State of Terror

by John Brown

  He stopped in front of an office door, marked with Franklin’s name and “4GW Special Activities Directorate” underneath. He knocked lightly on the door.

  “Enter.”

  Benson opened the door. They stared at each other.

  “Dr. Franklin, I presume?”

  “You are?”

  “Colonel Thomas Benson, at your service.”

  “Tom?” Franklin seemed not to understand what he’d just heard. “Is that really you? My God, it’s been, what, 12, 15 years? Your hair—”

  He eyed Benson up and down.

  “You look like you’ve been beat up.”

  Benson entered Franklin’s office and unbuttoned his shirt. He tossed it to the floor and turned around. Ugly scars, still not fully healed, crisscrossed his back like tire tracks.

  “Whipped.”

  “Who did this?” Franklin demanded.

  “Your Department of Homeland Security.”

  Franklin was speechless. He hurried past Benson to close the door.

  “Looks like you’ve done well for yourself,” Benson said, buttoning his shirt. “Scandinavian Contemporary in quilted maple. Very nice.”

  “We meet again after all these years.” Franklin paused to take in his old friend and brother in arms. “Yes, I have done rather well. But by all rights, I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t even be alive. On our first tour together, you shot a sniper about to kill me. I didn’t even see him. You were watching out for me.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  “If your job was to be my guardian angel. On our last tour, I was knocked out. You carried me away from hell; I didn’t even know what happened. Others told me the whole story, years later. They told me,” Franklin leaned in, “that you carried me, barely alive, on your shoulders, away from the blast. I take it that’s all true?”

  “More or less.”

  “Hardly anyone survived. I still don’t know how you did it. I’m in your lifelong debt, of course.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “No, I owe you everything.”

  Franklin grew quiet, lost in thought, staring off into space.

  “I woke up in the hospital. My vision was blurred, my ears bled, some broken bones. I eventually healed from the blast — physically. Mentally, I needed time, a long time. I felt tremendous guilt for surviving. So many of my brothers died. Why should I have pulled through when they didn’t? Stupid, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not stupid. We’ve all been there.”

  “I woke up night after night, locked in the same battle, reliving the nightmare, soaked in sweat. I dreaded sleep. I tried drinking, sleeping pills, and much worse. I wound up an addict. I’m still struggling with smoking, but that’s the least of it. I’ve never told this to anyone.”

  Franklin was silent awhile, twirling a pen in his hand and looking at the floor.

  “I was married for a few years, Tom, did you know that? My wife didn’t understand. I didn’t understand, either. I finally admitted I needed help. I never remarried.”

  He sat up straight and faced Benson.

  “But you never needed help, did you? Always confident, always fearless.”

  “Everyone has fear,” Benson said. “Not everyone shows it.”

  “You gave us leadership. It gave me the strength to carry on.”

  “You already had the strength. I only helped you find it.”

  “Speaking of which, how did you find me?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “It’s not safe to talk here.” Franklin scribbled on a scrap of paper. “Meet me at my house tonight, 7:00. Here’s the address. But you probably already know it, don’t you? And here I haven’t asked you anything about yourself.”

  “We’ll catch up later. I’m driving a small brown four-door. See you tonight.”

  Benson pushed the heavy glass door to exit the building. The instant he did so, a raging klaxon went off. Flashing red lights pulsed and the door closed automatically in front of him, trapping him inside the building. His heart thumping in his chest, he repeatedly tried to force the door open and escape, desperately throwing his weight against it, but it was immovable. Just outside, the guard dogs howled, jumping up and down. He turned around to see a guard rushing over, almost upon him. He braced for a fight.

  “Hold it right there!” the guard said, struggling to shout over the alarm. “You forgot to return your badge to the recycling bin.”

  “To the airport, Jagdeep,” Benson said to the cab driver.

  They turned off the road just before the snarled inspection lanes began. He got out and made his way to the first car rental agency.

