Shoreline

by Carolyn Baugh

  He was a lover not a fighter. Really audacious love affairs. But he wouldn’t have shot a bunch of refugee women. Might have yelled at them for defiling German soil. But it would have been an intellectual protest: he thought he was a big martyr for his art, keen on preserving his culture, but he would have been too selfish to die for that stuff. Lot of silk shirts in his wardrobe. I imagine after verbally abusing some refugees he would probably have romanticized their plight and made one of them the heroine of his next opera.

  —If you wanted to thwart a crazy bad guy who’s obsessed with opera, how would you do it?

  The response was immediate. Play Bruno Mars at him.

  The three other agents had returned. With a clatter, Ben opened the car door and dropped into the driver’s seat as Chid and Ford piled into the back.

  “All set?” Nora asked.

  “Yes. They’re squared away. We’ve documented what went down here and covered our asses,” said Chid.

  “How much time do we have until they kill Pete?” Nora asked, trying to steel herself.

  Ford answered, “Nothing’s shown up yet, Nora. I think they didn’t intend to move as early as they did on the last one, nor was it so supposed to end so soon, I assume. So they’re recalibrating, tweaking the schedule.”

  “So maybe we have enough time to get there this time?” she asked.

  Chid answered, “Maybe so.”

  She looked at Ben, mustering a half-smile. “You’re going to really drive this time?”

  He shook his head, tsking softly. “I find your lack of faith disturbing.” He shifted into Drive.

  “Does your Egyptian girlfriend get your Star Wars references?” Chid asked from the backseat, already flipping open his laptop.

  “Never. It’s actually quite painful,” Ben answered, as he tore across the field toward the gravel drive and to Route 5 beyond.

  Nora knew better than to engage on that topic. Any mention of space movies being ridiculous seemed to open some sort of mortal wound in Ben’s heart.

  “I had to study for that one,” Chid said to Nora. “You can get up to speed. In order to talk to white kids like these—” he indicated Ben and Derek with a sweep of his hand, “you have to study up. Don’t bother with the prequels. But you won’t get the keys to the kingdom until you can quote a droid. It’s not enough to speak English. You have to learn your man’s language!”

  Nora pursed her lips at him. “Is that why you know all this stuff about operas. To really learn ‘the Man’s’ language?”

  Chid smiled. “Touché. I learned pop culture for my man and high culture for the Man. But I lost nothing for it, you know?”

  She considered this. “Benjamin and I learned really fast that the only show we had ever watched in common was Scooby Doo. I have never had time for space movies.”

  Ben looked at her aghast. “Space movies?”

  Chid held up a hand. “I daresay, Nora, it’s obvious that studying up on Star Wars will be central to the health of your relationship.”

  Derek looked up from the laptop screen to add, “Don’t forget these are movies about revolution and throwing off oppression.… Fighting evil with your life. Resistance.”

  “God, you white folks talk a lot about revolution,” she snapped. “None of you would know oppression if it walked up and bitch-slapped you.”

  Chid was chuckling in the back. “Hear-hear!”

  Ben gave her a long look and then focused on the road without speaking. He was trying to make it to the interstate, but was caught behind a John Deere combine harvester.

  “But I’ll study up,” she added, making her tone gentler, and allowing herself to pat him on the knee. “Because learning your language is important to me. Just as I’m sure you’ll watch some classic Egyptian movies with me. Some Suad Hosny. A little Adil Imam?”

  “Hey, I’m already a devoted Umm Kulthoum fan,” Ben rejoined, his crooked smile returning to his face. “Bring it on.”

  Derek, holding the iPhone, coughed slightly.

  Nora whirled. “What is it?”

  “They’ve figured out that we are in their system. There was no warning this time. Act Three has begun.”

  “What?” Panic infused her voice. “Pete…”

  But he was shaking his head. “It isn’t Pete this time.”

  “Then … what?”

  He twisted the phone so she could look at the screen.

  “Occupation.”

