by John Brown
Growing up, he was taught that the world is gray, that everything depends on circumstances and feelings, that there are no absolutes. Yet, he often found the world to be more black and white. There is good and evil; there is right and wrong. There are universal truths. There had to be, or the world would make no sense. There would be nothing to believe in.
Demonstrators marched around in a circle, carrying signs and chanting. “Make Love, Not War,” read their signs in professional lettering, and “Give Peace a Chance.” They were protesting in support of a domestic terrorist, a “suspected associate of a presumed sleeper cell,” as the media had put it, arriving for arraignment at the courthouse. Watching it all on the news, Benson was incensed at their flagrant idiocy, their self-hating death wish.
There are people out there who sympathize with these rats — the enemy within. If we’re going to survive as a country, these collaborators must be destroyed.
Surrounded by a hostile crowd, the bearded prisoner struggled furiously to escape the police holding him down, restraining him only by piling on top. He screamed in exasperation, looking around, wild-eyed.
“I — I am — innocent!”
He could hardly breathe from the weight of all the cops crushing him.
“I am please — to have—”
He struggled to fight his way out from under the pile of cops.
“United State U.S. right!”
“Shut up, you freakin’ terrorist!” shouted someone in the crowd. “You’ll get what’s comin’ to you!”
Benson couldn’t believe the audacity.
These murderers are sure quick to scream about their rights. Terrorists have no rights.
The prisoner managed to wrestle his way upright. Someone hurled a rock at him. It found its mark; blood streamed from the nasty gash that opened up his cheek. The police hustled him inside the courthouse to avoid a wild mob scene.
“What do they think this is, some lawyer show?” someone shouted.
“This is no TV show — we’re at war!”
It had the spirit of a revival-tent meeting. Everyone believing, everyone excited to be a part of something uplifting, almost magical; a feeling that they, the loyal supporters, were making a real difference, that they would change the course of history. Benson cheered at the big rally, applauding right along with everyone else. Feeling just a bit foolish, he nevertheless went along for the ride with the exuberant throng. It’s like a sporting event, he told himself; you cheer on your team. It was intoxicating to let loose and absorb the crowd’s energy, and harmless, besides.
The sound system reverberated through the stadium, making it difficult to hear what the candidate was saying, though it hardly mattered. Being here was the important thing.
“Hey, it’s great to be in, um, New Hampshire,” Joseph King opened. “Live free or die, right? Gotta love that.”
A huge movie screen above the stage projected King’s image. Draped across the stage were red, white, and blue banners proclaiming the “Restoring National Honor Tour™” and its website, RestoreNationalHonor.us. The cameras followed King, picking up his every movement as he addressed the rally of screaming supporters.
There were nothing but supporters at these big bashes. Attendees were prescreened to probe their backgrounds and gauge their support before they could be issued tickets to these officially designated National Special Security Events. Everyone else who wished to attend was forced behind police barricades a half-mile away to special “free speech zones,” out of sight and out of mind, their infantile protests, chants, and placards practically invisible.
Joseph King mentally rehearsed his last line, a memorable phrase he had come up with all by himself. His speeches were filled with zingers sure to be picked up on the news. Reading from hidden teleprompters, he went through his usual routine, peppering his speech with words like “duty” and “obligation,” “struggle” and “sacrifice,” “service” and “loyalty,” “unity” and “strength.” Good words. Solid words. Patriotic words.
“Thank you. Thank you, my friends,” he said to fervent clapping.
He bowed his head humbly while waiting for the raging applause to subside.
“Of course, the real credit goes to the American people. And I’ll tell you something else—”
He had arrived at the big finish, ready for the moment with his dramatic signature line. It was part of a theme he had developed over the last few months. He struck a decisive pose and waited a beat.
“When it comes to questioning terrorists, what’s the other party’s answer?”
The audience responded right on cue. Like the lyrics of a popular song, they knew their line by heart.
“Just — say — no!” they thundered in unison.
The candidate smiled and clapped and the audience happily laughed and clapped with him.
“Hey, thanks New Hampshire, you’ve been great. Thank you!”
4
Multi-Stakeholder Solutions
“SENATOR! SENATOR, OVER HERE! HEY, SENATOR!” the reporters shouted, desperately trying to attract attention over the noise. Aides yelled into their cell phones. Well-dressed crowds swarmed into the Capitol rotunda, their clamor amplified under the imposing cast-iron domed ceiling. On a magnificent fresco far overhead, George Washington rose to the heavens in glory, flanked by Liberty and Victory, but no one paid any attention.
A senate hearing had just opened its doors. Reporters jostled to get interviews as their camera operators illuminated the impromptu gatherings forming in the lobby. Beefy security agents in black uniforms and tall boots manned surveillance posts just outside the building on this dreary day, machine guns on their hips. From outside, the throng in the rotunda looked like a festive, raucous party.
