by Jake Aaron
CUSTOS: ENEMIES DOMESTIC
BY
JAKE AARON
Copyright © 2015 Jake Aaron. Except as provided by the Copyright Act of 1998, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
A Custos Novel
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Prologue
Epilogue
Alternate Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For covert operators of the United States. Weekends, holidays — whenever and wherever, you are there for us.
May we be worthy.
Chapter 1
September 14
Washington, DC, Area
The second week in September found the United States House of Representatives back in session, but not the Senate. The morning air was already oppressively hot and humid in the District of Columbia metropolitan area, betraying the elegant city’s swampy ancestry. Morning commute traffic snaked predictably through concrete arteries converging on the capital. Birds were chirping in the lush flora. Tree leaves shimmered mirage-like in an ominous breeze. Periodic gusts carried an atavistic sense of a coming change in people’s lives and the Nation’s political climate.
Suddenly a screaming siren sliced through the sleepy silence in Silver Spring, MD, a DC suburb. A Mercedes “TraumaHawk” Sprinter ambulance pushed groggy drivers to the sides of roads. The adrenaline-junkie emergency medical technician driving the ambulance relished the challenge of quick response through the obstacle course of half-awake commuters attuned solely to getting to work on time.
“Clear the intersection for me, Sam!”
Samantha, a paramedic, rode shotgun—left hand on a 16-ounce coffee tumbler and right hand vertical to the vehicle’s ceiling for upright support. “Hey, Nascar, I’d like to arrive alive! We’re clear!”
Without acknowledging, the driver narrated, “We just picked up a police escort to help clear the way. Must be true: Dispatch told me we’re going out to save the next JFK. You know the kosher Kennedy—mid-forties, movie-star looks, popular, charisma out the ying-yang. My bet, he’s the next president.”
“Clear! Everyone knows who he is. That’s why you have me instead of George… in case our guy needs meds.” As a paramedic, Sam had ten times the number of hours of a basic EMT, who has 120 to 150 hours. She could administer shots or intravenous fluids. The basic could not.
“That’s why I’m hot-footin’ it. I, Nascar, am giving the country hope.”
“Clear! No, Nascar, that’s your one speed. Trust me; a little slower is better. I already stirred my coffee so you can stop rockin' the bus.”
“Here’s 5 miles slower. What’s that get me?”
“Clear! Odds are season football and baseball passes. These cases are usually anxiety or acid reflux around here. So given his high profile—Clear!—a political operative will give you tickets to keep you quiet concerning any health issue about the politico.”
“What if I decide to tell what really happened?” Nascar asked, inappropriately turning his head toward Sam.
“Clear! You’ll buy yourself a HIPPA violation and a powerful party official will ruin you. Take the tickets and keep quiet.” She referred to patient information protection under the Health Insurance Portability and Privacy Act. “Slow up. We’re getting near. Is that his wife on the right in a robe?”
“Hey, she’s hot!”
“Down, boy! Remember why we’re here,” Sam counseled.
The hot lady was a neighbor alerted by the siren. The hot kosher Jacqueline, as the press had crowned Rachel Zimmer, had returned to administering CPR to her husband. She had interrupted the protocol for only 20 seconds to dash downstairs to unlock and swing open the front door for the ambulance crew. She had sprinted back upstairs to continue CPR. She had called 911 six minutes earlier.
_______________
Earlier, the Sony alarm clock had buzzed annoyingly in the Zimmers’ fashionable Silver Spring, MD, upstairs bedroom. Forty-five-year-old, five-foot-four Rachel Zimmer had groggily awaken through five layers of deep sleep. The $9000 foam mattress and 1600-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets had made going back to sleep even more attractive. Another late night campaign fundraiser had left her hungover and further behind in sleep—if one could get further behind. Every cell in her body ached. The previous night’s cheap banquet champagne—no Dom Perignon—affected her like a systemic poison. Mort had warned her to ease up on the “campaign champagne.” Being a congressman’s wife was a bitch, she thought—or maybe a bastard.
“Mort,” she uttered. “Mort, wake up.” Today her congressman husband would champion passage of a bill to subsidize electric buses throughout United States cities to the tune of $105 billion. Blind to the fact that fossil fuels are used to generate the electricity to charge the buses’ batteries, he instinctively clung to green ideology and staunchly advocated for the legislation. His rationale also ignored the fact that production of a green vehicle requires more than double the carbon-dioxide emissions associated with building a conventional one. Nevertheless, Senate support was virtually a given. The House, not so much. As a result, Mort had worked for months to line up support in the House. This bill, his “baby,” would virtually assure re-election in his mostly Bay Area district back in California.
