After dusk, we spoke only Yoncalla, no matter how bad our tongues were at it. An extinct Indian tongue of the Kalapuya people from southwest Oregon, Yoncalla was full of clustered uvulars, few ablauts, stiff and without vowel harmonies.
The first night after dinner, when the fire died down and our tired tongues twisted in knots from pronouncing Yoncalla nouns, a TV was dragged out by Des, just as Conroy had said. A couple of pushed buttons later, an image appeared. A man with his back to the camera moved over to a cocktail bar where liquor bottles were spread out on top. He took a glass and set it down on the countertop. Then he uncorked a bottle of Knob Creek and poured it into the glass. The man moved over to the adjacent window, and through the reflection, General Titus Montgomery’s image appeared, blurred but discernible. It certainly appeared to be him, a handsome face, thick nose, stern forehead—the sort of face that commanded, not one that asked. The image seemed to be coming from a wide-angled lens. The width of the picture took in most of the scope of the room.
Montgomery was the Chairman of the National Security Council (NSC) and Director of the NSA, one of the President’s closest advisors. Whether the camera was drilled into the wall or hidden behind a picture didn’t really matter. Whoever had put it there had taken a huge risk, and most likely the device would not have been installed very long. The obvious irony of the situation was not lost on the men. They laughed and guffawed and made jokes about NSA surveillance programs saying, who was the bitch now. Yet, I felt agitated by the situation, as if the point of the video wasn’t just about exposing some foreboding truth, as much as making the point the NSA was weak and vulnerable. Still, a burning curiosity filled me to see an insider’s view, and my heart raced a bit in anticipation of what would happen next.
On the TV, a knock rattled the door and Montgomery called the man in. The man entered, saluting as he stepped through the door. “Sir.”
“Yes, Colonel Davis.”
“The Elevation reports, sir.” The man walked up to Montgomery and handed him a manila folder.
“Give me the seven sentence summary. I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes.”
“Elevation has outperformed all operational targets. Our strategic media goals have been met, and Uplift program demand exceeds available spots. Los Alamos is now working on a more efficacious dose.”
“Your recommendation?”
“The report supports the expansion plan, sir.”
“I’ll take a look at the report and let you know. Thanks, Davis.”
Davis left the room. Montgomery stared out over other buildings in the distance, and down to the parking lot, then returned to his seat where he waited at a huge conference table sipping his drink. Nothing happened for five or six minutes. Merrill and Kumo filled the time by saying the words in Yoncalla for the various objects in the room—the table, the glass, the word for drink. Merrill, pointing at Montgomery, stumbled around making the word for drunk. The men had a laugh at this, and began to use some of the words they knew.
“The camera—where is it?” I asked Merrill. He unrolled a pack of cigarettes from his shirtsleeve and bounced the pack in his palm. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me quizzically, lighting up a smoke. Then he cupped his hand around his ear and asked me something in Yoncalla. He refused to speak to me in English.
Finally, a military aide led someone into General Montgomery’s room. The camera rose and faced a man in a prim, black Italian Garbato suit.
“Mr. Roth, a pleasure seeing you again,” Montgomery said. Mr. Roth was a squat fellow, with beady eyes that seemed to be black stones dropped into a glassy fountain. He was old and frail, white-haired, hunched over, but still distinguished. His face was weathered and hard, and wore an uncompromising expression.
They sat down at the conference table while the aide left the room. Montgomery spoke first. “Let me start by saying the subject we are about to embark upon is extremely sensitive. If it should leave this room, there could be disastrous consequences.”
“Understood.”
Montgomery picked up his drink and took a swallow. “It has come to my attention that some of the journalists on Crossfire Nation are depicting the United States Government in a somewhat negative light.”
“How so?”
“They’re chattering about the Uplift camps, ridiculously saying they are FEMA camps and asking too many questions that are frankly compromising national security. They are openly critical of the way the riots are being handled. To be blunt, I’m not sure the National Guard perspective is coming through clearly enough. The Guard has been extremely professional under the circumstances.”