“I think we have, you know, achieved something important today for the American people,” Senator Dixon said. A little breathless, with a rosy blush spreading across her face, she was visibly excited to be announcing this latest breakthrough on live television. This couldn’t but help her reelection prospects.
The reporter took his microphone away, tapped it, and then held it to her mouth. She leaned into it.
“It’s like—”
“Hang on,” interrupted the reporter. “Sorry, Senator.”
He turned to the woman behind him fiddling with the sound boom.
“C’mon, get the sound feed working!”
After a short delay it was fixed.
“Okay, we’re back; go ahead, Senator.”
“We had to do something, you know, real quick, and today we’ve done just that.”
Dixon smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat.
“We’ve done something. The people have spoken and we’re paying attention. Since day one we’ve worked tirelessly—”
She was cut off by a man who came up from behind. He pressed a blade against her throat.
“Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut the hell up!”
The crowd fell silent. Dark and scrawny, of medium height, with short black hair and a closely cropped beard, the young man wore a cheap dark suit and dirty white running shoes. He breathed in spurts, hyperventilating, his body tense with fright, his knife hand trembling badly. The blade’s sharp ceramic edge bit into the senator’s neck. A thin line of blood trickled down her throat. His free hand stroked her neck, scratching the soft skin, and then crept down to grasp the cord tied to the hidden belt of explosives ringing his waist.
Senator Dixon twisted her head sideways, trying to escape the knife’s edge.
“Please…” she cried softly. She shivered uncontrollably. “Just let me go, I’m begging you … please.”
He turned his angular face away from her. With wide eyes, he stared at the cringing people all around him slowly backing away, their hands raised in surrender. His attention became riveted on the commotion from the rear as men and women alike fought each other trying to bolt the lobby. His face flushed hotly; his breathing became labored.
Senator Dixon weighed wh
ether she should stomp the spike of her heel down hard on his foot, giving him blinding pain for a few seconds and then run for it, but panic kept her paralyzed. His hands were damp and cold. The knife cut deeper.
“Please, someone, help! Help me!”
The crowd stared back in dumb amazement.
Someone yelled, pointing at the explosives peeking from beneath the man’s jacket.
“He’s got a bomb!”
Screams filled the air as the throng made a renewed mad dash for the only available exit, but it was nearly blocked by body scanners and x-ray machines, the other exits having been sealed off for security reasons.
Fighting their way in against the tide of people, police rushed into the rotunda. Their guns drawn, they surrounded victim and assailant, now isolated in the middle of the lobby. Those who couldn’t get out or who fell in the initial stampede cowered and hugged the walls, setting off alarms as they got too close to the paintings and statues.
One of the policemen motioned to the others to lower their guns. They did so exceedingly slowly, their eyes never leaving the attacker.
“C’mon, buddy, just tell us what you want, we can work it out, you know?” the policeman said, shouting over the alarms. “We all been in tough spots before, it can’t be that bad. I was your age once, I know what it’s like, you know? Let’s just talk it out and calm down, okay? Hey, kid, I’m Rick. Rick Fisher. What’s your name?”
“My name — my name — B-Babur. Babur.”
Babur looked as if he were about to cry, his voice barely audible over the alarms. With his body shuddering in waves, his hands clenched the knife and cord tighter. Senator Dixon twisted sideways even more, trying to escape the sharp edge pressing into her throat. The pain seared. She felt herself growing nauseous and faint.
“Good, that’s real nice, Baba, real nice. Hey, Baba, where you from?”
“Bah-boor. Bah-boor, acehole!”
Babur’s body stiffened with rage. Breathing rapidly, he hugged his captive closer.
“Hey, Barber, you know what? I gotta son your age, you know that?”
Babur glared at Fisher.
“Turn the fuckin’ alarms off!” Fisher yelled in a flash of anger. “I can’t fuckin’ hear myself think!”
Fisher turned back to Babur, apologetic.
“Sorry, son, it’s just that you remind me so much a’ him; I got a picture right here, you wanna see?”
“Shut the hell up! You — you will stay back! I kill this slut and everybody I also kill unless you—”
The explosives erupted in a staccato series of deafening blasts around Babur’s waist, blowing out the windows and scorching the sandstone walls, taking with them centuries of art treasures. Twisted bodies and human fragments littered the bloody lobby. A woman’s arm lay on the floor, still clutching a remnant of her purse. A man and woman lay in a death embrace, their bodies ripped with the nails and glass Babur had used for shrapnel. An elderly man lay contorted behind the pedestal base of the Thomas Jefferson statue, his dead green eyes open, his face drained of all color.
“My fellow Americans, intelligence sources suggest this was a cowardly attempt to disrupt your federal government and send the Homeland into anarchy.”