  “Hello, and welcome. Have you rented with us before? What kinda car would you like?”

  The rental agent seemed almost too sincere. He wore a white shirt and green tie around a collar too large for his neck. His green company blazer appeared barely worn.

  “Sporty, two-door, flashy.”

  “Excellent, I have just the thing, you’ll just love it,” the rental man said, typing on his terminal while he spoke, “and will you be taking advantage of our collision damage waiver? It’s only $24.95 per day and covers you as primary insured. Accidents happen, you know. Better safe than sorry.”

  “No.”

  “And will you be taking advantage of our prepaid fuel option today?”

  “No.”

  Benson parked within viewing distance of Franklin’s house in a yellow Mustang. Elegant townhouses framed each side of the street. He looked at his watch. It was 4:30 p.m. The sun was beginning to set.

  The time passed. He kept checking his watch. It was now 5:30; the occasional car went by and a few pedestrians strolled the quiet, treed sidewalks. It was already dark.

  At 6:15, black sedans parked near Franklin’s house. Men exited the cars and dashed into the house without knocking. At 7:30, some of the men left the house and drove away in the opposite directions from which they had come. Benson waited and counted them off. By 8:00, the remaining men had left Franklin’s house.

  Franklin opened the door, startled.

  “T-Tom? But I thought — you can’t blame me for being careful. Look, I’m sorry but you just walked in from nowhere with stolen ID.”

  Benson said nothing.

  “I might’ve known you wouldn’t meet at a time and place of my choosing,” Franklin said. “You would stake out the place to be sure. Yes, I might’ve expected that.”

  Franklin opened the door and motioned Benson inside. He looked up and down the street before closing the door. Franklin led him to his study, filled with books and artifacts from his travels. Benson perused the titles before taking a seat. Franklin’s library included The Road to Serfdom, The Cult of the Presidency, Democracy: The God that Failed, The Ethics of Liberty, Crisis and Leviathan, The Law, The Politics of Obedience, For a New Liberty, Why Government Doesn’t Work, A Nation of Sheep, Omnipotent Government, Common Sense, The Interrogator, Top Secret America, and numerous biographies of great historical leaders and works on the American Revolution.

  “I spent the afternoon researching,” Franklin said. “There may be tens of thousands like you in State detention centers. The official records aren’t too clear on this; they use fake names or case numbers for the prisoners. It makes the disappearances complete. Even if someone knew you were inside, he still couldn’t find you without tremendous difficulty.”

  “You’re well-connected. I need a new identity. I want to strike back somehow.”

  “And how am I supposed to help you ‘strike back?’”

  “I have nothing left to lose.”

  Franklin appeared to be wrestling with conflicting thoughts, as though unsure how he should proceed.

  “Have you been in contact with family?”

  “My wife blames me. I can’t go home. My son is gone, too; drafted. I don’t know what’s become of him.”

  Franklin thought some more, evidently weighing his options. He wrote an address on notepaper.
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  “Meet me here tomorrow, 5:30 p.m. There are some people you should meet. No tricks this time.”

  Benson closed the door quietly behind him. From the front window, Franklin watched him leave and picked up his phone.

  The streets were fairly empty in this part of town at night. Benson drove at a leisurely pace, not wanting to attract attention. His eyes scanned the rearview mirror every few seconds. He became curious about a car following at a cautious distance. He could see it only in silhouette, its headlights obscuring any detail. Was it deliberately following or just happening to be going in the same direction?

  He reached a side street and accelerated into the corner, the car skidding out of the turn as he pressed the pedal down. The other car was indeed pursuing. Benson floored it; the Mustang’s tires chirped as the car leapt forward. The dry leaves on the street whipped up as he increased his lead.

  He pulled up hard on the parking brake and turned the wheel sharply; the tires squealed and the car spun around to face his pursuer. He gunned the Mustang, smoking the back tires, and barreled straight for it. The cabin filled with the scent of burning rubber; the engine roared. In a state of total focus, a strange sense of complete calm overtook him. Time slowed down. His mind quieted and the rest of the world was totally shut out.

