Against All Enemies

by John Gilstrap

  Dylan clicked on one from DsgrntldAgt. “Look at this. Disgruntled Agent uses the phrase National Command Authority. Who uses that phrase outside of the Community? And here. And note the handle. ‘Agent’ is at the very least provocative.” He directed Venice to another contributing account. “There. WarFighter writes, ‘I lost too many friends to see it all be for nothing.’ ”

  “You’re being generous with the spelling,” Venice said. The actual post talked about “two menny freinds.”

  “But there are dozens of instances like that,” Dylan said. “This site is attracting the attention of not just people who have a capability to organize and do harm, but also the attention of the government.”

  “Isn’t that what the government is paid to do?” Jonathan asked. “Pay attention to those who make threatening gestures toward the underpinnings of the nation?”

  “You can’t pick at this,” Dylan said. “You can’t pull it apart piecemeal. There is clearly a trend. And we’re talking about hundreds of posts. Maybe a thousand or more. Dozens of posters.”

  “Dozens of crazy people among three hundred million tired, jaded, but arguably sane citizens,” Jonathan said. “Given the sample size, I don’t hear the alarms you’re hearing.”

  “That’s because you haven’t spent as much time with all of this as I have,” Dylan said. “Here, let me have the mouse.” He took the tool from Venice’s hand—he was lucky to have not lost an eye in the process—and he started plowing through the evidence. Over the course of the next forty minutes, he conducted a guided tour through his paranoid world.

  As Jonathan watched, he saw a pattern emerge. So many of the angry posters projected an insider’s view to the world of warfare and clandestine operations. There was talk of friends lost to IEDs and of sources who were burned—spook-speak for betrayed and executed. This was not just a select few, but dozens of posters, all with separate handles and avatars. If Jonathan read the syntax and the sentiments correctly, they were looking at agents of the Secret Service and the CIA and the FBI, whose participation in such a blog would have resulted in immediate termination and potentially even criminal prosecution. By far the most prevalent poster profile, however, resonated to Jonathan’s ear as current or former military. They were pissed that a near-victory had been surrendered, and that the sacrifices of so many had been squandered by a president who, in their estimation, had never sacrificed anything for anyone.

  The anger registered with Jonathan as very real, as did the vows for revenge. But this was the stuff of crazy talk everywhere. There had to be dozens—hundreds—of websites just like this one in every corner of the Blogosphere. What made this one—this one—the subject of so much concern to Dylan?

  “It’s the organization of it,” Dylan explained. He continued to manipulate Venice’s mouse. “As I go through these next pages, notice the Commander’s subtle but very real call to action.” He moved his mouse to a threaded conversation between the Commander and Darmondcide4. “Look at this exchange,” Dylan said. “Darmondcide—no points for being subtle on the handle, eh?—spouts hateful stuff and alludes to special violent skills. Now look at the response. The Commander writes, ‘you should read Sun Tsu’s Art of War on March 25 on booksrock.com.’ ”

  Dylan clicked some more. “Now look here. Booksrock dot com shows a lot of book reviews from thousands of titles. But if you look up The Art of War and scroll to March 25, look at what you find. This rave review for a forgotten book is signed ‘National Truth Teller 3-23-27.’ ”

  “I think I’m getting dizzy,” Rollins said.

  “Then hang on to your ass,” Dylan responded. “Because this ride is about to get really wild. The National Truth Teller is an online e-zine with a few thousand followers.”

  “Never heard of it,” Jonathan said.

  “That’s because you can read without moving your lips,” Dylan said. “It’s a site that is one hundred percent antiestablishment, one hundred percent anti-mainstream media, but only about twenty percent wrong in their reporting of facts. They’ve never smelled a conspiracy they didn’t buy, if only for stroking their sales base.” He clicked away from Booksrock and over to the National Truth Teller.

