The War Whisperer: Book 1: Geronimo, page 27
I thought on it, visualized the tower, the perspective fifteen meters from its base. “If I was on the ground close to the tower, I wouldn’t see anything. The tower’s legs, struts, and cross braces would be in the way.”
“And sipping your coffee?”
“Ten blocks, even five blocks away the detail wouldn’t be clear enough to see a slight white wideness in a white strut, or a slight red one in a red stretch.”
“And if someone looks through a powerful enough telescope to notice the widening?” Eli asked.
What would I think, I asked myself. I wouldn’t think anything. “I’d assume whoever it was belonged there, rinse out my coffee cup, and go to work.”
As the colonel and I rode back to San Antone, the dying sunset filling the sky above with streaks of orange, the colonel said, “What’d you think?”
I frowned as I looked at him. “Do you agree with Eli, colonel? That the United States is failing? That it’s all going to hell?”
“Let me answer you with another question, Jer. Why didn’t you rely on the San Antone Police Department to get justice for your brother?”
“Are you kidding? A police chief was in on the murder. Half the cops or more are in bed with the gangs.”
“You could have reported it all to the city manager, the mayor, the city council, the Texas Rangers.”
I laughed. Whoever wasn’t in the pocket of the gangs was simply ineffectual—taking up space and absorbing tax money. But then, what? Where does one go for justice, protection, security? My laughter had a very bitter aftertaste.
Report it all to the Justice Department as a violation of Dylan’s civil rights? The Justice Department of those days picked and chose the laws it wanted to enforce and the crimes it wanted to ignore according to the biases of the attorney general and the mercurial mood of the man occupying the White House. Drug, firearm, and immigration laws were political tools used to shape voting blocs for certain candidates and against others. And the optics of taking down an entire city administration over the death of one Latino teen drug dealer? Not a political plus for the president of these United States nor the president’s political party.
Where to go for justice?
I looked down at Eli’s backpack containing his old school sniper rifle.
It was true. The only justice Dylan would get would be through the barrel of a gun; My gun. It in no way made me feel good, proud, powerful, or righteous. It made me heartsick. UCH was a federal school, so every morning we did the Pledge of Allegiance. I liked that flag. Its stars and candy stripes made it beautiful. To pledge one’s allegiance to it every morning seemed to mean that there must have been something very special that flag represented at one time. Exactly what that special thing was I could never determine.
“Liberty and justice for all” sounded very good. I could find no liberty at UCH, though. We couldn’t go where we wanted, wear what we wanted, work at real jobs that paid real money, and we had to study and learn the nonsense the government pushed at us. And “justice?” That always seemed to mean a way that wrongs were righted—that the system would make up for it when the right thing wasn’t done.
It was ever so: Mass murderers got the needle; A mass of murderers, however, only got time or mandatory counseling or an apology from the police and the government if they played it correctly. If Dylan was going to get what I thought was justice, I was going to have to deliver it.
I looked at the road ahead. “It has already failed, hasn’t it,” I said. I turned my head and faced him. “It failed a long time ago.”
He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He took a breath, his mouth opening as if to say something, then he sadly shook his head and sighed. “It’s never much fun watching a kid learn that Santa Claus is never coming,” he said.
“So why hasn’t it collapsed?” I asked. “Drugs are still being manufactured, bought and sold. Hot dogs in the supermarket, traffic lights still blinking.”
He smiled. “There are still the elves, Jerry. Maybe you’ll find out about them soon. It hasn’t collapsed because most of the people in the country haven’t yet revolted and our enemies outside the country are in such bad shape themselves supporting anything other than terrorism in the way of war is a budget and enthusiasm breaker. Most big business has either gone under, climbed on the government teat, or moved out of the United States taking its jobs and wealth with it. They wouldn’t lead the revolt in any event.”
“Why?” I asked.
“People in business think they have too much to lose, and no one would follow business leaders. Business has been portrayed as evil for so long most people believe it.”
“What about the people, colonel, like down in the ten? They’re the ones who are suffering the most. They outnumber all the criminals and government guns. Why don’t they revolt?”
“Get the people to pick up guns and take to the streets?” He laughed. “We can’t even get them to vote, Jerry. What was it last general election? Twenty-four percent of eligible voters actually voted.”
“Why don’t they vote?”
“Same reason they don’t pick up a gun and revolt.” He shrugged. “I believe most persons don’t vote because they think the system is rigged—that their vote won’t make any difference. No matter who gets in office it will just be different faces on the same old business as usual.”
“What about the law?”
The colonel shrugged. “Going around the law is the only way anyone can get anything done these days. You and Dylan making a home, making a living. Both were against the law. You and me getting Dylan justice, that’s against the law. The trouble is, that when the leaders of the country have no respect for the laws they are supposed to enforce and live by, you get what we have now.”
“What do we have now, colonel?”
“In my view, it’s a wishy-washy mostly feckless term-limited interventionist dictatorship passing itself off as a constitutionally limited democratic republic.”
“A mouthful,” I remarked.
“—That few understand and no one knows how to fix. That’s why no one knows what to do.”
