Enemy of the People

by Peter Eichstaedt

  Then the shooting suddenly stopped, followed by only sporadic bursts of fire. Kyle extracted himself from the tangle of his restraints, and climbed out when the armor hardened side door lifted open and the first sergeant’s face appeared. His nerves jangled, his movements jerky after the jumped to the ground and gained his feet, Kyle surveyed the aftermath.

  He remembered the medevacs and gunships sweeping low overhead as he wandered the kill zone. The attackers had fled on motorcycles moments after the attack. A large pit, wide and deep enough to bury a small car, marked where the mine had been buried, the air stinking of scorched earth, burned rubber, and twisted metal.

  Kyle circled the site, taking photos with his pocket camera. Body parts from the Afghan army soldiers littered the ground, scattered among the metal pieces of what was once their truck. A broken axel pointed skyward like a monument. Sunlight glinted from a fragment of a headlight. Beside it was a man’s head, the skin of his cheek detached. A boot with a foot still inside. The shred of a pant leg. A bloody hand missing a couple of fingers. Ten yards away was another dead Afghan soldier, the eyes blank.

  The image of the Afghan’s truck rising skyward, as if spring loaded, tumbling, twisting, then crashing nose first and falling upside down, replayed in Kyle’s mind. The spinning had tossed the Afghans like rag dolls, leaving bodies scattered across the grit. Five dead. A couple of the US soldiers had minor injuries and one was dead, the machine gunner who’d been the most exposed. The lieutenant said the Taliban had stacked two or three land mines like pancakes. It could have been worse, he said. But Kyle wondered.

  The war in Afghanistan was like that. No front lines, no back lines. War was where you found it. American and Afghan units patrolled the country side, prodding the enemy, drawing attacks that sometimes came, sometimes didn’t.

  Kyle shook his head to clear the memories. He was again riding in a Humvee, but this one was slick, not the dusty dun-colored machinery that crawled the deserts of southern Afghanistan. This one had plush leather seats. Wood interior trim. GPS screens. Radios. The works. “Nice ride,” Kyle said.

  Benedict smiled weakly and nodded, as if it didn’t need to be said.

  “It’s interesting that you and your father are hosting President Harris.”

  “Why’s that?” Benedict asked.

  “I didn’t know you were fans.”

  “We’re not.” Benedict gazed at Kyle, pausing to draw a breath. “Harris is a God-damned Communist. He’d strip all of the wealth out of the country if he could and hand it all over to those who don’t deserve it.”

  Kyle squinted at Benedict and clenched his jaw, mulling a response. “The ones who don’t deserve it? You mean the ones who can’t get it and will never be able to get it?”

  Benedict looked out his side window, then softly said, “You know I’m right.”

  “I do?” Kyle asked.

  Benedict nodded. “You people in the media won’t admit the truth.”

  “Maybe you don’t know as much about the news media as you think.”

  “I read the papers, watch TV, and follow social media,” Benedict said. “It’s obvious.”

  “The one percenters own and control the news media,” Kyle said. “It’s corporate. It’s not controlled by a bunch of wild-eyed liberals.”

  “The owners don’t report the news, do they? It’s the liberals. They spin it.”

  “Not if the bosses say no. Your father, for example, and his Wolfe News. Wolfe is not exactly liberal in the way it reports the news.”

  Benedict smiled. “The news was getting so twisted that my father was forced to do something about it. That’s why he created Wolfe News. The real voices of the people were being ignored. Now they’re front and center.”

  “Real? As opposed to what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Benedict said.

  “Maybe the facts don’t match what some people, real people as you say, want to believe.”

  “Maybe the facts are distorted to match what the news media believes?”

  Kyle shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. Facts are facts. If people don’t understand that, well, they have problem with reality.”

  “At least there’s a choice now,” Benedict said.

  “Do you believe there is such a thing as objective truth?” Kyle asked.

  Benedict thought for a moment. “It’s hard to say.”

  “I thought so.”

  Benedict considered his words. “Everyone sees the world differently.”

  “Yeah, they do,” Kyle said. “But two plus two equals four. Not three, not five. Your point of view doesn’t matter.”

  “The best part is that people said it couldn’t be done,” Benedict continued. “They said there was no room for a new television network. My father showed they were wrong. Now Wolfe News is the most popular, most successful news and entertainment network in world.” Benedict paused, flexing his jaw muscle, then forced a weak smile. “I don’t trust the news media, but I’m giving you a tour of Atlas Global only because of Raoul. He’s one of best in the business. That’s why we have him on our team.”

  Benedict looked over his shoulder at Raoul and nodded.

  Kyle fell silent, deciding to stay focused on the story. Benedict was taking him inside the heart of one of the largest, and most secretive private security organizations in the world. The story would be an exclusive for the Washington Herald and he didn’t want to blow it by getting into an argument with Benedict. No one else in the national news media had been allowed inside Atlas Global. Until now.

  ***

  The Humvee swerved from the gravel, bumped onto asphalt paving, and slid to a stop. They were in the middle of complex of Quonset huts and a couple of large yellow prefabricated metal buildings that functioned as air hangars, along with several concrete block structures sprouting antennas and mounted with satellite dishes. Kyle climbed out and surveyed the scene, adjusted his sun glasses, and tugged his baseball cap down tight.

