The Detachment

by Barry Eisler

  On the afternoon of the second day, Treven was driving while I rode shotgun. Mostly the roads were eerily quiet, but periodically, the quiet would be shattered by a passing military convoy, after which, the absence of traffic would be more spooky still.

  I asked Treven the same security questions I had put to Dox, but got no additional insights. If he was hiding something, he was hiding it well. He told me a little about himself. Cut his teeth in Mogadishu. Climbed the ops ladder from Airborne to SF to ISA. A very competent man, no doubt, both from the resume and from what I’d seen at the hotel. But I didn’t feel the kind of connection with him that I’d started to feel with Larison. In Larison, I sensed turmoil, but also purpose. In Treven, what I sensed felt more like…confusion. And compensation. For what, I didn’t know.

  We were listening to a country music station when, just as a day before, the deejay’s typically smooth and soothing voice cut in high-pitched and earnest after a song.

  “Following on yesterday’s attack on the White House,” he said, “we have another horrifying report. A suicide bombing in the Mall of America in Minneapolis. Reports of a truck driven into the building, and a partial structural collapse. I know you can’t see it, this is radio, but I’m watching the video now and I have to tell you, my God, my God, it’s unspeakable. It’s like the twin towers again…Folks, I’m sorry to tell you, but yesterday was not a one-off. These have got to be coordinated. Let’s pray the government is doing something to protect us.”

  “Holy fucking shit,” Treven said, and that was all, there was nothing else to say. We drove grimly on, listening for more, dreading that we’d hear it.

  Outside of Memphis, we did. Two more suicide bombings: one at a Giants game at AT&T Park in San Francisco; the other at a church in Lubbock, Texas. More mass casualties. Lurid descriptions of victims, the burned and buried and blinded. Reporters interviewing dazed survivors, hysterical people trying to find their family members, wailing parents clutching the mangled bodies of their daughters and sons.

  “Country’s going to go mad from this,” Treven said grimly.

  I nodded. “That’s exactly the idea. If nine-eleven, plus a little anthrax afterward, could make the country mad, imagine what you could get away with if you could increase that kind of fear. And sustain it.”

  We drove on. The radio was nothing but special reports now. The attacks had driven everything else off the air. When the shows got tired of recycling the same news, they took to interviewing people in the streets. It was hardly a random sampling, and maybe there were some hardcore pacifists out there who were getting overlooked, or who were afraid to speak up, but the impression I was left with after hours of nonstop radio was that the country was in the grip of atavistic rage. There were calls to intern male Muslims, to close the borders, to nuke Mecca and Medina.

  “I’d feel the same way,” Treven said. “If I didn’t know what was really going on.”

  “Doesn’t matter who’s behind it. Either the response is tactically sound, or it’s not.”

  “I’m not talking about tactics. I’m talking about how I’d feel.”

  “I get it. And that’s the beauty of what they’re doing. Think about it. Four attacks so far. The White House—a key symbol of the nation. The biggest mall in the country—a key symbol of consumer shopping and the economy. A church—to make people feel their religion is under attack. And an attack on sports—the country’s secular religion. Everything the culture identifies with and holds sacred, and distributed all over the land. There’s only one thing missing so far to make the country lose what’s left of its reason, and give in entirely to the kind of feelings you’re talking about.”

  “What?” Treven said.

  “A school. One, maybe more.”

  He glanced over at me. “Christ.”

  “Yeah. My guess is, if they can’t get what they want based on what they’ve done so far, they’ll ratchet it up. Schools would do it. Think Beslan. Or that camp in Norway.”

  “You think they’d go that far?”

  “You see any indications otherwise?”

  We drove on to the hysterical cadences of the incessant recycled news stories. I watched the country going past, green hills and forests and terraced farmland, towns with names like McCrory and Bald Knob and Judsonia. The sky was an absurd, bright blue. The road was gray in the shimmering heat and looked like it might stretch on forever.

