by Ed Gaffney
Landry tossed Amy aside as if she were an old piece of clothing, withdrew a pistol from a holster, and marched to the center of the room. “You couldn’t just let it go, could you, Tommy boy?” His sneer was made even uglier by the hideous scrapes and bruises all over his face. “You had to prove what a big man you were. Well, congratulations, punk. You’re a big man. You got all these people killed. Nice going.”
I had to play out the hand. There was nothing else to do now. “There’s no point in wiping the room, Landry. You heard what Cliff said. Millions of people know. Killing us won’t make any difference.”
“Your friend is lying.” Landry’s voice was hard, and the purple-blue vein in his forehead pulsed angrily. “You expect me to abandon this mission based on one lousy phone call to his psycho wife? When we’re done here, I’ll make my own phone call and she’ll be gone in minutes. And if she manages to tell anybody before we get to her, who’s gonna believe a crazy, left-wing nut job like her?”
“She’s not the only one who knows,” I insisted. “She’s put everything I’ve said this morning out on the Internet. They heard every word.”
Landry snorted. “Please.” He turned to Baldy. “Take the back left, I got the back right. Kappa—”
Cliff interrupted him. “You hear that?”
Thanks to my particular infirmity, I didn’t. But from the look on Landry’s face, he did. And so did the others. “Shit!” the cop spat out, spinning in place. “Where’s that coming from?”
I didn’t know what they were talking about, but it was clear that I was the only one in the dark. Every person in the room besides me was listening intently to something which was apparently emanating from outside the courtroom.
And then I did hear something. Very faintly, at first, but growing steadily louder, until I could make out that it was some kind of chant. A chorus of voices.
Landry had pulled out his cell phone, and was cursing at his inability to get whoever he was calling to respond.
I still couldn’t make out what the distant voices were saying. And then, when it got loud enough for me to make it out, I knew that we were saved. Because what I heard was voices, chanting, in rhythm, “We heard every word! We heard every word! We heard every word!”
Apparently, Cliff hadn’t been bluffing.
“Goddammit, where’s that coming from?” Landry demanded, of no one in particular.
By now, Kappa was speaking to someone on his cell phone. After a few seconds, he hung up, and rushed to Landry. “We gotta go,” he urged, hurriedly. “Word got out. This gang just stormed the front doors. They’re armed, and they’re in the hallways, with the press. They all know. The order is to exfiltrate. Now.”
Landry swung toward him. “Hold Omega positions.”
Then there was a banging on the rear door, and a muffled shout from the hallway beyond. The bald guy unlocked the doors and three more paramilitary men came in, weapons drawn, and locked the door behind themselves. The three must have been stationed at the end of the hallway to keep people from straying into the wipe zone. One of them said to Landry, “Alpha, sir, containment is breached. Orders from HQ are to get out. Now.”
I could see the rage in the cop’s eyes. He wanted to shoot us all. But in the end, he obeyed his superiors. “Jesus Christ!” he barked. “All right. Go!”
The three new men and Baldy came up the center aisle, raced past me, and pushed through the back door.
The sound of the mob grew louder as the other two thugs followed quickly behind the bald guy. Landry came last, pistol in hand, staring me down all the way. He passed through the gate in the railing separating the gallery from the front of the courtroom, and when he reached Varick, he took the blue folder off the prosecutor’s table. Then he walked slowly and directly toward me, the folder in one hand, his pistol in the other.
When he reached the witness stand, he stopped. “You think you did something important here, don’t you, Tommy? Well, you know what, little man? All you did is make it harder for us to keep you safe. Think about that the next time some freakin’ Muslim lunatic blows up a building in an American city.”
It was supposed to be his dramatic exit line, but as he moved to pass by me and leave the courtroom, I got down from the witness stand and blocked his way. “Give me the folder,” I demanded. “Josh Meadows died so that would become public.”
Landry smirked. “Josh Meadows died in Afghanistan. Beta died because he betrayed his command. Now get out of my way.” He lifted his left arm—the one with the gun—as if to sweep me aside, and stepped forward.
But I didn’t budge.
“Josh Meadows died to save the Constitution,” I said, grabbing the folder with my injured hand. As strange as it sounds, the pain that tore through me did not deter me—for some reason, it made me more resolute.
But Paul Landry did not release the documents. “You had your little moment in the sun, Tommy boy,” he sneered. “Don’t push it.” And with that, he yanked down on the folder, as if to snatch it back from my grip.
But I did not let go, nor did I move.
He said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. At the instant he began to lift his left arm to point his gun at me, I grabbed onto the pistol with my right hand, holding it so that it was aimed down at the ground.
Now Landry and I were eye to eye, each sharing a grip on the blue folder with one pair of hands, and on Landry’s weapon with the other.
I glanced quickly over the cop’s shoulder and saw Amy. She had her back to another woman in the gallery, who was clearly trying to release Amy from whatever restraints were keeping her hands behind her.
I don’t know how long Landry and I stood like that, straining against each other for control. By all rights, with the night I’d had, Landry should have been able to overpower me. Maybe he had been weakened by his trip through the windshield of the VW. Maybe I had finally gotten used to the tidal waves of adrenaline that were fueling me that morning.