  “If we go to the March twenty-third issue—the ‘three twenty-three’ from the Booksrock signature line—and then to page twenty-seven, look what we find.” He navigated to the spot, a classified ad, and then magnified the image to make his point. He read the text aloud. “ ‘Freedom isn’t free. True patriots know that. Coffee Central, Shepherdstown, WV 4/1. You’ll know if you make the cut.’ ”

  After reading the ad, he looked up, as if expecting a round of applause. The others gaped.

  “I’m not following you,” Venice said. Jonathan thought it was good that hers was the first voice to be heard. His assessment would have been harsher.

  “He’s recruiting an army,” Dylan said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Of course he is,” Boxers said. “I see it plain as day.”

  “You’re being sarcastic,” Dylan said.

  “A little bit, yeah.”

  “It’s a pattern that plays out over and over again,” Dylan said. “Now, if we go back to the Uprising page and do a search for Sun Tsu, look how many times it shows up.” He clicked and revealed a list of at least two dozen mentions. “But the references to the book review for The Art of War cover all kinds of whack-job publications, all on different dates, and all referring to different public spaces in and near West Virginia. All of them low-key. Several independent coffee shops, several independent bookstores. He never repeats the locale, either.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s recruiting an army,” Rollins said.

  “In context, it’s a pretty good guess,” Jonathan countered. “Not conclusive, but certainly intriguing.” He turned to Venice. “Okay, wise mistress of electrons, what can you do to help us out here?”

  She pondered for a few seconds. “Can you give me a list of the locations where the meetings were set up?”

  “Sure,” Dylan said. “I mean, we can compile it just by looking at the various posts. Why?”

  “Give me the list and I’ll show you.”

  In addition to being a computer genius, Venice was also something of a showman. She reveled in the drama of her discoveries when they worked, and Jonathan had learned a long time ago that it was senseless to try to rush her through anything.

  Ten minutes later, Dylan had his list. “There you go,” he said. “Now what?”

  Venice motioned for Dylan to surrender his spot at the computer to her. “Now you guys go and play for a while. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  After refilling their cups, Jonathan and the other men took seats in the rockers on the front porch.

  “These are really nice digs, Dig,” Dylan said as he took in the vistas. The Virginia countryside seemed to roll on forever. Green fields gave way to lines of trees, which gave way to more fields and the occasional stream. Not visible from here were the five- and eight-acre natural ponds on the property.

  “I don’t get out here as much as I’d like,” Jonathan said. “I’m not as much the country boy as I pretend to be. Too much time in the boonies, I suppose. I’ve come to like traffic noise.”

  “Yeah, like Fisherman’s Cove has real traffic,” Boxers scoffed. Big guy was a true city-dweller. His home lay in the center of downtown Washington, DC.

  “Boomer, suppose you’re right,” Rollins said. “What’s next? What do you expect to do with this information?”

  “I don’t like Boomer anymore,” Dylan said. “That was my Unit name, and I think we can all agree that I’ve lost the right.” He delivered those words without sadness or remorse, strictly as a statement of fact. “And I don’t have a plan from there. I just wanted to pass the word along. Dig’s the one who dragged me back to the US.”

  Rollins shifted his gaze to Jonathan.

  “You’re looking at me as if I have a plan,” Jonathan said. “This is all
as new to me as it is to you. I hasten to add, by the way, that of all the people in the know, you’re the only one with eagles on your shoulders. I should be asking you for the plan.”

  Rollins’s face folded into a deep scowl. “Yeah, well, that’s kind of problematic, isn’t it? The eagles are a long way from stars. This is a tad above my pay grade.”

  “Then bump it up,” Boxers said.

  “How? And to whom? And on what basis? I wasn’t bullshitting when I told you I was my own in this. Uncle Samuel has no idea that I’m here, and he damn sure doesn’t know about my approach to you.”

  Jonathan cocked his head. He didn’t understand. “So, why?”

  Rollins shifted uncomfortably in his chair and threw an awkward glance toward Dylan. “He might have done some bad stuff, but he’s still family. He’s still from the Unit. Like I told you in that first meeting, I couldn’t stand the thought of him being hunted down by Agency pukes. That just would have been wrong.”

