The Ungovernable

by Franklin Horton

  It was impressive and Boss saw why Owen needed the help. There were nonstop logistical challenges and questions that Boss did indeed find he was perfectly suited to address. He rose to the challenge and did what he could to further the mission. The time flew by.

  “Sir, I need you to come with me for a moment.”

  Boss removed his headset to find the flunky who’d escorted him back earlier.

  “We need to get that left hand scanned into the access control system,” she reminded him.

  Boss scooted back from the workstation. “I need to tell Owen.”

  “Already taken care of.”

  They left the room, bypassing another guard, and went down a stark hall. At other doors he could hear the buzz of activity similar to what he’d just left. His escort stopped at an unmarked door and presented her hand to a biometric reader. When the light changed, she opened the door and led Boss inside.

  The whir of tiny cooling fans grew to a collective roar. The air was cooler to combat the heat generated by the massive server farm that filled half the room. Around the exterior walls of the vast room, people sat at workstations clacking away at keyboards. The girl led him to an overweight bearded man at a wraparound workstation. He had multiple lanyards and ID cards hanging around his neck. Nerd bling.

  “Heath, I need a palm scan for Captain Ballou,” the lady said. Captain George Ballou was the name Boss worked under on-base. It corresponded with his identification and uniform. He hadn’t used his real name in a long time. In the databases, the soldier Boss had entered the service as had died early in the war in Iraq and he’d had a long succession of aliases since then.

  Heath stopped typing and regarded Boss. He sighed as if doing his job presented him with a great inconvenience. That type of attitude from glorified civil servants irritated Boss and he briefly wondered what it might feel like to jab his stump into his eye. Would it fit? Could he make it fit with enough force?

  Heath performed a few mouse clicks and rolled his chair down the length of his desk, stopping in front of Boss. “Right hand on the scanner.” He gestured at a book-sized device glowing with a cool white light.

  “That’s the problem,” his escort said. “His right hand is already in the system.”

  “It’s not working?” Heath asked.

  “You could say that,” Boss said, raising the damaged limb between them.

  “Oh, I see. Sorry about that,” Heath said. He didn’t miss a beat, scooting back to the computer, making a few adjustments, and rolling back to the scanner. “Left hand please.”

  Boss did as he was told, placing his hand firmly against the glass. Heath examined it, pressing Boss’s hand a couple of times to make sure it was properly positioned.

  “Okay, that should do it,” Heath announced. “Don’t move.” He clicked a button and observed the screen of his computer, watching the scanner’s progress.

  Boss checked out the room while the machine did its thing. There were perhaps ten folks including Heath. All were pecking away at keyboards or watching banks of monitors. While his eyes wandered, he checked out Heath’s row of monitors. There were nine of them in an array. Some displayed scrolling data in a brightly-colored stream. One displayed electronic transactions that Boss assumed were people entering and exiting by way of the various biometric and keycard scanners. Another screen rotated through pages of thumbnail images that obviously came from security monitors.

  “All done,” Heath said, clicking his mouse to save the data. “All I need to know is where to grant him access to.”

  The girl handed Heath the identification Boss had given her on the walk down the hall. “Attach it to this profile. All permissions should be the same. Grant access wherever his role allows him to go.”

  Boss was distracted by the monitors flicking through security camera feeds. “You monitor security cameras? I would have thought those feeds would go to the police and security office.”

  Heath shot a glance to the side to see what Boss was looking at. “Oh, those aren’t on this base. Those are feeds from various project sites around the country.”

  “Project sites?”

  “Comfort camps, power plants, and power restoration projects,” Heath said, rolling his chair back from his desk and crossing his arms. “We’re all done here. It should work now. Give me a call if there are any problems.”

  Boss didn’t move, focused on the security camera feeds, his brain going down a path he couldn’t pull it back from.

  “If we’re done here, we need to let Heath get back to work,” the girl said, noticing that Boss hadn’t taken the hint.

  “I have some questions for Heath,” Boss said. “If my access is working now I should be able to find my own way back to the war room.”

  “You should be squared away,” Heath confirmed. “You can go anywhere you’re allowed to go.”

  “Questions about what?” the girl asked.

  Boss shot her a look. He didn’t know who she was to be questioning him. “Questions above your pay grade and outside of your directorate. Please excuse us.”

  The girl’s lips tightened and she frowned.

  “If Owen asks, I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Boss said, his voice low. “This is important. And confidential.”

  The girl appeared uncertain, but was aware she’d been dismissed. “Okay, fine. Just don’t be long.”

  Boss waited for her to go before turning back to Heath. “Do you archive those camera feeds?”

  Heath gestured toward the banks of servers. “We do. Right there.”

  Boss leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I was at the coal-fired plant in southwest Virginia that flooded. Did you capture footage of that?”

  Heath looked as if he were recalling a bad memory. “That was a real shit show, wasn’t it? I didn’t know if anyone survived or not.”

  “There was one survivor and you’re looking at him,” Boss replied. “Everyone else was killed.”