Or maybe it was something else. Maybe the power of my hope for the future was greater than the power of his fear from the past.
But for whatever reason, every time he exerted force against one of my hands or arms, I countered with force that was at least equal. We were frozen against each other. Deadlocked. But I didn’t know how long I could hold him like that.
And then Amy was finally free of her restraints, and was heading through the crowd toward us. If Landry pulled away from me, he’d kill me, and then her.
“Stay back, Amy!” I shouted. But she kept coming.
“This isn’t going to end well, punk,” the rogue cop wheezed. He was working hard.
It felt like I was perspiring, especially across my forehead. I learned later that the cut above my eye had reopened, and I was bleeding again. But my will was suddenly as strong as the arms that had chopped wood for my father for fifteen years. I wasn’t going to back down—not one inch. To emphasize that, I even leaned forward a bit, and spoke quietly, but confidently. “Not for you, anyway.”
As if on cue, a tremendous pounding on the door sounded. The chanting continued, louder than ever, in the hallway. The mob was moments from rushing in. Amy was less than ten seconds away.
“Let go of the folder, Landry.”
We were literally nose to nose. Blood was now pouring down my face, yet I did not yield. But the man known as Alpha had one last dirty trick. One final, nasty move to win, whatever the cost.
With a vicious grunt, he snapped his head back, and brought his forehead straight down toward the bridge of my nose.
But just as he had read my face when I lied to him in the Volkswagen, I had read his, and I was ready.
At the moment Landry’s head began to come toward mine, I shifted to the right, moving the top of my left shoulder to exactly where my face had been.
So it was Landry’s nose that made the sickening crunch as it made contact with my long-ago healed collarbone.
And then everything happened at once.
The i
njured cop screamed in agony, releasing his grip on both the folder and the gun and covering his bloodied and broken nose with both hands.
There was a tremendous crash from the back of the courtroom, as the double doors there burst open. And then dozens of Navajos led by David and Jack West poured into the room, followed by scores of reporters and cameras.
I heard a bang behind me, and when I turned I saw that Landry had run away and slammed the door behind him.
And then Amy was in my arms, and we were surrounded by a swarm of armed Native Americans, all asking if I was okay.
It turns out I wasn’t the only one standing in front of the tanks that morning.
When order was finally restored, Judge Lomax naturally recessed the Gomez trial for the rest of the day. I was escorted by police officers—the kind who don’t threaten the lives of the people they’re supposed to protect—to a hospital where I was treated for my wounds, and then placed in protective custody for the night. On the next day, which would turn out to be the final day of the Juan Gomez trial, I testified as to what Joshua Meadows told me before he died, and I was allowed to read into the record a portion of the notes he had left behind.
As everybody knows by now, the Foundation was the brainchild of a couple of men—Undersecretary of Defense Newton, and a career army officer named Burton. It was conceived as a top-secret unit after September 11, and it was dedicated to keeping America safe from terrorists, whatever the cost.
All soldiers who joined the Foundation had to allow the army to inform their family that they were dead, and had to give up all hope of ever seeing or contacting their families again. All believed they were sacrificing their lives in order to ensure that their country was never attacked the way that it was on September 11. They were trained to follow any order, without question, including orders to commit illegal acts, even murder.
But the patriotic fervor which led to the Foundation’s formation was soon warped into a formidable underground political movement. Over several years, carefully screened people who wielded power in every branch of government all over the country were approached to join the clandestine group. Judges, senators, governors, and law enforcement officials came together to secretly create an organization so strong that when its existence finally became public knowledge, there would be nothing to stop it from controlling the country.
The Foundation grew and thrived during the early aftermath of 9/11. Highly placed people developed strategies for increasing government control over the population, such as warrantless wiretapping and the elimination of habeas corpus. The further the country drifted toward authoritarian rule, the stronger the Foundation grew. New members were recruited to run for government positions on platforms touting national security above all else.
But then, the Iraq War and a variety of scandals began to drain the country’s energy and attention away from the fear of future terrorist attacks. The Foundation was still years from putting into place all of the pieces needed to stage what would, in effect, be a bloodless coup. Certain members of the Foundation were even threatened with losing their positions in the elected government; others came under pressure to resign for perceived failures.
It was decided that in order for the Foundation to continue to grow and thrive, the country needed to refocus on the fear of an enemy attack. So plans were drawn up to create one.
Lieutenant Meadows was in charge of planning and executing a terrorist act within the U.S., and framing a Muslim U.S. citizen for the crime. And when you’ve got access to state-of-the-art technology, developing incriminating video- and audiotapes is just a laptop computer away. When the “perpetrator” was discovered, Americans would come to realize that it was vitally important to give up more of their liberty in order to become safe from any future attack.
Because in that environment, the Foundation would flourish.
And that is how the Denver Tunnel Bombing plot was hatched.
I am still dumbstruck at how the leaders of an organization conceived to protect American citizens from attack would come to the conclusion that the best way to do that was to attack American citizens.