_______________
Mort’s liberal leanings were in his DNA. His dad had been a union leader on the docks in Oakland. The lifelong Teamster imbued young Mort with stories of corporate greed, capitalist excesses, and union concern for the common man. During many a breakfast, his dad pointed to Mort’s full breakfast plate, saying, “Union!” His dad then pulled the plate away and said, “No union!” His dad never tired of that dramatic symbolism, repeating it like a fresh act every time.
When the union was on strike, it was a time of festivity and jubilation around the house. His dad’s fellow union members stopped by the house for beer to toast to their inevitable increases in pay and benefits. The family celebrated their upcoming victory. Everyone was hopeful. Unions were the winning ticket. Unions were the alpha and the omega.
Mort’s mother was a social worker. Daily she shared her view that society was failing so many, and that government alone could help the masses. It was no one’s fault, what was happening to society. It was, however, the obligation of the government to help those who could not help themselves. She considered herself lucky to have been born smart and energetic. The government should provide for those who were not so lucky — for those who would not apply themselves or could not work. The unlucky were owed a comfortable life. A prosperous nation should provide that.
As a “people-pleaser,” Mort brought joy to both parents by parroting their rhetoric beginning at four years of age. He was taught to love unions and the government. At thirteen, Mort had his one act of teenage rebellion. He stole his dad’s act, this time with his hand on his dad’s breakfast plate: “Union!… No union!” Mort meant it to be mocking, but his dad was so lavish in praises afterward that Mort went with the flow, never to challenge anything union again. His dad was so pleased that he took the day off, kept Mort out of school, and took his protege deep sea fishing. The dissonance of that landmark moment made it unforgettable. It cemented Mort’s future more than any other event in his life.
Mort’s ability to appeal to people’s sensibilities blossomed as he aged. He was chairman of the student council in eighth grade. In high school, he was chosen as the class president every year and student body president his senior year. He excelled as a scholar and routinely scored in the 99th percentile on standardized tests. Mort was crushed at not making the junior varsity basketball team, so he competed elsewhere. He won numerous debate awards in National Forensic League tournaments with dazzling analyses and disarming tactics. He was a natural for UC Berkeley.
Mort chose a political science major for his undergraduate degree. He knew he wanted to ultimately work “anywhere away from numbers.” The linear logic of mathematics or accounting was too confining for his freer spirit. His college major, political science, more often than not, fell short of the discipline of the scientific method its name suggested. Rather than being a rigorous distillation of knowledge of what works and what does not, political science was more malleable. Berkeley professors in that major further imbued Mort as a doctrinaire leftist focused on short-term results. He learned to worship at the altar of expediency and ad hoc unproven theory. Anyway, America was more about the messenger than the message, his political advisers told him.
Law school at Berkeley had taken Mort further down the path of moral relativism. Just as in his high school debate days, there were at least two sides to any argument. As an intermediary, one needed to be able to strongly advocate either side — and walk away with a fine fee. To him, it was the greatest gig in history. Law could let you make big money over the inevitable, perpetual frictions of society. Conflict over limited resources and relationships would be around forever. Mort soon realized another field could trump that, though, with an even greater racket—politics. Politics: Blame the opposing party for anything unpopular, stir discontent, capitalize on envy, tinker with society’s laws, and insist on being reelected to correct the damage done by the previous tinkering. Finishing the job was unending. Each new law begat unintended consequences. Each cat had seven kits, one could say. It was the ultimate con game. While the game was eternal, the player was not.
_______________
“Damn that woodpecker,” Rachel groaned as she again tried to wake up, prompted now by the bird’s rat-a-tat buzz on the house’s metal gutter. She vaguely remembered a sound disturbing her sleep sometime earlier in the morning and groggily thought this must be a repetition.
“Mort, honey, get up!” petite, red-haired Rachel gently elbowed him. “Come on, honey, you’ve got to get up. This is your day. Rise and shine,” she murmured in a gravelly voice with forced enthusiasm. Her eyes would still not focus, and her head could not overcome the gravitational field of the pillow. She had taken a sleeping pill to offset the premature wake-up she would otherwise expect from an evening filled with alcohol. “Mort, wake up! You’ve got to get going.”
Forty-seven-year-old, five-foot-ten Mort did not move. Rachel rolled over and removed his CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) mask. Despite his trim build, Mort none the less had sleep apnea. Mort’s forehead was cold to the touch. The former registered nurse second-guessed herself for a millisecond. Had Mort worn the wan face of heart problems lately? Or was she summoning up false memories to conjure up guilt to distract from an unbearable reality?
