Armed and Dangerous

339.

We are given Howard Turkin's last known address, a phone number and a warning. I decide to check in with Julie and have a background check run on him as we point the Escalade southeast in the general direction of Rancho Cordova. Mustang is at the wheel, I shotgun as we exchange notes while Julie does the data crunch on Mr. Turkin. It seems that everyone has had their share of resistance during the rollout of the 'new protocol', spanning the gamut of law enforcement rank and file. As she is relaying a particularly testy conversation The Queen had with a crusty recently transferred (a demotion to desk work) field agent in Madison, she whistles what I take to be a Vaudevillian ode to danger.

"Well oh well," she sings after the intro, "your guy has almost three pages of arrests and prosecutions, quite the rap," she says.

"Can you give me the highlights?"

"Two tours in 'Nam, honorable in '74, and then the usual series of PTSD related minors for possession, public intoxication, assault, a burglary, GTA, failure to disperse, a DV charge, 14 months for a weapons across state lines violation and then a year of sobriety."

"Trouble adjusting back into the real world," I add to slow her momentum.

"Yes, but then he stays off the books until a few years ago when he surfaces at a gun show in Salinas that was busted for being a recruiting event for a neo-Nazi unit looking for Vets with nothing to lose and experience in munitions and explosives. Evidently he jumped in and has been at the forefront of operations ever since, interestingly enough keeping his nose clean in the process."

"Somebody is providing a cash incentive? Do we have IRS data?"

"Just a minute. Hummm, hasn't filed since 2003."

"Mercenary territory. Somebody is bankrolling the operation and he is a beneficiary."

"Can you send me the most recent photo and how about family?"

"Divorced twice, two kids, grown, a girl in North Carolina and a son in Florida, neither with records, nary a blemish, under the names we have anyway."

"OK, thanks, we'll see what we can do with the new protocols, which, by the way, have already made it to the street, congratulations."

"We like to be on the bleeding edge, as you know, thank you. And stay safe out there, this Mr. Turkin looks like he can be a ornery ol' cuss. You know, armed and dangerous."

"Under advisement, that is the same warning we got from the station chief less than an hour ago."

"It's always good advice. Talk soon."

See You at Five

 338.

We are introduced to the station manager, who after brief formalities, passes us off to the agent in charge of open cases linked to domestic terrorism. We seat ourselves in Agent Kirkpatrick's spartan office, a good three-quarters of which consists of floor to ceiling file cabinets, and accept his assistants offer of coffee. Agent Kirkpatrick wastes no time if getting to the point, grabbing the file of active protocols and dropping it on his desk. It is a think file. The sound it makes upon landing on his steel desk reeks of angst, like the sound a handbook on rituals of devil worship might make in a church. In an overt attempt to practice our preaching, I skip the usual police banter and ask if somewhere in the massive file sitting between us there might be a person, just one, who, with the proper manipulation and motivation, could talk reason with us and who, to coin popular jargon, might be flipped.

"Interesting you should put it that way," Agent Kirkpatrick responds, "Just two days ago we received a directive from Langley, suggesting, recommending, offering, but not quite directing, that we try, 'test', a new technique in our dealings with these scumbags." With his rhetorical definition I sense Mustang's distaste and almost see sparks fly from the file folder. At the same time I take it a step deeper and realize that Julie has already managed to infiltrate the Bureau with the polished, refined and confidential final version of our group effort. We both recognize the language of Agent Kirkpatrick's reading of a particularly troublesome paragraph dealing with the mindset of the modern terrorist as an edited version of the text we submitted as part of our 'homework' assignment of a week ago. Resisting even a glance at her, I comment: "Yes sir, that is the genesis of our visit, to 'test' the theories put forth by our collective brain trusts."

"OK, better you than me," AK, an acronym for Agent Kirkpatrick, but I suspect having more to do with his firearm preference than his initials, has asked us to call him.