In any event, the Denver plan was a stunning triumph. One hundred thirteen people died. The country was plunged into panic, and the rampant fear led to increased power among Foundation members already in government.
It was, in fact, that power that led Juan Gomez to be tried in Arizona. Everyone knew he was guilty, and thanks to his status as an enemy combatant, he didn’t need to be tried at all, but it was decided that a public spectacle in the home state of one of the Foundation’s rising stars, Atlee Hamilton, would help propel him to victory in his upcoming special election for the senate. Judge Klay was already a trusted member of the Foundation, as was Landry—it was a perfect fit.
It was just coincidence that I shot off my mouth when I did. That got Landry to put his second-in-command—Meadows, code-named Beta—into action, to coerce me into ensuring that nothing got in the way of a guilty verdict.
But what Landry didn’t know was that the mass murder of scores of Americans had been too much for Meadows, and it had finally broken his loyalty to the Foundation. Meadows came to the conclusion that he had to blow the whistle on the organization, but the group was far too controlled to let one of its members stray far from supervision, so it was near impossible to rat out the traitors. In fact, Meadows assumed that he was going to be killed in his effort to get the truth out. What he didn’t intend to do was die in vain.
Enter Tom Carpenter, on a noisy silver platter.
One very high-profile trial, one act of arson, three bouts of hand-to-hand combat including a pistol-whipping, a three-story-high dive, a gunshot wound, and countless physical and psychological injuries later, the charges against Juan Abdullah Gomez were dropped, and the Foundation was exposed.
But as for me, I gathered up my father, Amy, and Erica, and we fled.
Because I had become terrified of Landry, and everyone like him.
Because I had become terrified of domineering politicians and government officials who would do or say anything to increase their stronghold on power.
Because I had become terrified of my country.
EPILOGUE
Four years later
WITH THE HELP of some friends of Cliff and Iris, Amy and I found temporary shelter out of the country, and we stayed there for over a year, recovering.
When we both felt a little more confident about bringing Henley and Erica back into the U.S., we bought a place together high in the woods near a mountain lake in Virginia. Don’t try to find it, please. We value our privacy.
By the time we settled into our new home, Amy and I had decided to get married. And exactly three years ago today, Amy and I exchanged vows under a tall oak in our new backyard. Cliff and Iris were our witnesses. Erica was the bridesmaid. Henley was the best man.
I have looked back on what I wrote after the Gomez trial, and I am happy to report that I am less angry now. I have rebuilt much of my life, thanks largely to the love of Amy, Erica, and Henley, and the newest additions to our family, twins named Chloe and Will. Our home is not fancy, but it is comfortable, and features a woodstove for Henley with an extra-large hearth for safety. There are plenty of dead trees for me to chop into firewood with my new ax.
Amy insisted that I put a small table and a chair out at this end of the yard so she can keep an eye on me when I’m working. But occasionally I find myself using the furniture for my own purposes. Such as now, as I write this while enjoying the mountain air.
Despite my personal recovery from the trauma of four years ago, I am still more cynical than I wish to be. I know that members of the Foundation still hold office in our government. They weren’t all unmasked in the investigation following the Gomez trial. And junior Senator Atlee Hamilton pulled enough strings to turn the evidence of his involvement in the Foundation into mere rumors circulated by his political opponents. So I find myself quite skeptical these days when I hear our nation’s
leaders speak.
Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe power’s corruption is always just a seductive whisper away. Maybe it is inevitable that bad people will try to take what isn’t theirs from good people, and maybe brave men and women must stand guard against tyranny forever. For peace surely isn’t the product of cowardice—it is the offspring of truth and courage.
Whatever the case, I sincerely hope that there will never be another time in this country when I feel the need to stand in front of a row of oncoming tanks—literally or figuratively. That was really terrifying.
Yet despite what happened during those late-spring days four years ago, I have reclaimed much of my optimism, and my sense of wonder at the world. I can confidently say that if there are evildoers amongst us, there are also angels. I should know—I share a home with five of them. And together, we live happily—one pancake breakfast, one Stevie Wonder song, one sunset, one bedtime prayer, at a time.
Sometimes, when I get distracted by petty things and I forget just how good my life is, I read Dale’s last letter to me. I suspect my brother would be surprised that I carry it with me always, and read it often, but that’s just because he was always such a humble person.
Greetings Captain Rootbeard. If you are reading this, then I must be dead.
I know that if I got a letter from you with that kind of an opening message, I’d be very angry. But if anger is what you’re feeling right now, I hope that will change soon. Because the truth of the matter is, as I write this, I feel very good—very lucky. My life was overflowing with people and events that I cherished. And you can be sure that if you received this letter, it is because I died doing exactly what I love.
I know I don’t have to ask this, but I’m a husband and a father, so I’ll ask anyway. Since I’m not going to be there anymore, can you please look after Amy, and help her with our baby, when it’s born? I get a lot of comfort knowing you’re there for them, no matter what happens.
And when enough time has passed, make sure you tell the little one about the time I fell off the boat. It’ll say all you need to about me, and it’ll get a laugh, too. I really hope the kid grows up laughing a lot.