  Silence enveloped them. Why was it, Jonathan wondered, that insults and ballbusting came so easily to men like him, but genuine expressions of tenderness made him so uncomfortable?

  “I honestly thought that was all bullshit,” Boxers said. He slurped some coffee. “Might be that you’re not the asshole that I thought you were, Stanley.”

  There was the Big Guy Jonathan knew so well.

  “So, you can’t pass this up the chain of command,” Jonathan said. “If I’m hearing you right, that would for sure torpedo your career.”

  “Worse than that, it would get me thrown in jail. I’m under standing orders to do pretty much the opposite of what I’m doing right now.”

  “What about the men under your command?” Dylan asked. “What do they know?”

  Rollins shrugged. “They know they’re pissed about you being targeted,” he said. “But they don’t know that I’m doing anything about it.”

  Boxers laughed. “I believe we are living the definition of irony right now,” he said. “We’re all in a tizzy here because it looks like some asshole is trying to negate the National Command Authority, yet every one of us is doing the same thing.”

  “But we’re not advocating overthrow,” Rollins said. “We’re trying to prevent an injustice—”

  Boxers held up a hand. “You don’t have to rationalize anything for me, Colonel. I’ve never had much respect for the chain of command. It’s just interesting to see that particular point of view spreading so fast and so far.”

  Dylan said, “This all brings us back to the colonel’s original question. What are we going to do with this information if it all turns out to be what I think it is?”

  “We stop them if we can,” Jonathan said.

  Boxers rumbled out a laugh. “There’s that we shit that always gets me in trouble. And just how are we going to do that?”

  “Details,” Jonathan said. “You always get bogged down in the details.”

  “I think the details are pretty damned important,” Rollins said.

  Jonathan scowled and cocked his head.

  “That was that irony stuff again,” Boxers said. “He does that a lot.”

  “Yes, I do,” Jonathan said. “But in this case, irony and reality are pretty close dance partners. If what Boomer—sorry, Dylan—is suggesting is correct, we’re going to have to do something. I don’t know what that something is, but this isn’t something we can just turn away from.”

  “Are you sure?” Boxers asked.

  Jonathan waited for the rest of his point.

  “Think about it,” Big Guy said. “Think about all the nonsense Darmond and his administration have tried to pull off in the last few years. Think of all the scandals and the shortcuts he’s taken with the Constitution, all without repercussions because the electorate is stupid and the media is in his back pocket. Why in the world would we risk our lives—hell, why would we risk a temporary inconvenience—to save his sorry ass?”

  Jonathan understood the frustration, and the angry place he was coming from, but surely Boxers didn’t need an education in the basics of why they did what they did. “There’s right and there’s wrong,” he said. “And I don’t mean the useless stuff that boards of supervisors and congresses pass as the laws of the day. I don’t give a crap about those. But there is an absolute right and an absolute wrong. Here in the U S of A, a coup is an absolute wrong.”

  “And you think the four of us can stop it?” Dylan asked.

  “I have no idea,” Jonathan said. “And I’m not one for suicide missions. I don’t charge into the mouths of volcanos. But I do believe in making a difference, and it’s looking—if Venice’s research bears out what you think is going on, and I believe it will—like we will be our only resource to stop what’s looming on the horizon.”

  “What about Wolverine?” Boxers asked.

  “Who’s Wolverine?” Dylan and Rollins asked in unison.

  “No one you need to know about,” Jonathan snapped. He fired a death glare to Boxers for bringing up her name. “Wolverine doesn’t belong in this, either. To include her, we’d have to out Dylan, and I’ve promised that I wouldn’t do that.”

  Dylan bristled. “Hey, if you’re expecting me to feel guilty because you dragged me here—”

  Jonathan shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. I apologize if that’s what I implied. I don’t begrudge the promises I’ve made. They are what they are, and there’s no guilt implied.”