  Most of the airtime was filled with speculation. Al Qaeda in Iraq. Al Qaeda in Yemen. Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. Iran. Libya. The Muslim Brotherhood. Sleeper cells in America, and how many more there could be. Why they hated us, why they loved death more than life. The topography outside the windows was indifferent and unaltered, but I felt the country we were driving through had changed irrevocably since we’d begun this journey, a time that itself already felt improbable, distant, surreal. I imagined the four of us in the truck as some sort of germ, silently delivered into America’s arterial system, hunted by rogue T cells even as the unseen body politic around us convulsed in fever and delirium.

  I hated that we’d been part of the horror we listened to over the radio. But what could we do, except try to protect ourselves?

  Periodically, we stopped for bathroom breaks and provisions. There was panic buying everywhere: duct tape, plastic, canned food, bottled water. Iodine tablets were impossible to find, and apparently there was a thriving black market for Mexican knockoff Cipro, the anthrax treatment. We saw Wal-Marts being emptied of water purification and camping supplies. Gun sales had gone through the roof, and ammunition was sold out.

  We kept driving in shifts: two in the front to make sure no one fell asleep at the wheel; two in the cargo area getting some rest, at least theoretically; our only breaks at highway rest stops, where we parked far from other vehicles so that whichever two of us were riding in back could get in and out without being noticed.

  I was dozing in the back with Treven when I was awakened by the feel of the truck coming to a stop. There was no light leaking into the cargo area. It must have been night.

  There were three knocks on the door outside—the all-clear signal we’d been using to prevent misunderstandings. I had already accessed the Supergrade, and kept it in my hand anyway.

  The door opened, and I saw Larison and Dox. It was twilight outside, not yet dark. I could hear crickets in the grass, but, other than that, the evening was silent. The air on my skin felt wonderfully fresh and cool. The air on my skin felt wonderfully fresh and cool.

  “Where are we?” I said, getting out and sliding the Supergrade into my waistband. My legs were stiff and I did a few squats to loosen up.

  “Lavaca, Arkansas,” Larison said. “Just south of the Ozark National Forest.”

  Dox stuck his head inside the cargo area. “My lord, is that what it smells like back there? I guess I got numb to it when it was my turn. Think we all might want to find a place to shower when we get to L.A.”

  I swung my arms around and shook them out to get the blood moving. “We’re not even out of Arkansas yet? Jesus, this country is big.”

  Larison started stretching, too. “We’re just a few miles from the Oklahoma border. Almost halfway there.”

  I looked around. We were on a dirt road. An old barn stood to our left, looking deserted, a small reservoir beside it. The sky, indigo overhead and behind us and deep blue fading to pink in the west, was clear. A crescent moon was already up, and the first stars were out.

  “Why are we stopping?” I said. “You ready to change up?”

  “I’m good either way,” Larison said. “But the president’s doing another prime time speech. Thought you might want to hear it.”

  I looked around again. It was a deserted enough place that I thought we could risk a break. I checked my watch. It was a few minutes before eight—almost nine o’clock in Washington.

  We all pissed at the edge of the nearby woods, then rolled down the truck windows and stood outside the cabin, Dox and Larison on the dri
ver’s side, Treven and I opposite, listening to the announcer uselessly reminding us about the day’s events, and speculating on how the president might address them. Once again, I was struck by the feeling of being part of what was happening, and yet also distinct, isolated, remote from it.

  At nine o’clock sharp, the president spoke. His tone was measured and grave.

  “Today our nation suffered an unprecedented string of horrific and cowardly attacks on civilian targets. We have evidence that some of these attacks have been carried out by sleeper cells of Islamic fanatics. Others have been committed by individuals who we believe to be self-radicalized.”

  “‘Self-radicalized’?” Dox said. “What the hell does that even mean? Some guy’s sitting there minding his own business, and he just radicalizes himself?”