  A wide runway stretched into the distance. Three sleek turbo-prop airplanes sat in front of the hangars, each with retractable doors open, revealing a selection of small aircraft. Six Black Hawk gunships painted with the Atlas Global logo sat at the opposite side of the runway, silent, and lethal, like giant wasps waiting to rise and sting.

  “We keep a selection of aircraft here, mostly for training purposes.”

  Benedict pulled open the door to the closest large building and they stepped into a large gymnasium where mats covered the floor and about two dozen men and women practiced mixed martial arts. Bodies slammed onto the mats with thuds, shouts caroming off the cavernous walls, as legs bent and kicks flew high. Some were engaged in hand-to-hand weapons combat.

  “Our personnel are highly trained in martial arts,” Benedict said with a smile. Kyle dutifully nodded and held his digital camera to his face and took a series of shots. Benedict led them from the gym and down the hall where he opened the door to another large room filled with desks and dividers, each with a student sitting attentively and wearing head phones.

  “We have our own language specialists, all native speakers, who teach the world’s major languages. Arabic is in high demand.”

  They moved further down the corridor to a large amphitheater style lecture hall where an instructor stood in front of large pull-down map of the world. The instructor wriggled a laser pointer at the Middle East.

  “This is where we educate our personnel on geo-political dynamics,” Benedict said. “We don’t want to send anyone into a region where they don’t know the players or the history.”

  “What a concept,” Kyle said. “The US does it all the time.”

  Closing the door quietly, Benedict continued down the corridor and pushed through a set of double doors to the outside. They walked along a wide graveled path as the sound of gunfire grew louder. They rounde
d a bunker and faced an extensive gun range.

  “And of course no training center would be complete without a state-of-the-art gun range,” Benedict said. “All of our personnel graduate with a thorough familiarity with all weapons on the market today.”

  Kyle and Raoul trailed Benedict down concrete steps to the dozen shooting positions, stopping at one. A shooting instructor handed Kyle a pair of safety glasses and protective earphones. He fitted them on. The instructor handed him an AR-15 tactical rifle. Kyle hesitated, looked at Raoul, and then Benedict, who nodded and said, “Try it.”

  Kyle spread his legs, braced himself, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and drawing a breath, squeezed the trigger. He was surprised at the mild kick, expecting it would be stronger. He fired another burst, and then another, until the magazine clicked empty. Kyle lowered the rifle and squinted at the target. It was peppered with holes, but few within the tight black circles.

  Kyle shook his head in disgust. He pressed the magazine release button with his index finger and the magazine dropped to the carpet-covered stand. Kyle accepted a loaded magazine from the shooting instructor, who wore dark-tinted eye shields and nodded encouragingly. Kyle snapped the magazine into the slot. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and again squeezed the trigger. He lowered the gun and squinted at the target. Most of the shots were within the black circles. He smiled and nodded to Raoul.

  Chapter 14

  At five minutes before noon, along with the other clustered members of the press corps, Kyle faced President Harris, Senate Leader Blount, and House Speaker Divine posing on the front steps of the Vista Verde Ranch lodge, each wearing jeans and casual, western-style shirts.

  “I’m happy to tell you that in this short amount of time,” Harris proclaimed, “we’ve already made progress.”

  “Can you give us some specifics?” a reporter shouted.

  “I’d prefer not to do that at this point,” Harris said, frowning as if the gravity of their work was a private matter. “Just getting us in the same room is progress,” he said, a grin lighting his face.

  “What do the others have to say?” Kyle shouted.

  President Harris shrugged, stepped back, and turned to Blount, who leaned forward to the microphones.

  “The news media and the rest of the country need to know that our fundamental positions have not changed,” Blount said in his soft southern accent. “However, we are looking for areas of compromise.” He gazed at the group from behind his thick-lensed glasses, nodded, and smiled.

  “That doesn’t sound optimistic,” another reporter barked.

  Rather than responding, Blount stepped back and looked to Divine, who stepped forward, lifted his cowboy hat from his head, and smoothed his thinning dark hair. “I’m just glad for the opportunity to get to know President Harris a little better,” Divine said. “As was just mentioned, our fundamental positions have not changed. But that does not mean we can’t find areas of agreement.”

  “What areas would those be?” a reporter shouted.

  Divine smiled and pointed. “Well, one thing we can find agreement on is that trout pond over there. I say we get to it. There’s not a moment to waste. I can’t wait to throw a line in it.”

  Ignoring more reporters’ questions, the three men descended the steps and headed across the open field to the large trout pond, trailing a fishing guide who wore chest-high waders, a fishing vest, and carried three fly fishing rods.

  Several television cameras on tripods waited at the pond’s edge. As President Harris donned a fishing vest and pulled rubber boots up to his thighs, the fishing guide handed Blount and Divine each a rod. Harris followed the guide, wading knee-deep into the pond where the guide waved the fly rod like a wand, demonstrating how to cast a fly.