“In the last week, the Guard killed three protestors,” Roth said calmly.
“Certainly an unfortunate circumstance. There was provocation. We are investigating it thoroughly, let me assure you.”
“So you think it the duty of a journalist to speak only of your opinions? We’ve bent over enough to pressures from this administration already.”
“I’m sure you’re sensitive to the fact we have to worry about national security. These critical broadcasts aren’t helping sway public opinion.”
“You have an advocate with Bob Sanders though,” Roth said with a chuckle. “Isn’t he your spokesman on the show? The man wants to tear up the Constitution for Christ’s sake.”
“Aren’t we all absorbed with the past too much? Always looking at things how they once were and making dangerous comparisons to the present. It does no good for morale.”
“So you’re asking me to put a muzzle on our program,” Roth barked, “the one show on our news lineup that crushes the ratings. Do you know why that show is so successful, Mr. Montgomery? It’s because the show presents two opinions.”
“People need hope, not negativity. We are in a dangerous time with national security. Don’t you want to be on the side of the people?”
“The people need to know both sides of the equation.”
Montgomery tapped his fingers against his forehead as he bit down on his lower lip. Roth’s face grew angry and impatient.
The battle of wits lasted another minute before Montgomery said, “There is a Chinese proverb that states he who says nothing when something is to be said is wise, where he who listens to silence and thinks it is nothing is inscrutable.”
“Sir, you forget who you speak with! Do you know who put this President into office? With one phone call, I could—”
“Do nothing,” Montgomery said cutting him off. “Tell me. When one flips a coin and the outcome is tails, does one then say, it was I who did this, who commanded fortune to lean my way? Furthermore, do you really believe the outcome of the coin makes any difference? When this administration is through, do you really believe I will be gone? Go ahead, make all the phone calls you like. You do not own the US Government, Mr. Roth. The US Government owns you.”
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to any more of this,” Roth said, standing. “You talk about manipulation. But how is it not manipulation when the government creates millions of fake Twitter accounts to beef up their propaganda campaigns?”
Montgomery crossed his legs and picked up his glass. He smiled into it, as Roth glared at him. “No, we won’t report the Twitter business. But don’t go making threats. We’ve had enough.”
Montgomery finished his glass and stood up. “The number zero either destroys another number or keeps it intact, all depending on its operator. Which sort of operator are you, Mr. Roth? Simple or complex?”
Montgomery moved out of the purview of the camera, but his next words were not misheard. “This is not a zero-sum game, Mr. Roth. You should think twice before stepping in the way of national security. Please give it some thought.”
The TV switched off, and we went off to sleep, the men mumbling to one another as they strode off into the forest with flashlights.
The next day, with the previous night’s event still in our waking brains, we went jogging at the break of dawn. It was a morning in early Oct
ober. We ran through branched towers of trees spreading out over the scalloped earth. We ran up canyons and into valleys, across riverbanks, and into the jungle. Tetrapods croaked under the confines of creepers, vines, and ferns. Swampy sounds of creatures silenced as sixty-four footsteps drummed the earth over the terrain. Glistening rays of sunlight beamed like angled spears into the shadowy woods. We burst through them, and the flashes of light across our faces danced in our eyes. Hearts pounding, our breaths asynchronous and hurried, we inhaled the thick air in heavy gasps. We trampled through the forest, Seee in the lead. The men struggled with the pace, lungs bursting with heavy breaths, sweat running like rivers out of every pore. Briana trotted behind Seee. She could have taken the lead easily, but she showed a certain reverence toward him, as if winning wasn’t everything, something that seemed to be contrary to her nature.