  Heath pondered that for a moment before snapping back to life. “We did get some footage. I caught the highlights when I got to work that morning and I know folks higher up the chain viewed it. As far as I know the footage should be archived.”

  Boss had never considered that while his men were fighting for their lives there were spectators watching it like a World Cup match. He didn’t know what he thought about that. Did the observers understand the gravity of what they were watching or was it like a video game to them? He knew some of those men. They were his team. The others, the engineers and NATO troopers, he didn’t care about.

  “I need you to find that footage,” Boss said. “I need to see it.”

  Heath’s mouth tightened and he shrugged. “I’m not sure if I can do that, Captain Ballou.”

  “I have the required clearance. I’m sure you saw that in the record you just accessed.”

  Heath sighed. “It’s just that there are policies about reviewing archived footage. People can be sticklers about those kind of things. You have to request access and your request has to specifically detail what you’re wanting and why you need it. There’s just this process. The server records every access so we have a data trail.” The hand gestures and expressions that accompanied the word “process” made it clear it was such a pain in the ass Heath was certain Boss would be deterred.

  He was wrong.

  Boss glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then casually dug a finger into a shirt pocket. He came out with a gold Krugerrand and displayed it to Heath like a magician preparing to perform a trick. “I’m sure you know that the cash you’re receiving in your paycheck is relatively worthless right now. It won’t buy you anything.”

  Heath nodded, his eyes focused on the gold coin.

  “Some things never lose their value. Some methods of payment thrive regardless of the state of things. You put me in a room with that footage and I’ll give you this coin. No one will ever know about it. As far as that data trail goes, I’m sure you can find some way to take care of t
hat.”

  Heath looked nervous but leaned forward. “Come back tonight.”

  Boss smiled. “Thanks, Heath. You’ve been very helpful.”

  7

  Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling (JBAB)

  It was a mentally exhausting day and Boss was glad when it was over. He wasn’t cut out for office life. He was used to more action, more physical exertion. Being caged up in an office all day put him on edge. He wanted to go for a run to clear his head but he needed to make a stop before it got too late. Without returning to his quarters, he made a beeline to the base machine shop.

  He’d never been there before and it took him a while to find it. Inside, there were dozens of men running machines, grinding, welding, and making a racket. It was a hive of activity and pallets holding completed work and pending jobs were sitting everywhere. After he stood politely in the open roll-up door for several minutes, a stocky man dropped the stinger of a large arc welder and walked in Boss’s direction, tipping his welding helmet up on his head. His demeanor was that of a man irritated at being interrupted.

  "Can I help you, Captain?" He was in his fifties and wore a leather welding jacket with a lot of miles on it.

  “I’m looking for the chief.”

  “You’re looking at him,” the chief replied.

  Boss studied his grimy coveralls. “You’re working the shop floor? I thought you guys just worked the computer and the phone these days?”

  The chief shrugged. “No choice. This base is busting at the seams. We got troops showing up from every branch and more jobs than I can cover. Speaking of which, what do you need, cause I got shit to do.”

  Boss held up the stump of his severed hand. The chief raised his eyebrows and regarded it with confusion.

  "I need to do something about this,” Boss said.

  The chief reached inside his leather jacket and dug in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out, lit it, and took a deep inhale. He shook his head, exhaling smoke from his nostrils, and spoke in the comforting tone of someone addressing a confused person with dementia.

  "Buddy, I'm sorry about your injury but I think you want Walter Reed. I hear they’re operational with limited services. I don’t know if you can get a prosthetic right now with all the shit going on but that would be the place to start. Nothing I can do for you. Now I need to get back to it.” The chief turned and started off, shaking his head at the poor, confused sap he’d been talking to.

  “We’re not done!” Boss growled.

  The chief stopped in his tracks and glared at Boss, assessing him now as a potential opponent. He wasn’t used to being addressed in that tone. Sure, he got yelled at on a regular basis by people wanting their jobs done, but they weren’t threatening. They knew being threatening could get their job delayed inevitably. This sure as hell felt like he was being menaced, though, and it didn’t sit right with him. He couldn’t let it pass.

  He took a final drag off his cigarette, flicked it away, and squared off with Boss. He was ready to throw a punch. “What are you? Force Recon? Special Operations? Some other kind of shit like that?”

  “Let’s go with some other kind of shit for now,” Boss replied.

  The chief raised a hand and pointed a greasy finger at Boss. “I don’t give a damn if you’re Chesty Puller himself. I don’t take orders from you.”

  This guy was playing the Chesty Puller card? He had to be old school. Even with his angry posture, Boss didn’t feel threatened. The man hadn’t made any of the precursors to an actual attack. He wasn’t telegraphing a punch. Besides, even with the impediment of his missing hand, Boss could have taken him to the ground and broken his arm. He could also do much worse. That wasn’t why he was there, though. He needed this man.

  Boss held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, Chief. I’m not here to start shit. I need your help.”