  “Today I met with leaders of Congress,” the president went on. “We discussed new legislation that will ensure I have the appropriate tools to fulfill my obligation to keep the nation safe in the face of this unprecedented threat. I was very pleased at the impressively bipartisan nature of our discussions. No one is playing politics with the safety of the American people. We will announce new measures based on these discussions very soon. I will also announce a reshuffling of certain key positions in my administration intended to ensure that we have the most flexible, streamlined, and effective team possible to keep the American people safe.

  “At a time like this, it is impossible for us as Americans not to recall that terrible day when fanatics flew airplanes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and, thwarted by brave passengers, into a field in Pennsylvania. Impossible not to recall the horror of those atrocities. But let us recall, too, the courage, and resolve, and unity of purpose of that day, and of the days that followed. Even as we bury our dead and mourn with their families, let us commit ourselves to acting, and being, no less firm today.

  “Make no mistake: our homeland is under attack. And make no mistake: we will defend ourselves. Thank you, and God bless America.”

  A reporter shouted, “Mister President, do we have intelligence on further attacks?”

  The president said, “I can’t comment on that at this time.”

  “‘At this time,’” Dox said. “Sure sign that a politician is pissing down your back and telling you it’s raining. Same for ‘make no mistake,’ now that I mention it.”

  Another reporter shouted, “Mister President, can you tell us anything about the new measures you’ve been discussing with Congressional leaders? And why, if we’re under attack, you still haven’t implemented them?”

  The president said, “Our laws must be not only necessary, but also appropriate. It’s critical that in the course of combating the terrorist threat, we take care not to subvert our own values.”

  “You slick bastard,” Dox said.

  Another reporter shouted, “Mister President, can you comment on rumors that the deaths of Tim Shorrock and Jack Finch were related to these attacks? That they were intended to weaken your ability to respond?”

  The president said, “Tim and Jack were American heroes who dedicated their lives to serving their country. I have no comment on rumors, other than to say that the work of the staffs they so ably led has continued unhampered, and that I will announce their replacements shortly.”

  The president left to a cacophony of shouted questions, and the announcer started repeating what we had already just heard. Larison reached in and shut off the radio.

  “Well,” he said. “Sounds like it’s all going more or less according to plan.”

  “Other than the fact that we’re not supposed to still be alive,” Dox said. “We’re the goddamned fly in their ointment, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Then I saw it. What I’d been missing before.

  “If it gets out that Finch was assassinated,” I said, “isn’t Horton worried people will wonder about the man who inherited Finch’s position?”

  The others looked at me.

  “Horton’s game is already high risk, but as this thing goes on, there’s bound to be talk about whether it was an inside job. And who’s the talk going to focus on? On the people who most obviously benefited. I mean, how big a leap is it from asking whether Finch was assassinated to wondering about the guy who replaced him?”

  Larison said, “That’s probably why Hort wanted it to look like natural causes.”

  “I thought the same thing,” I said. “But then Horton put out the story about the cyanide. Sure, it’s a great way of getting the whole U.S. national security state to try to hunt us down and permanently disappear us, but it also tends to implicate him, if only by highlighting the fact that he didn’t benefit from an accident, but from a political assassination, instead.”

  Larison said, “I see your point. What do you think it means?”

  It was frustrating. It felt like I was asking the right question, but I didn’t know how to answer it.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Other than…whatever Horton is really up to, I don’t think we understand it yet.”

  A few miles down the road, we found a Starbucks, where I checked the secure site again. Another message from Kanezaki:

  Intel and chatter permeating the community are all about Islamist sleeper cells and more attacks on the way. I don’t know how it’s getting introduced because it’s all bullshit, but it seems to be coming from multiple sources and a consensus is taking hold that it’s accurate. Plus, nobody wants to be the one to err on the side of underestimating what’s on the way in case the shit really does hit the fan. They’re all talking about that August 6, 2001 President’s Daily Brief about how al Qaeda was determined to strike the United States. How it made Bush look bad.