Rachel called 911 and seamlessly flowed into beginning to administer CPR to her inert husband. She had not worked as a nurse since Mort was elected to Congress nine years ago. She hesitated — what is the new protocol? Ah yes, C-A-B: compressions, airway, breathing. Currency classes had helped her successfully retrain muscle memory from her initial training in the old A-B-C protocol: airway, breathing, compressions. Mort was already on his back. With her left hand over the heel of her right hand on his chest, Rachel picked up a rate of compressions of 100+ per minute. At 30 compressions, she pinched his nose closed and gave two, one-second breaths. Then she repeated the cycle. Rachel still felt proficient enough to provide the augmenting breaths. She knew laypersons should stick with high-quality chest compressions alone.
In the back of Rachel’s mind was a thank-you to her father. Her dad had been a California highway patrolman, a man who had seen a broad swatch of life. Despite independence in most areas, she was daddy’s girl. She listened to his advice, “Get a college degree and think hard about nursing. A woman in this age needs a skill to live, or fall back on. You never know what life will hand you. Husbands today frequently come and go for whatever reason. You’ll never regret a bachelors of science in nursing.” How wise my dad was — is, she thought.
Her dad had also astutely judged her essence. She was born to nurture. Her favorite phrase was, “I just want to help.” She could not understand the selfishness inborn to most other humans. Joy was in giving. Coequal in her character was the need to be busy. She was a tireless worker who lived to finish long, difficult projects — until total exhaustion set in; then she had to sleep for twenty hours. She had supported Mort’s career in so many ways.
_______________
Emergency vehicles arrived six minutes after Rachel’s call. Neighbors stood outside their homes in pajamas and robes to see what was going on. There was a blur of activity. Samantha pounded on the open door, entered, and bounded up the stairs following Rachel’s voice. The paramedic tilted Mort’s head back, put her ear next to Mort’s mouth to listen for breath and then felt for a pulse at the carotid artery. She shook her head, “Ma’am, I’m sorry.”
Memories swamped Rachel. When she looked at lifeless Mort on the floor, she saw him as a junior at UC Berkeley, seemingly yesterday. Was she sharing Mort’s last thoughts? A cascade of vivid random recollections flashed through her mind. The mental kaleidoscope dared her emotions to keep pace. She experienced time distortion as these experiences seemed to last minutes. There she was at their favorite restaurant, the Empress of China in San Francisco, enjoying moo shoo pork, then opening a fortune cookie with her quarter-carat diamond engagement ring inside. Opposite her, young Mort beamed at her acceptance of his marriage proposal. Next she experienced the joy of telling the young Mort she was expecting their first baby at the Vasquez Deli in Vacaville. “All of this and the best burritos in the world!” then-young Mort exulted.
Her remembrances abruptly ended with, “Ma’am, you should sit down.” Rachel was in tears. She could feel her hard-won life falling apart at its foundation. She had fought panic before. She knew what to do. Rachel reverted to pattern. She pushed off grief by manically diving into details. She
insisted on serving fresh coffee to the emergency workers. After they left, she pressed on to sublimate her shock. She called Mort’s congressional office, informed family and relatives, and started funeral arrangements. She obsessed over a proper obituary. Her frantic activity surely delayed experiencing the inevitable aftermath of this life-changing event.
_______________
Mort’s death certificate read “Natural causes. Sudden death syndrome…” Rachel mentally protested that her trim husband had finished the Marine Marathon eleven months ago with a personal best. He was an addicted runner. His “road rash” from yesterday was a testament to that fact, with yesterday’s abrasions to knees, elbows, and palm heels. Mort earned these slipping on street gravel in a finishing sprint after a five-mile run. Mort had watched his diet. Despite an athlete’s healthy cholesterol profile, he had even talked his doctor into prescribing a low dose of a statin to get his LDL below 70 mg/L “to be protective.” He only carried 6% body fat, where the male average would be around 18-24%. Did Mort have a heart attack? How could this happen? But something had happened. At that moment, John F. Kennedy’s famous quotation flashed though Rachel’s mind: “Life is unfair.” The effect was not one of solace, but of a rapier piercing her soul.
Try as she might, she could not short circuit Dr Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief. Like Newton’s physical laws, this almost-iron law of emotions accompanying death could not be short-circuited. Rachel’s activity was, itself, a form of denial. Following that, anger would later set in as she irrationally blamed Mort. How could Mort do this to her? She blamed herself as a registered nurse for not doing more, given that Mort’s dad died of a heart attack at age 42. “Life is so unfair,” she would rail. She would transition to bargaining. If she got their children and herself screened by a cardiologist this month, Mort’s death might have meaning. It might save them from a similar fate. Normally perky, she would eventually slip into depression, which friends would say, “is not her.” Eventually she would find acceptance of Mort’s death as she acknowledged the transience of all life.