I thought on it for a couple of minutes then faced the colonel. “What are your politics?”
He laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess you could call me a lower case secular libertarian.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s a non-party libertarian who doesn’t want to argue about it.” He glanced at me then returned his gaze to the road ahead. “Five things discussions on which you would be wise to avoid: Religion, politics, man-made climate change, race, and economic systems.”
“Why?”
“It’s all arguments about religion.”
With that cryptic answer, I closed my eyes and rested my head back on the seat. The people I got to know in the ten, all they wanted was to make a living, provide for their families, put aside a little savings, have a bit of fun, and plan for a better future for their kids. As long as government stayed mostly out of the way, or could blame its interference on some scapegoat, or crushed someone else, —well, that was none of their business.
“Most Americans” added the colonel, “are dependent on government assistance of one kind or another; even me through the VA and my military pension. Most of the rest still pay their ever increasing taxes with ever declining dollars. Revolt means rocking the boat. Those who have jobs and are managing to keep their heads above water stand to lose what they have if the boat is rocked. For those dependent on government assistance, rocking the boat means risking drying up the Great Teat.”
I frowned as something gnawed at the back of my awareness. “Isn’t the Great Teat going to dry up anyway? The money has to come from someplace.”
“Eventually it does. Then those in power either go under, become more brutal, find a group of people to blame it all on, or begin exempting individuals and institutions from their rules and restrictions—individuals and businesses who can get things working again—but only long enough to maintain power.”
“So, do you approve of what Eli and his people are doing?” I asked.
“Jerry, Eli Blackwell is one of the most intelligent and well informed persons I know. That said, what he is preparing for is to survive a nightmare. If any of the scenarios he posits actually come to pass, he and his people will be destroyed. The nightmare, in whatever form, will have more than enough weapons and manpower to crush all the Eli Blackwells in the world.”
“Then what are we doing? Me killing bosses, you driving me around to meet and learn from suicidal armed hermits?”
He drove in silence for awhile. “What are we doing.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Okay, in one case we’re getting justice for Dylan. If we are successful in that, if you do manage to kill everyone on the Council, that could also be a major game changer in San Antonio. Who will take over each gang? What will the police and the mayor’s office do to get back in control? They might even have an opportunity to straighten out this town. Won’t change a damned thing in Austin or Washington.”
“What will happen, colonel?” I asked. “If we get Dylan justice, what will happen?”
“Maybe you will have made a path to a future for yourself. As to the rest, I don’t have a clue.”
I sat there with my mouth open.
“I don’t have all the answers to the world’s problems, Jerry, or even the city’s. What we’re doing, in addition to delivering Dylan’s bad news, is rolling the dice, rebooting the city’s computer, hoping against hope that something better will emerge. If we live through it, maybe there might be an opportunity to change things. On the other hand, we could just as easily bring on more quickly the nightmare Eli fears is coming.”
“Why are you helping me, colonel?”
“Two reasons. I want what you want, but I also want to see what you do and how you do it.”
“Me? Why? For that school?”
“That’s for later.” His face was expressionless.
I sighed and said, “Does anyone ever know where or why they are going?”
“Educated guesses are as good as it gets, Jerry, which doesn’t speak well for the educations involved.” He glanced at his dash clock. “Speaking of nightmares and lawlessness.” He pointed at me. “Run up the laptop. I want to check something.”
I took the laptop from the back seat and turned it on. When it was up, Colonel Belton gave me an address which I entered. Immediately an image of the colonel’s tiny living room as seen from the back came up. The curtain on the small window in the front of the house was pulled back, revealing the broken glass and the shot-up walls. A cop car was out front, but no lights flashing.
I tilted it toward the colonel so he could glance at it. There were five men in his living room: four Reds and a police officer. Two of the reds were quickly searching through book shelves and end table cabinets. One of the Reds had a big red plastic container with a black nozzle. He was beginning to pour a clear liquid onto the couch.
“Hit F-1,” the colonel said.
I did so, and the image switched to his bedroom where a police officer and one of the Reds were putting my old clothing into large plastic evidence bags.
“Again,” he said.
I pressed the F-1 key again and the view changed to his kitchen. All the cabinets were open, three SA Reds looting booze, pills, and chicken wings.
“One more time,” he said.
I pressed the key again and the view changed to his basement. Two police officers and two SA Reds were down there going through lockers, boxes, and chests, their canvas bags already filled with whatever they had collected.
The colonel said, “Hit F-2.”
“—told this nigger keeps all kinds of gold down here,” said one of the Reds, a big guy with more weight in his stomach than in his arms. He had a swastika tattooed on his upper right arm and another on the left side of his neck.
“I can smell the gasoline,” said one of the cops. They’re ready to touch off this dump. Wrap it up,” he ordered. They all looked toward the stairs then got up to leave.
The colonel sighed, reached over, and pressed the F-5 key. The screen immediately went blank.
Far ahead in the increasing dark there was a bright flash in the southeast. It took a few seconds and then we heard a rumble, like a lone clap of distant thunder. With a single finger on a key, the colonel had just killed fourteen men.