  I have a friend with the National Security Council. He says the president’s key advisors are steering him to announce what will be called a state of emergency, whatever the hell that really means. They’re recommending a choice from among three possible courses of action: 1) Ride it out and let the FBI and local law enforcement handle it; 2) Declare martial law and a suspension of the Constitution; and 3) Declare a “state of emergency” and deploy the National Guard to protect key governmental and civilian targets. Obviously, compared to the political softness of the first and the demonstrable insanity of the second, the third looks like the sensible choice. Plus it gives the president flexibility to ramp things up or dial them down, depending on the course of events.

  There’s also chatter about attacks on schools. I think administration insiders will leak this. Reporters will then ask the president if it’s true, he’ll say no comment, and the establishment media will all support the Guard deployment and state of emergency, because if schools get attacked, parents will keep their kids home, they won’t be able to go to work, the economy will crater.

  By the time they’re done, suspending the Constitution is going to seem like the only sane, centrist, responsible thing to do. This is fucked. We have to stop it.

  Horton is the key. But I don’t know where he is or how to get to him. Call me as soon as you can.

  I overheard some of the locals talking. One guy was typical, saying, “If we find out for sure the people behind these attacks are Muslims, I say we turn their goddamned countries into glass parking lots. That’s it, no more mister nice guy, no more talk, no more trying to understand each other. This is how you want it, this is what you get. But first, I say we ship every goddamned traitorous fifth columnist American Muslim back to their country of origin so they can be there, right at the center of the mushroom cloud, yes sir. And I’ll press the goddamned button myself, too. I guarantee you I won’t even be the first in line, either, there’ll be a whole lot of other Americans lined up to do the same.”

  No one disagreed with him. I realized the hysteria was something we could hide in, at least among the populace, because we didn’t fit the profile of what had been ginned up in the public imagination.

  We kept on, up and across the Oklahoma Panhandle, steering well clear of Oklaho
ma City and even of Amarillo, the grief and rage in Lubbock feeling uncomfortably close. Then the dusty, flat roads of New Mexico, through the Sitgreaves and Tonto national forests of Arizona, bypassing Phoenix by way of Prescott, and finally across the Colorado River and into California. We stayed on Interstate 10 the rest of the way in, skirting Joshua Tree National Park rather than using the quieter roads farther north, which would have taken us uncomfortably close to the Marine base at Twentynine Palms. Finally, with the sun coming up behind us, we reached the Pacific in Santa Monica. The whole thing had taken us three nights, on back roads and going not one mile above the applicable speed limit, most of it in a forced march blur, some of it in the cabin of the truck, other times in the stifling heat and dark of the cargo area, all of it while government forces hunted for us wherever they could. But we’d made it. We were here.

  Now we just had to get to Mimi Kei. And through her, to Horton.

  You can’t tell anymore the difference between what’s propaganda and what’s news.

  —FCC Commissioner Jonathan Adelstein

  But what if elites believe reform is impossible because the problems are too big, the sacrifices too great, the public too distractible? What if cognitive dissonance has been insufficiently accounted for in our theories of how great journalism works…and often fails to work?

  —Jay Rosen, NYU School of Journalism

  We Americans are the ultimate innocents. We are forever desperate to believe that this time the government is telling us the truth.

  —Sydney Schanberg

  We found a suitable-looking place called the Rest Haven Motel. It was a little ways off the Pier on a mixed commercial and residential street, a small, one-story building bleached by the Santa Monica sun, with a private parking lot in back and a second, detached unit of rooms with its own entrance. Quiet, but also close enough to the traffic and bustle of the intersection of Pico Boulevard and Lincoln Boulevard for us not to have to worry about standing out. Dox backed the truck in so Larison and Treven could slip out of the cargo area unnoticed, and paid cash for a room in the separate unit. Then we drifted in one-by-one. We all looked like hell—unshowered, unshaven, unkempt. Like people in trouble. Like men on the run.