  He bore dead on, just seconds from impact. The other car continued to race ahead, rapidly closing the distance between them. At the very last instant, the driver swerved to avoid a certain fatal collision, smashing into a bank of parked cars, showers of sparks glittering off its side. The careening automobile slammed into another car, vaulting over part of it, and turned over onto its side, smoldering. The top wheels spun freely. Trapped inside, its occupants fought to shake off the stupefying effects of the collision and escape, yelling weakly and kicking feebly at the doors over their heads. The smoking vehicle caught fire from the leaking gasoline. The flames grew until the car erupted.

  From his rearview mirror, Benson saw the flames and then heard the bang. The effect of the adrenaline coursing through him suddenly made itself felt. Wheeling directly into an empty parking lot, he inhaled deeply and blew out, four seconds in and four seconds out; the “tactical breathing” technique he’d learned long ago in the military. Trembling, his pulse throbbing in his forehead, he shut the car off, placed his head on the steering wheel, and closed his eyes. When the shaking subsided, he drove off.

  26

  This Is Why We Fight

  “DO YOU HAVE A RESERVATION WITH US, MR. …?”

  A pianist played Broadway show tunes in the hotel lobby next to an ornate, wood-paneled lounge.

  “No.”

  “Very well, not a problem, I assure you. You’ll be staying with us for one night then, Mr. …?”

  “Flint.” Benson gazed up at the chandeliers and the vaulted ceilings studded with plaster reliefs. “Derek Flint.”

  “We have a very nice room on the first floor, Mr. Flint; a lovely junior suite, convenient to the garage. The bellman will bring your luggage, yes?”

  “No. I’ll get my own luggage — and I’ll take a room on the fourth floor near a fire exit.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Flint. Will you please excuse me for just a minute?”

  The clerk went over to a computer at the opposite end of the reservation desk and retrieved a document entitled FBI Communities Against Terrorism: Potential Indicators of Terrorist Activities Related to Hotels and Motels. “Guests who request specific room assignments or locations” was one of the indicators listed. “Arrive with unusual amounts of luggage” was another suspicious sign.

  “Okay, I think we’re all set,” she said, walking back over to Benson.

  He looked closely at this “Ambrosia” from Escondido, California, according to her name tag. She fussed with the rings on her fingers and pushed her hair behind her ears. With a forced smile, she handed him a room key inside a little packet of promotional materials and then turned away. He looked at her for another moment and then made for the elevator.

  Hanging the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, he stripped down to his briefs, switched off the lights, and fell into bed, bone-tired.

  Half an hour passed. The door handle turned slowly, a thin tool having been inserted to release the latch. Light from the corridor threw the intruder’s shadow into the dark room. He silently closed the door. His eyes were not yet accustomed to the darkness and he could see almost nothing. He stood still, on edge. Turning around, he froze in place, stunned.

  Benson landed a kick to the man’s groin, causing him to double over, and then struck him sharply in the face with his knee. The man staggered in pain and shock. Lunging forward, still half blind in the shadows, the man took a wild, arcing swing, throwing all of his weight behind it. With a lightning jab, Benson struck him in the ear and then punched his face at eye level with a right hook. The intruder groaned and toppled to the floor.

  Benson turned him over, pulling out a slim leather case containing a badge and other identification. Donning the intruder’s black baseball-style cap, he ducked his head out the door.

  “Sensitive area secured,” he whispered in a husky voice. “Target neutralized.”

  Benson stood behind the door, holding it open. Dressed in the same dark clothes and cap as his partner, the second agent hurried in. Once he got partway through the door, Benson slammed it closed on the agent’s leg and banged the agent’s head back against the doorframe. Opening the door wide, Benson grabbed the man and pulled hard, but he didn’t fall to the floor. He spun around unsteadily and reached inside his jacket. Benson delivered a vicious kick to the hand gripping the gun. He moved in, sending a back kick into his gut. The agent careened onto his back, hitting his head on the floor.