We galloped through the forest and onto a plain. In a thicket, the lush grass rustled against our legs. For a moment we felt freedom spying the wide openness of a hillock glittering from the dew of a morning mist. Then the sun beat down on our bare backs and our bodies returned to groaning. The insects awoke, howling discordant symphonies, stridulating cicadas, bumblebees. Flies and mosquitoes buzzed the air in strafing attacks on us. I remember Split opening his mouth wide as we passed through a cloud of gnats. He swallowed them and grinned.
On this flatland we found rhythm, synchronicity, every man feeling the pitch of hot breath melding together. Our minds awakened into abstract consciousness, sensing a purpose to fulfill as brothers but the clarity of it still vague. On this morning, the air would be filled with Seee’s song:
Mama mama can’t you see,
what The Abattoir’s done to me.
We repeated his verse after each phrase and the valley echoed it back.
I potty-trained in the CIA,
now in the jungle to be a man someday.
Mama mama can’t you see,
what The Abattoir’s done to me.
I wish it were the days of Uncle Ben,
when I could fight alongside the Minutemen.
Mama mama can’t you see,
what The Abattoir’s done to me.
Turned my eyes inside out,
gonna show me what the country’s all about.
Mama mama can’t you see,
what The Abattoir’s done to me.
They put me in an electric chair,
shocked me in the nuts until I grew a pair.
The world tilted and we dipped down a hill and picked up speed. We were a phalanx of human ants flowing down a path, following the pheromones of our leader. We did this for miles and miles, back into the forest, alongside river canyons until finally we straggled back into camp, lungs bursting and bodies lathered in sweat.
Afterward, we ate breakfast with hearts thumping to find a slower rhythm for the day. Grus and Conroy cooked. They scrambled eggs and fried up bacon in a monster-sized skillet over a knee-high fire. Fumes of grease wafted to our noses, trails of scent heavy in the air as the sun made its way higher into the morning.
Mir and Ayan Shankar came through the woods, their hands full with buckets of river water sloshing over the side. They poured them into a filtration system. We drank, and drank again. Then we filled up our cups and canteens in preparation for the day.
Split, Brock and I sat with backs against a clump of trees scarfing down Grus’s mushy eggs and greasy bacon on flimsy paper plates. Flies buzzed around our food and we swatted them away as they landed. Brock discovered a more efficient approach, bending the plate in two and using it as a funnel. Split and I liked the idea and followed his lead.
It had been a week since I had come out of The Hole, but still I felt a need to bring up the topic. “So there’s one thing about Bunker that I don’t get,” I said. “Rumor has it Uriah killed Bunk not because of any insult, but because he found him coming from out-of-bounds.”
Silence.
“What was he doing out there? What would be the purpose?” I glanced over to Split. He was eying a fly crawling on his arm sucking on a droplet of sweat.
“What purpose does it serve to ask such a question?” Brock replied.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“I don’t see that it matters.”
“Can anyone answer the question? Why was he out that far south? Was he trying to communicate with someone?”
The wind changed and the smoke from the hickory chips in the fire wafted in the air, the smell a reminder of home, of barbeque and a carefree world. Brock swept the air clean of smoke and looked me over. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “It doesn’t concern us or our mission here, man.”
“A friend gets decapitated and it’s of no concern?”
“He was no friend of mine. In fact, you’re about the only one I know who liked him. But to answer your question, of course it’s of concern, but any answer is conjecture. We’ll never learn the true story. If you want it, go ask Uriah.”
Split piped in, lifting his plastic fork and tapping the air with it. “We haven’t really even seen what’s coming. But I’m telling you, it’s on the way.”
Crooked-toothed Mir bounced into the conversation and the crossfire of words began. Uriah sat in the distance out of earshot. He peered up from his plate and caught my stare—strange eyes bubbling inside the face of quicksand. I nodded sideways at him in a motion that invited him to join, but he gazed back into his plate and continued eating. Maybe I wanted a confrontation. But he wasn’t going to give it to me. Perhaps he sensed what we were talking about. But the obstinance in him dismissed rumor and innuendo.
