go away.
"Didn't follow it, man," Zeb offered back.
The paper came down, revealing a sad, almost pitying expression on the man's face.
Oh no.
Plan A—complete avoidance of the conversation—failed, miserably so. Instead of retreating back into the sports page, this new companion took Dalton's tepid response as a sure sign that he knew little about the game.
What's a concerned citizen to do in times like this?
Apparently the only proper response is to begin unearthing the intricacies of the NFL draft, hoping that this pathetic football virgin would have his moment. Think of it as a needed back-filling of an intellectual and cultural void; a public service, in essence.
Seeing the renewed vigor in the man, his overwhelming concern and commitment, Zeb headed in a different direction. Time for Plan B, an approach rife with body language and symbol.
Zeb tilted his mug to the spilling point, indicating he needed to get more coffee and therefore couldn't finish out the chat, as much as he would love to. There, that should work.
It didn't. Seahawk Guy kept going, unfazed.
Plan C, more uneasy acceptance of defeat than any real scheme, was the only one left in the playbook. Zeb would now simply play out the clock. So for the next few minutes Dalton feigned nominal interest, praying his overt lack of enthusiasm might bring the forced interaction to an end.
The wave of his cup in Plan B had only been a diversionary tactic but glancing down—anywhere other than directly at the guy for fear of encouraging him—he noticed that the F117 Nighthawk stamped onto his mug was slowly disappearing. He
turned the fading image toward the guy, thinking it would help.
So, I'd really love to hear more about where the Spring owner's meeting landed on the issue of player's headbands without official logos on them but as you can see… my plane is gone.
Unfortunately, this fact meant nothing to the man. He didn't know it was supposed to work this way, that the fading came not from of overuse or age but from the change in temperature of the liquid inside. Warm coffee: plane appears. Cold coffee: plane goes away and it's time for more java.
Zeb remembered the first time he'd seen this clever little giveaway to Boeing employees in the 1990s. Teen Dalton had just thought it was cool. It actually turned out to be a brilliant promotional idea as well as a celebration of an aviation tech breakthrough, forever altering the balance of power in global air warfare. While this personal keepsake from his favorite uncle could seem a bit out of place—who drags their own ceramic mug around with them everywhere they go?—it was only further indication of how awesome this cafe really was. As if this hideaway didn't rate high enough by virtue of the building and java alone, the staff also encouraged regulars to keep a personal cup on their shelves. They'd even clean it, making sure nobody else used it until you came back around again. As one of only a few items he took with him to college, it also remained one of the few things in his life still working some twenty years later.
Zeb glanced up from the empty, Nighthawk-less cup and half-rose from his chair, only to see that Seahawk Guy was still going stronger than ever and in his fervor had re-positioned himself in a way that made passage difficult.
Dalton sat back down heavily.
The lecture, focused originally on the mechanics of how teams acquired rookie players, had now blossomed into a full oration on the game in general. It wasn't necessary. Dalton's antisocial behavior had nothing to do with the sport itself. On the contrary, Zeb loved the favored American pastime. He did, although, interact with it differently than pretty much everyone else on the planet.
When Totems Fall Page 1