  * * *

  Nearly every flavor and brand of law enforcement had been either lurking outside the compound in Planer or out at the Potter farm in Fairview.

  Thus when a panicked administrative assistant from the federal courthouse in downtown Erie had called 9-1-1 to say that the guards had been subdued and a stream of people in camouflage and leather were walking into the building, most carrying some sort of firearm, there was a massive delay in the response.

  Chid was frowning at his screen. “They’re broadcasting an appeal for other militias to join them.”

  “Of course they are,” Ben said acerbically.

  The media outlets had picked up on Baker’s call to fellow militia organizations throughout the country. His right fist raised and clenched, he called for action.

  They cannot kill us all. They cannot silence all of our voices. Revolution! Revolution! Revolution! A citizenry should not fear its government! The government should fear its citizenry!

  Nora was immediately on the phone with Sheila who had found out only seconds before from the 9-1-1 call. “We’re on our way to you…” Nora dared to say.

  But Sheila was practically screaming at her through the phone: “You will report to the federal courthouse immediately. Immediately! And wait for the team we’re sending from here!”

  Nora hung up the phone and turned to Ben.

  “We have to go downtown,” she said.

  He shook his head grimly. “I heard.”

  Nora’s lips were pursed, her expression angry. “How can she send the team from there? They have to stay in Planer!”

  Chid said, “Look, Nora, there’s a method to this madness. If Pete wasn’t part of Act Two then he’s not going to be killed today. He just isn’t. This is Act Three. Occupation.”

  “This is insane,” she said bitterly.

  “Every part of it, yes,” Chid confirmed.

  Ben had guided the Malibu out onto 12th Street and they were heading back toward town.

  “What if they’re just trying to call off the SWAT teams by distracting them with the courthouse. And then they kill him?”

  “To what end, though?” Chid asked. “Look, Nora. Remember what we talked about the first time this came up? If there’s a big finale then it’s planned for tomorrow. Valhalla doesn’t burn until the fourth opera, the ‘Third Day’—in the Twilight of the Gods, Götterdämmerung.”

  “That’s a ridiculous word,” Nora said petulantly.

  Chid said, “It is an awesome word, and German is awesome, and you should add German to your arsenal of languages, Special Agent Khalil. Some of the best Orientalist scholars were Germans. Wrote the best Arabic dictionaries by far.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” she snapped. “So besides Valhalla burning what do you think is left?”

  “Well … They’ve struck a blow at the judiciary. They’ve struck a blow at municipal government and minorities therein. They’ve struck a blow at refugee policies and the federally insured banking system. They tried to get across their anger at the Jews and illegal aliens, but we messed with the plan. So. Yeah, I think they will try to kill Pete tomorrow because he symbolizes federal law enforcement. I think Baker’ll rely on our rage over that death to provoke the attack on the compound.”

  “So maybe if we can keep them from killing Pete then there won’t be a need to have a giant firefight over the compound. And it’s all moot.”

  Ben was nodding. “So we send in the SWAT teams tonight.”

  Ford shook his head. “No good. Number one, we’ve
seen what happens when the plan doesn’t work out. They get mad and keep moving. Two, they’ve got hostages now in the federal courthouse, man. Do we send SWAT teams for one guy or for fifty?”

  “My God, why can’t we do both?”

  “Because there are American lives involved,” Ford insisted. “And that’s the last thing the Commander-in-Chief is going to want to authorize. Americans firing on Americans.”

  “These people are not Americans,” Nora said angrily.

  “Funny how they’d say the same thing about you, Special Agent Khalil,” Ford pointed out.

  They had arrived at the courthouse.

  Nora stared at the scene. A few squad cars sat in the middle of the street, their lights flashing uselessly.

  Nora’s car had been allowed in close because of the flashing light on her roof. They descended from the car, leaving it parked on State Street and made their way to the front door of the courthouse. She realized that Abe Berberovic seemed to be in charge, and this made it all the more clear that the police forces were stretched thinner than ever.