Disheveled and weary, President Curtis “Brushfire” Cox read the prepared statement into the cameras in a somber tone. He had wanted to ride out the last few months of his term in office without any more crises. He’d had enough of national emergencies and international incidents and natural disasters the previous eight years. There was always some calamity underway. He wondered why he had ever run for this impossible, thankless job. After the first year or two, it wasn’t fun or rewarding anymore; that was certain. He’d gladly hand the whole mess over to King or Carp right now; it wouldn’t matter to him which one. He didn’t give a rat’s ass for either of them. He would retire, write his memoirs, and get paid handsomely for delivering short speeches to chambers of commerce and trade associations. Maybe he could serve on a few corporate boards or head up a charity or something. Life would be good again.
Donning reading glasses and getting down to business, he peered down at the statement placed on the desk before him.
“The terrorist threat that led to the declaration on September 14, 2001, of a national emergency, continues. For this reason, I have determined that it is necessary to continue in effect the national emergency with respect to the terrorist threat.”
He looked up with tired eyes. The backdrop was not the usual plush office setting staged for such events. It more resembled a bunker or a command post.
“You can rest assured that essential government services will go forward. They tell me we’re at COGCON 1. All mission-critical functionality is now deploying from the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center. That includes senior officials from every federal department as well as all your congressional leaders. Your federal government will continue to deliver exceptional service.”
He went on to say that this was an isolated incident, not part of any real pattern, and that he expected normal operations would resume in a week or so once everything had been cleaned up.
In contrast to the bleak mood at Mount Weather, people in parts of the Middle East celebrated in the streets. Masked men shot AK-47 rifles into the air with one hand, to the delight of the revelers. Boys looking barely 10 years old, sporting green bandanas and track suits, flourished play rifles and toy rocket-propelled grenade launchers. A grizzled man flashing a gap-toothed smile waved a small sign up and down and back and forth, trying to attract the attention of the foreign television cameras. Scribbled in English, it read “helo form yor partanor in peas.” These and similar events quickly vanished from the major newscasts.
Professional commentators deliberated the deeper meaning of these spontaneous festivities. Were they demonstrating against postcolonial social injustice? Or could it be the emotional outpouring of peoples born of a common heritage spanning more than a thousand years? Maybe, they suggested, we couldn’t make sense of it through the myopic lens of Western culture. It could even be that there were no simple answers readily at hand. But Benson knew the meaning of their exuberance. It was clear enough for anyone with half a brain; Joseph King had already spelled it out in plain language, had he not? They hate our freedom of religion, he had said compellingly, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other. New enemies call for new tactics, he’d added. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to grasp.
The ambassador for Babur’s country appeared in a televised ceremony at St. Anthony’s Cathedral in New York. He called out for understanding and acceptance; collaboration, not isolation. In perfect, very lightly accented English, he called upon Americans to “join hands and reach out in terms of embracing a sustainable platform of multi-stakeholder solutions.” He appealed for an international committee of “equal partners building a shared vision by which a roadmap to peace can be leveraged.”
The American dignitaries seated in the front row and the ambassadors and their entourages trucked in from the nearby United Nations nodded their heads in solemn concurrence.
Benson found it difficult to listen to such sanctimonious drivel. The polite speeches, the hushed ceremony, and the respectful memorial service were whitewashing the enormity of the evil this terrorist had committed. He recalled a very different newscast he’d seen some time before, one vastly more relevant to the problem confronting the world than this idiotic remembrance would ever acknowledge. A video had been released to the media — who had actually broadcast it — with lurid warnings of “disturbing graphic images.” The video featured hooded terrorists sawing off their hapless prisoner’s head. The terrorist’s joyous singing could barely be heard over the ghastly suffering of their wretched victim, who wailed in terror while they held her down. It was some sort of chant to their God.
Much as he had wanted to, Benson couldn’t take his eyes from the screen. One of the terrorists triumphantly held the bloody head aloft when th
e video abruptly cut out, never to be broadcast again. It left Benson revolted. He couldn’t imagine a crueler and more horrible death. He would have greatly enjoyed strangling these monsters himself as a fitting punishment. Join hands? No. Multi-stakeholder solutions? He thought not. Lining them up in front of a wall to face a firing squad would be more like it.
5
Time for a Change
“TIME FOR A CHANGE,” the bobbing signs read.
“Believe in America.”
“Forward.”
“Hope and Change.”
“Win the Future.”
“Hope is on the Way.”
“Something to Believe In.”
“Everything for Everyone.”
“It’s our Turn.”
“We Deserve It.”
Tricked out in garish clothing in the official red and blue party colors, flourishing hats bearing trademarked catchphrases, the crowds waved their signs back and forth and up and down, trying to get the attention of the cameras and of each other.
The band played timeworn standards everyone knew by heart, except that campaign buzzwords, among them “alignment,” “empowerment,” “leverage,” and “stakeholder,” were cleverly inserted into the original lyrics. The party delegates to the convention laughed and shouted uproariously, dancing off their excitement, many of them already drunk. After several hours of such fun, the older conventioneers plopped into their seats, gulping oversized, party-branded soft-drinks and munching on bags of donated snack foods, fervently awaiting the kickoff of festivities by the acclaimed keynote speaker.