  The chief dialed it down a notch but didn’t back up. “Listen, I appreciate your predicament but this is not the way we do things around here. If you want something from me, you submit paperwork, and you get on the schedule. We’re running three shifts right now and can't keep up with demand. My ass isn’t even supposed to be out here making sparks. I’m supposed to be sitting in that air-conditioned office over there scheduling work and ordering materials. However, due to downsizing, we outsource a lot of our work to civilian contractors anymore. Most of them aren’t in operation at the moment so every bit of repair, machining, and fabrication falls on this shop. I’ve got work stacked higher than King Kong’s asshole and I’m too old for this shit. I should be retiring. I should be picking out a boat and finding a house in Florida.”

  The chief’s face was bright red and he spat as he vented. Bringing him a special request was obviously bad timing. He was not in the mood. Unfortunately for him, his problems were not Boss’s problems.

  Boss spoke slowly, like a man facing a vicious dog. "Chief, I appreciate your predicament, but this is a very special circumstance. Feel free to ask around about me. You’ll find that I'm a good friend to have and about the worst fucking enemy you could ever imagine. If you ever wondered who the devil sees in his nightmares, you’re looking at him."

  The chief was used to people trying to push him around. Everyone always thought their emergency was the most important. This man did seem different though. He seemed like he was really dangerous and not just a big talker. You had to take men like that seriously.

  “Captain Ballou? I ask about that name and men will crap their britches? That what you telling me?”

  Boss grinned. “You need a day to ask around and find out?”

  The chief whipped off his welding helmet and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, mopping at his face. Rivulets of sweat ran through the gray stubble on his head. “So just what the hell are you wanting anyway?"

  “Chief, I have a deep appreciation for what machinists are capable of and that’s why I’m here. I'm looking for a mechanical solution, not a medical solution. I'm not after some rubber hand so kids won’t stare at me. I'm not here because I want to feel better. I'm here because I want to get maximum effectiveness from what’s left of this arm. I need this to be a tool and not an impediment.”

  The chief took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He met Boss’s eyes again and was certain that gave him all the background he needed on this man. He didn’t need a day to ask around. He just needed to give the guy what he wanted, if that was even possible, and let him go on his way. He’d dealt with this type before. “We’ll try to work you in. Exactly what is it you would like to be able to do with that appendage?"

  “A simple request, really. I want something that will help me fight and kill. Bonus points if it’s operational in an office setting too."

  The chief scratched his head. "You mind if I bring over a couple of other folks? I have a good team."

  Boss gave what passed for his version of a smile. "Glad to see you come around. You won't regret your decision. There may be a time when you need me and there are very few men I grant favors to. You’ll find yourself in a very select club."

  “Whatever,” the chief said. “If I had a buck for everyone who owed me, we’d be having this conversation on the French Riviera.”

  He led Boss to his office and poured them each a cup of bad coffee. Boss noticed the sprawling stacks of ignored paperwork on the chief’s desk. Were people really still using forms to get things done? It appeared they were. The door behind him opened and three men of varying ages came in. All appeared tired and dirty.

  "This is my A-team," the chief said, nodding toward the group of men. “Ratliff there is a Machinist Mate First Class and knows his shit. The two youngsters there know how to do all the fancy computerized stuff. They do 3D printing, CNC, and cutting with water jets and lasers. I'm not knocking it. They can make a part in seconds that would take me hours."

  Boss sipped the nasty coffee and watched the group as the chief explained to them the basics of what Boss had requested. Rather than respond
ing with the same attitude the chief had, these men were enthusiastic. That made sense to him. Making replacement parts and repairing equipment all day was probably not as mentally stimulating as the challenge presented by turning an amputation into a weapon. This may have been the kind of project that got them excited about being machinists in the first place.

  “You’d be like Jay J. Armes,” Ratliff said when the chief was finished.

  Everyone else looked at him blankly, missing the reference.

  “He was a detective,” Ratliff explained. “They made a toy based on him back in the 70s. I had one. He was missing both his hands and there were crazy attachments that replaced them. He was a real person. He was famous for rescuing Marlon Brando’s son from kidnappers.”

  The rest of the men appeared skeptical. Perhaps Ratliff was one of those guys who was always throwing out obscure tidbits of information that people didn’t know whether to believe or not.

  One of the younger machinists, identified by his name tape as Altizer, spoke up. "If you don’t mind me asking, how important is comfort versus durability? Is it more important to have something you can wear all day that might not fit as securely or do you want something that's absolutely not coming off if you bang the shit out of it?"

  "I want as much as you can give me. Obviously comfort would be nice, but my intention is to fight with it. I want it designed with that level of durability in mind.”

  "Modularity is the key here," Meadows, another of the younger machinists, said. "We can make a comfortable socket with friction retention. For combat we can have a removable harness that anchors itself across his back and onto the other arm. Then it's not going anywhere."

  The men chattered excitedly for several minutes before the chief put a stop to it.

  “We’ve got to get back to work. We’ve got work that has to be finished today,” he announced. “I need one of you to take some measurements.”