  “What’s the story?” she asked, after introducing him to her colleagues.

  “How’s Anna?” he asked, his eyes concerned.

  Nora reassured him. “She’s hanging in there. Little sleep-deprived at this point, I imagine. But Anna’s tough.”

  “Yes, yes she is. Sorry, okay, the story: a group entered from the front and back doors simultaneously and overcame the security guards—no fatalities reported though. They barricaded themselves in, and then started putting out this call for reinforcements from the public and from other militias. They hadn’t even taken a hostage yet, only a few people had seen what happened with the security guards, so all of a sudden when this stream of people started entering the building, no one knew what was going on. Some fifty people got inside before the employees realized it was an occupation.”

  “Have they said anything about the hostages?” asked Ford. “What are their intentions toward them?”

  Abe shook his head. “No, nothing.”

  “Did they let anyone go?” he pressed.

  “No.”

  “Who are these people who got inside?” Ben asked, incredulous.

  “By all accounts most of them were biker types.”

  “Biker types?” Chid asked. “I thought the Patriots were putting on this whole biker conceit to blend in with the bikers and make it more difficult to be spotted. But most bikers aren’t…”

  “Revolutionaries?” Nora asked.

  “Blood-thirsty?” supplied Ben.

  Chid considered both of these. “Exactly,” he said finally.

  “Well, that’s what happened, and here we are.” Abe was clearly uninterested in abstractions.

  “How long since they locked themselves in?”

  “Just about fifteen minutes really,” said Abe, checking his wristwatch.

  “Have they issued demands?”

  Abe waved a printout at them. “Repeal of the Brady Bill, repeal of the assault weapons ban, ban on further immigration into the United States, deportation of all illegal immigrants, and a white homeland.”

  All four agents started to laugh. Abe just stared at them. “I’m kinda missing what’s funny.”

  Chid began, “The absurdity…”

  “No,” Abe interjected, cutting him off, his eyes bright. “In my country, we all thought the Serbs were just being absurd when they made absurd demands. Then they began the ethnic cleansing. The absurd is no longer absurd when you have weapons and followers.”

  The agents immediately sobered.

  “What do we do now, Abe?” Nora asked gently.

  “What precedent do we have here?” he responded, the edge having left his voice.

  Chid shook his head. “Oregon?”

  “Oregon was ridiculous. We aren’t going to ignore this,” Nora said.

  “Well, we also aren’t going to storm the courthouse,” Ford said tersely.

  It was at that time that the SWAT Bearcats came rumbling up State Street from the Bayfront Connector. Nora felt her stomach twisting anxiously.

  “I guess that answers that,” Ben said. “CIRG to the rescue.”

  Abe nodded. “They’re efficient anyway. Calm under pressure. My guys have been a little strained these past few days.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Nora said.

  The SWAT vehicles rumbled to a stop. Two men descended from the cab of the first Bearcat. Derek Ford spoke to Nora and Ben as they watched them greet Abe. “That’s Evan Sanchez, director of the Hostage Rescue Team, and there’s Gray Rogers, SWAT leader. They’re good guys, a little intense. But their teams are excellent, actually, the best there are.”

  “Then why haven’t they rescued my partner?” hissed Nora.

  Derek gave her a sympathetic look, but she knew he had no response. Sanchez and Rogers spoke at length with Abe, getting the full story again. Then Sanchez asked that a call be put in to the main line of the federal courthouse, hoping to find someone in charge who would be able to negotiate with him.

  “Can’t you just call Baker back? Haven’t you been negotiating with him all day at the compound?” Ben asked.

  “No. Only underlings. They won’t give up his cell phone number. And there’s no record of him having a cell phone even though we’ve even seen it on him in the webcasts.”

  “I think I have it,” Ford said. “It’s the most frequently called and received number from this phone.” He wrote it down for Sanchez and then allowed him to look at the phone in his hands.