Mir edged in again. “All of us knew what we were getting into. Period. None of us were lied to. If Bunker broke the rules, he knew what they were when we got here. If it was an insult, it was an insult. The point is that it doesn’t matter.”
“Exactly what I’ve been saying,” said Brock.
“I’m just saying—what would be the motivation to put your life on the line?” I asked.
Brock and Mir glared at me with edgy looks. The Spanish Monkey scratched his head. Overhearing the conversation, Conroy stepped over while Grus yelled at him to get back and finish the KP.
“Something funny is going on up north too,” Conroy said.
“Like what?” Mir asked with a doubtful tone.
“I was taking a dip in the river, then found a trail covered over next to the outer bank. I took it a ways. I saw Merrill and Des hiking back up it leading a train of horses. The saddlebags were loaded up with something—not guns, not ammo.”
“Supplies perhaps?”
“Something’s just off. Doesn’t it feel off?” Conroy asked.
“Nothing feels off besides this bullshit conversation,” Mir said, walking out of the circle, off to warm his hands in the fire.
“What’s off to me is that fucking Montgomery cat,” Brock said. “Aren’t you getting the point of that?”
“It’s fucked up,” I said. “You got to wonder what the purpose of showing it is. But shouldn’t we be worried more what’s going on right here?”
“Isn’t it obvious,” Brock said. “They’re showing us hard proof how shit is all fucked up at home.”
“What are we supposed to do about it?” I asked, but no one answered.
After breakfast, on the way out of the woods and halfway to the clearing, Mir bumped my shoulder and whispered, “You should talk about these things in more quiet company.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, jaws clenched. He grabbed my arm, gave it a rough squeeze. I broke his grasp, but let him continue. “You’ve been down in The Hole. So learn how to walk here before you run. You could fuck us all with that mouth.”
“Relax, Mir.”
“You don’t know who to trust, so don’t tell me to fucking relax. You’re playing with lives here.”
The following weeks were dedicated to different disciplines of destruction. Three days of bomb building—mercury s
witches, detonators, how to build crude IEDs and plastic explosives using bleach to get pure potassium chlorate. Two days of advanced weapons training—rocket launchers, M-32s, how to lay and detonate different types of mines. Explosion after explosion until vision undulated and the land became variant and pulsing. Afterward, you would drift through a monotone hum of high-pitched noises. Drunk on the fumes of sulfide. Tapped out on adrenaline. War junkies wobbling back into camp. Even with earphones, we still walked around camp as deaf men, screaming at one another after a day with the rocket launchers. It didn’t help that we were forced to speak Yoncalla.
From there, we moved on to part one of poison theory—three days of shellfish toxins, snake venom, frog poisons, tubocurarine plant life. We set up a laboratory tent and learned how to mix doses, dip blowgun darts, freeze tiny needles the width of a human hair that would disintegrate on impact with a high-powered dart gun. We studied the effects on the human body. Antivenoms. We rubbed the bark off strychnine trees. Then we broke into groups with blowguns and stuck each other with small quantities, watched one another get sick and go limp. Then two days more of application: loading tiny needles into dart guns with telescopic sights; scoping out animal targets at two hundred feet, the poison melting undetectably into the skin. We brought back wild boar, rats, and other small rodents. We skinned and gutted them and cut up the meat and left it in the middle of pit traps to see if the degree of toxicity was enough to kill anything eating it.
Nights were rest periods—campfire dinners, storytelling, and lessons in Yoncalla. Kumo, Des, Merrill, and Ahanu monopolized the conversation, speaking mostly in brittle Yoncalla, forcing us to partake by pointing and jeering at one of us and laughing amongst themselves. These nights Seee kept his distance from us. Perhaps the feeling of separation between leader and the led kept him away. But even though he was absent during these mystical evenings, he grew in our hearts. Each of us feeding on stories about him from the Sons. My mind battled the obligation I promised to fulfill, my word and a sense of duty still outweighing what was happening in my thoughts.
The Cause Page 9