  Dragging them both into his bed, he removed their clothes and threw them out the window. After being found naked in bed together the next morning, nothing they said would be given the slightest credence.

  He dressed quickly, tucking their identity documents into his pockets, watching the two agents for movement. He grabbed their guns and tucked them both in his waistband, pulling his shirt over. Glock 27s, subcompact 40 caliber; FBI or CIA issue, he guessed.

  They stirred lightly. He went over and hit both of them on the forehead to induce a mild concussion. They wouldn’t be awakening anytime soon.

  Closing the hotel door quietly from the outside, he went out into the night.

  They walked past the pond and the merry-go-round until they came to a picnic table. Benson pulled out the agents’ identification wallets from the night before and tossed them on the table, scanning the open expanse of park uneasily.

  “Why did you send your goons to my hotel?”

  “That wasn’t me.” Franklin seemed genuinely puzzled.

  Nearby, kids romped on the elaborate wooden play complex, climbing across bridges and scaling rope ladders, scampering in the forts and taking the slides down to their mother’s waiting arms. A father pushed his delighted toddler on the swing. Some boys flung sand at each other, alternately laughing and crying, their frantic parents yelling at them to stop. It brought back bittersweet memories of a time long gone.

  Franklin examined the wallets.

  “So what happened?”

  “Let’s just say they’re getting in touch with their feelings.”

  “I’ll bet they are. Come with me. I want you to meet some people.”

  They walked to the far end of the parking lot where Franklin’s Jaguar waited. The back and side windows were darkened, which, except for official vehicles, was strictly illegal in the District. The sight of those dark windows stirred up Benson’s ugly memory of his arrest and subsequent ride in the squad car.

  “You’ll need to put this on,” Franklin said, handing Benson a blindfold.

  The last time he’d worn a blindfold was in front of a firing squad. He was anxious enough as it was; he’d be even more vulnerable sightless.

  “You understand, of course. Just a precaution.”

  F
ranklin opened the rear door and Benson settled in. Franklin headed out of the park, making frequent, sudden turns through side streets.

  “After the war, I drifted, without any meaning to my life,” Franklin said. “Following a string of terrorist attacks, I still wanted to serve my country somehow, but my war days were definitely over. I discovered that I could contribute without actually going to war. I joined the Department. I dedicated myself to my new mission, all fired up, believing I was doing something really worthy, protecting my country from attack and all that. Here was a clean line between good and evil, and I was on the side of good. Those were some great days. I built a new life around my work.”

  Franklin watched Benson through the rearview mirror.

  “But I started to question what we were doing. There was — and is — no real oversight. We just tell the congressional committees what we want them to hear and they have to take our word for it. And on top of that, they’re sworn to absolute secrecy, so there’s no media to stir up any trouble.”

  “No, we wouldn’t want any trouble,” Benson said.

  “We violated every principle of Western law. The few terrorist cases that went before juries collapsed on flimsy, coerced evidence. So we moved the difficult cases out of the country where the laws were a little more … forgiving, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Ahead was an overpass. “Today’s Threat Level Is Silver,” read the sign overhead. “Report Suspicious Persons to the Proper Authorities.” Cameras at either end of the sign scanned license plates as the cars zipped by. Franklin pressed a button on the dashboard and the Jaguar’s plates flipped over with new numbers.

  “We gave up our freedoms to catch the ‘bad guys,’ Franklin said, “but we don’t know who’s bad and who’s good, so everyone must be monitored, everyone a suspect. We put together a network of paid informants, internal passports, and random checkpoints. Special laws were passed to arrest terrorists — but how do we even know who’s really a terrorist if not by a fair and open trial? Because the president says so? Because a secret tribunal, appointed by, and reporting to, the president, says so?”