  “This is gold,” Sanchez said, his eyes wide. “How did you get this?”

  “Long story,” Ford responded, giving Nora a quick grin.

  Sanchez extended his hand to Nora and then Ben.

  “You’re Special Agent Khalil, right?”

  Nora nodded, eyeing him. He had a rather grizzled look to him. White hair frosted his temples and the stubble of his day-old beard, though most of his hair was coal black. His honey-colored eyes were underscored by deep circles.

  “Anna had shared with us all the intel you gave them on the compound, the setup of the barns, the physical structure within; we figured out that the far western barn is not the arsenal and that probably it’s the middle of the three. The third might be more bunkhouses, possibly a mess hall. So. Thanks.”

  Nora looked at him, waiting.

  “Your escape is remarkable, you know. That doesn’t happen every day.”

  She worked her jaw back and forth and gave Ben a What does this guy want look. Then she could not stop herself from saying, “The hostage you just let die is responsible for my escape.”

  Sanchez nodded. “I understand your anger, Nora. If it were my decision alone…”

  “Everyone keeps giving me that line!” she said, furious.

  He continued in a level voice, “… things might have gone very differently. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I get where you’re coming from. We want to explore every option. And the wild card is still, what’s in their arsenal? We have to manage this in a way that makes it very clear that we value human lives, theirs as well as those of our agents.”

  Nora leaned forward. “How about you value the human lives lost so far by taking these people down?”

  He nodded. “We’re doing our best, I promise you.” And then the conversation was over as he keyed in the number Ford had given him.

  And so the negotiations began. And so began the wait.

  Chid and Ford headed back toward Nora’s car. Ford had his laptop open again and actually climbed up on the hood.

  Feeling panicky, Nora headed over to them. “Any change?”

  Sweat was trickling down the sides of Ford’s face. He checked Jane Doe’s phone. “There’s nothing about Pete, Nora. Nothing at all. It’s all about this siege here.”

  Chid looked at Nora and gestured to the hood of her car. “Come sit?” he asked, flipping his laptop open. Ford sat closest to the front of the hood.

  Nora’s should
ers sagged. “Fine.” She clambered up on top of the hood next to Chid, closest to the windshield. The metal was hot, but it was better than sitting on the curb.

  She sat very still, clutching her folded arms. “I thought we don’t negotiate with terrorists,” she said finally.

  “Of course we do. And then we mess them up,” Chid said.

  “Huh?”

  “Come on, Nora. Everyone negotiates. Life is negotiation. Even not negotiating is a form of negotiation.”

  She frowned at him.

  “In the end we will storm in and win the day. But we have to look like we’re worried about the coming bloodbath. Plausible deniability.”

  Nora stared at him. “What?”

  “Look: Saying we learned lessons from Waco doesn’t make the agenda of the Branch Davidians any more palatable. They were still traitors who would have engaged in active warfare with the U.S. government at the drop of a hat. Not to mention being psychotic religious fanatics.”

  “So … saying we feel badly doesn’t mean we didn’t want to exterminate them?”

  “Or that they didn’t need exterminating,” said Chid. “Plain and simple.”

  “So callous. I can’t…”

  “If they could have, the Branch Davidians would have done everything that the Pennsylvania Patriots have done if not more. Was nipping their movement in the bud wrong?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea, anymore. Maybe. Surely, right? Because so many other movements have sprung up because of that?”

  “Racist insurrectionists. Who would just as soon exterminate you and me because of the color of our skin.”

  “And me,” chimed in Ford.

  “And you,” added Chid. “Because you’re a devilishly handsome queer.”

  Ford blushed, but managed to say, “Not to mention a counterrevolutionary sympathizer.”

  They all laughed and then sat in silence for a moment as Chid and Ford tapped on their keyboards.

  Then Chid said softly, without looking at Nora, “I’m sorry about the hospital. It was out of line.”

  She patted his back. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I think you were trying to joke with me on some level.”