  “I just don’t see what four people can do,” Rollins said.

  “That’s a step ahead of where we need to be,” Jonathan said. “We don’t really even know the scope of the problem yet.”

  As if on cue, Venice called from inside, “Hey guys! Come on back in. I’ve got news.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Take your seats,” Venice said. “I found some really interesting stuff.” At the end of the room, the big screen had been divided into three segments, each showing high-angle images typical of security camera footage, but from different locations that looked oddly similar.

  “Our friend the Commander seems to like coffee shops,” she explained. “These three views are of the security footage from shops that all use ProtecTall Security. You’ll see that the time stamps on the videos match the projected dates from the book reviews.”

  “Really?” Rollins asked. His expression showed something between shock and awe.

  “How did you get this?” Dylan asked.

  Venice beamed. “A lady never reveals her secrets,” she said. Jonathan knew that ProtecTall Security was the most common (and perhaps the cheapest) monitoring company in the world, and that Venice had long ago cracked their system. She could worm her way into other systems as well, but this one company was easier than the others. Or, so she’d told him. The bottom line was that if information resided out in cyberspace somewhere, there was a very good chance that Venice could find it and read it (or watch it) at will.

  “I’ve synched the images to the times of the meets,” she continued. “All of them around the same time, roughly between one and three in the afternoon, always in the middle of a workday. I don’t know why I feel that’s significant, but it feels like it might be.”

  “An employment test maybe?” Boxers suggested.

  “Or even a loyalty test,” Jonathan said. “Is this Uprising cause more important than what you have in your life otherwise?”

  “Or it could just be a trap for the lazy and unemployed,” Rollins said.

  “Or any of the above,” Venice said. “I was thinking that it was more to fit the schedule of the guy running the meeting, but I could be wrong. The important part in something like this is the pattern. First that a pattern exists, and second what the nature of the pattern is.” She pointed to the screen. “I’ve already perused these once just to get a feel for what I might see, and when I speed it up a little, there’s another pattern developing. Can you see it?”

  It was Venice’s habit—her very annoying habit—to present information with fifty
percent too much drama, but Jonathan knew better than to try to get in the way of that. She was good enough at what she did to get a bye on pretty much any peccadillo she chose.

  He watched the three scenes on the screen. With the speed cranked up, the baristas darted about at comical speed. Common to all three scenarios, the shops started out fairly empty of customers, and then as they filled, the crowds seemed to build quickly, and yes, Jonathan saw a new pattern.

  “They’re all men,” he said.

  “Young men,” Venice corrected. “And all of a certain soldierly body type.”

  She was right. With only a couple of exceptions, the men who gathered in the shops were white and solidly built. More than a few tipped the scales toward the skinhead white supremacist stereotype, and in each of the documented meetings, they seemed to find each other among the crowd. Maybe there was a secret hand gesture or handkerchief code.

  “But they’re not doing anything,” Boxers said. “Most of them aren’t even buying a cup of coffee. Deadbeats.”

  “I think they’re waiting,” Jonathan said.

  “For what?” Rollins asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jonathan said.

  “I don’t think they know,” Dylan said. “Look, they’re just hanging around, avoiding eye contact. It’s like a seventh-grade prom.”

  Jonathan laughed. That was exactly what it looked like. A bunch of guys all striking disinterested postures while trying to impress someone, though they didn’t yet know who that someone was. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “I know what this looks like, and I know how it fits into our assumptions, but let’s take our time.”

  The jumping-to-conclusions error was one Jonathan had repeated with startling regularity, along with all of the terrible consequences.

  “I think you’re going to shift your view here in a couple of seconds,” Venice said. “Keep your eyes on the center panel.”

  Jonathan watched. And watched. He was about to cry foul when Venice pointed to the screen and said, “There. Look at the newcomer. He just came in the door. Watch him. He’s doing the not-interested body movements, too, but watch his eyes.”