“You better get some sleep,” he said without emotion or explanation. “I’ll wake you when we get to the hotel.”
“You rigged your house with explosives?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“After taking down the three Reds who were after Jonny, I figured that sooner or later they’d be back. Ten days ago I got the C-4 from Eli and the computer tie-in from George.”
“What about your neighbors?”
“The charges were in concrete-lined mortars in the basement floor, directing the blast inward and upwards. If any of my neighbors were leaning against the house, there might be a problem, which is why I told them, if large numbers of persons—bangers, cops, rioters—show up and begin tossing my home, get away from my house. Get away as far as possible.” He nodded and said, “I hope they listened.”
We rode in silence for awhile, a dust storm kicked up by our passage behind the car, a number of challenges and unknown threats ahead of us.
“I reserved a room at the Hyatt right behind the old apartment complex on the east bank of the river,” the colonel said. “We’ll check in as father and son. Understand?”
“Yes, colonel.”
“And you’re going to have to stop calling me ‘colonel’.” He smiled sadly. “You prefer modern or traditional?”
“Modern or traditional what?”
“Forms of address. Traditional is ‘Dad,’ ‘Pop,’ ‘Papa,’ ‘Father’; Modern is ‘Dude,’ ‘Daniel,’ ‘hey man’.”
“I thought your name is Luke.”
“I use my real name, Jerry, and the associates of those fellows I just sent to their ancestors will come calling, and at the hotel. My cover name this time is Daniel Wolf. You are my son, Noah.”
“You mean like Noah and the ark?”
“I had to make up your cover papers rather quickly before we left. ‘Noah’ for some reason is a very popular name for American boys. Your name is Noah Wolf for when we check in at the Hyatt, in case anyone asks.”
I thought on it. Noah, he who the Jehovah God chose to collect the animals two-by-two, (remembered the mosquitoes and cockroaches, forgot the unicorns and dinosaurs), while the merciful Supreme Being pulled the plug and proceeded to drown the remainder of the human race because they weren’t meeting God’s expectations. Another mass murder case that was never brought to trial.
Noah Wolf was an okay name. For the colonel, and he had always been ‘the colonel’ to me ever since Jonny first introduced him to Dylan and me, ‘Daniel’ would take some getting used to. I couldn’t go modern. I could just see me calling this great slayer “Dan” or “Dude.”
So, what do I call my adoptive father? “Pop” at first seemed too flip. It was an almost disrespectful form of address it seemed to me. It would take someone much different than me to call a man who had just killed fourteen people with one finger “Pop.” “Dad” didn’t seem right, either. “Father” would have been acceptable had I been a graduate of the Featherstone Academy for Rippin’ Young Snots.
I used the recently lethal laptop to search among the Lipans for what “my people” would call a father. There didn’t seem to be much of a Lipan language left. Apparently it fell into disuse and mostly disappeared. Most Lipans, me included, spoke English, Spanish, or both.
“‘Papa’ is available,” I announced.
“Papa Wolf,” he said. “Sounds like a character in a fairy tale. ‘My, Papa, what big teeth you have’.”
I laughed and said, “I guess I’ll just call you ‘Pop’.”
“How about getting some shuteye now.”
“What about the race thing?” I asked. “Think they’ll buy me as your son?”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. People who think in such terms will only look at color, and we both got plenty.”
I turned off the laptop, put it in the back seat, and looked at the colonel. “Tell me, . . . Pop. Tell me about this school you and Eli seemed to be edging me toward. You are edging me toward it, right?”
“I’m thinking a little ahead. If you manage to kill everyone who sat on the Council, there will be a crapload of people looking for you, if they haven’t already got you by then.”
“What about the police—”
“I was talking about the police as well as the gangs. Rather than committing another murder, perhaps the police might be open to an alternative.”
“If we’re both alive.”
“That would seem to be one of the prerequisites for admission,” he said. A grave expression crept over his features. He kept his gaze on the road ahead, the headlights seeming like a small moving island in a very large and very dark universe. “We can’t go to the hotel in this vehicle. The police would be on us in a heartbeat. I’ll be renting a car under my cover identity. Go to sleep, son. I’ll wake you when we get to the airport.”
Son.
It didn’t sound like a cover term to me.
Son.
It didn’t sound like a cover term to him either, it seemed to me. It had been such a long time since he had addressed anyone as “son.” I had never in my life heard anyone call me “son.” It was like a drop of water in a parched desert, the roots of a dying plant sucking up every molecule of moisture, having it fill every branch and leaf, preparing to burst out in blossoms.
Son.
Blossoms would have to wait, though. I balled up the jacket and stuffed it between the side window and the seat. I still had a lot of bad news to deliver to those who now knew it was coming. Should we live through that, there would be the Alamo, and then the unknown.
No point in thinking about strange schools and family when I may not live long enough to experience either. I put it out of my mind for the moment, rested my head on my improvised pillow, closed my eyes and reviewed the faces of those who had died when Colonel Belton’s house had exploded.