  The thick orange fly fishing line floated on the air, the line growing longer and longer with each flick of the wrist, then silently settled onto the smooth surface of the water. The guide reeled in the line and handed the rod to Harris, who hefted it in his right hand, then pulled a section of line from the reel with his let, and gathered it , just as the guide had shown.

  Harris fed line out as he slowly worked the rod back and forth, the line floating through the air, further and further with each swing until it settled on the surface of the pond. Harris stared at the pond as the collected press, staff, and security watched, transfixed.

  Kyle felt foolish. About thirty sets of eyes watched Harris fish, focused on the rippled surface of the pond. Kyle fly-fished as often as he could, more lately since he was on leave from the Herald. Fly fishing demanded the fisherman get in sync with the surroundings, the stream, and the feeding habits of the trout. It was a solitary activity, a time to exhale, find peace and tranquility, abandon oneself to the natural world. Yet now he gawked as if fly fishing were a spectator sport.

  A large trout broke the surface with a sudden and noisy splash, having struck at the fly, as if on cue. Groans arose from the onlookers, followed by a small applause as Harris excitedly reeled in the fish, which broke the surface several times, doing a tail dance before splashing back into the water. Harris whooped excitedly as the pole bent and wriggled

  The fishing guide assisted as Harris haltingly reeled in the sizeable trout, slipping a net under the thrashing fish. The guide plunged his hand into the water to withdraw the trout, and holding it behind the head, easily extracted the barbless hook. He then helped Harris hold it up for the cameras.

  “The man’s a natural,” the guide shouted.

  Not quite, Kyle thought, but, it made for excellent video.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, Kyle sat in his stuffy outbuilding feeling burdened. The trout fishing event lacked substance, tempting him to give it a tongue-in-cheek treatment. He envisioned a headline: President Survives Trout Encounter. Clustering the press at the pond’s edge was media management at its finest. Kyle hated it. Harris, his advisors, and the other politicians worked hard to control how they appeared in the press. Bad press cost votes. Lost votes meant lost power. Lost power meant lost contributions. None of them were above intimidating reporters if they could get away with it.

  House Speaker Divine was the worst of the manipulators. His reputation as a ruthless enforcer was well-deserved. His methods were simple and classical: the ends justified the means. He’d do whatever was necessary. He’d call journalists into his office on the pretense of giving them an exclusive, then berate them and send them away, tails between their legs. He’d call their bosses to complain if he disliked coverage.

  Because Divine ruled the House with an iron fist, the contributions to his campaign coffers were monumental. Fat checks floated through Divine’s office, written by lobbyists and anyone else who wanted to influence legislation under the pay-to-play rule that greased the gears of Congress.

  Kyle had little stomach for covering the Congress, the White House, or the rest of Washington. Most of the reporting came from quick and easy press conferences and was little more than information gleaned from press releases, expanded with quotes from a couple of phone interviews with the opposition and/or the friendlies. It was what passed for balanced journalism. Editors were part of the problem because they assigned reporters to press conferences out of fear they’d miss what a politician might say if it was controversial and therefore newsworthy. They rarely did. Now the old formulas for news had been eviscerated by the Internet, which gave a platform to anyone with an opinion or idea, no matter how twisted, biased, or baseless.

  Kyle took satisfaction in the rumors that Divine was under investigation and would soon be indicted. The rumors were spoken softly at first, then repeated often enough that they had become believable. Divine’s power had grown such that it was making a lot of people anxious, particularly people like President Harris.

  For the better part of Harris’s term in office, any proposal that arrived in Congress came with Harris’s finger prints
was immediately dismissed. Dead on arrival, is what Divine called the president’s agenda, and he said it with a smile. Over in the Senate, Blount was no different. He’d say that Harris’s proposals did not reflect the will of the people. It was an absurd statement, of course, because Harris had been elected by a substantial majority of the popular vote and nearly a two-to-one majority of the electoral votes. Blount’s agenda didn’t reflect the will of the American people because in reality he only spoke for “his people,” the ones who were his biggest contributors.

  The rumored investigation by the Justice Department was into Speaker Divine’s use of campaign funds. As the top man in the US House of Representatives, Divine received so much money in contributions that he’d been forced to establish a congressional re-election fund as a separate organization from his own re-election fund. The congressional fund allowed Divine to hand out campaign money to the people he wanted to put or keep in Congress, the ones who’d do his bidding, vote the way he wanted. If they followed Divine’s dictates, they were appointed as chairmen and chairwomen of key committees and became Divine’s gatekeepers and henchmen. Divine could pass a bill or kill it with a phone call.

  Kyle suspected that Divine was at this retreat only as a show, to make it appear as if he wanted to work with President Harris. Publically and privately Divine ridiculed and belittled Harris. Kyle sensed Divine was headed for a fall, and therefore was at this retreat to give himself a soft landing, the appearance of being cooperative. He could always then claim, “I tried.”

  If Divine was caught in a political corruption scandal, the ripple effects would spread far and wide. A scandal among the conservative opposition could sabotage hopes they had of retaking the White House in the next election. That’s why Blount and Divine were there, Kyle believed, and was why they also stood at the edge of the trout pond casting their fishing lines.