"Let's start then with the low hanging fruit, Agent, ah, AK, is there somebody that jumps out as being a good fit for our Manchurian Candidate operation, a person you feel capable of some non-lethal, respectful dialogue?"

"There is. His name is Howard Turkin, and Howie is the ranking officer of the local cell of a group of right-wing extremists who call themselves the River Kats, loosely affiliated with both Q and the Proud Boys. We have intel of them plotting an insurrection at the Capitol much in the model of the Jan. 6 escapade in DC. They are Trump fanatics, hyper fascist and ultra violent. If you would like to take the traditional approach, we have two of them in custody, on lesser charges, who - so far - have opted not to rat out. But we feel they soon will."

Mustang blurts a "What makes you think they will sing?"

"Because everyone has a breaking point. In solitary, where they have been for almost two weeks, the mind does funny things and self-preservation quickly takes the front seat, driving the debate that the alternatives being offered in exchange for more equitable creature comforts, are worth a trade," AK answers without rancor.

"Time being the variable we are working against," I interject, "do we have any intel on the date of the planned, what do we call it? Hostile takeover?"

"Not to the extent that we can bank on it, anywhere from April Fools Day, Thursday, to Mayday in a month. Both have their subliminal connotations. We don't have anything more specific, yet, sorry."

"When can we see the pair you have in solitary?" I ask.

"Anytime. Your call."

"Outstanding. I would like to visit Mr. Turkin first and see what we can do, and then visit the two later today, assuming we are successful with our meeting." I look at my watch,  "Can we book a 1700 visit?"

"You got it. And how about a quick bite after, you like Mexican? We got the best." AK offers.

"Si, me suena bien," I answer standing with an extended hand, "see you at five. And thanks."

Maybe Harry Was Right

337.

Less than ten steps separate the sleek chrome aircraft from the boxy black SUV. We thank the crew for the ride and a toast to a safe return.

"Keys are always under the drivers seat, you drive," I say, making the point that my right side still not ready for California traffic or the local kamikaze driving style. "We used to call this place Pearl in reference to their similar bad intentions." I immediately consider that my innocent comment might have been unwittingly racist, insensitive or tone deaf at worst or sophomorically inappropriate at best, as judged by her silence and lack of response. I also consider that many topics of scorn, humor or satire - once considered macho by our 'boys club' - are now seen through the retrospective lens of having an old-school bias and a cold war brute mentality. I make a mental note to review my verbal rhetoric, recognizing the power of words and that old habits die hard, or in the case of many, not at all. I do not want to be seen as a 1950's relic of ignorance or an animal unable to adjust to societies heroic attempts at evolution. I wonder how long this has been going on without my recognition.

"It remains a date of infamy, to be sure, but for reasons far beyond those taught in school," she says as we exit the landing strip and set a course for the local FBI office. I look at her in bewilderment wondering what magical power allows her to read my mind. Just as I finish my self-inflicted penance of five Hail Mary's and five Our Father's for my verbal faux pas, dating myself as a victim of the post WWII baby boom, she adds another decade to the equation, now centered around Dec 7, 1941. Perhaps responding to the learning opportunity I keep my trap shut.

"What was our response to the surprise attack - assuming it WAS a surprise?" She continues, still trying to adjust the rear-view mirror to its optimum angle. "First there was outrage and then there was retaliation in the form of revenge. That revenge came almost four years later in the form of Fat Man and Little Boy, a pair of innocents brilliantly disguised as peace makers. The fact that the Doolittle Raids had devastated the Japanese mainland and that Emperor Hirohito had agreed to a non-conditional surrender - much to the chagrin of the majority of Japanese people - puts Harry Truman's non-decision in a much dimmer light."

At this I jump back in. "What do you mean 'non-decision?'"

"Your chess partner last night? One in the roomful of men - and all men mind you - on a mission code named the Manhattan Project with the singular objective of creating our species first atomic bomb and establish a new world order as a result of its military usage, he actually wrote a letter to President Truman expressing his dissatisfaction with the success of the mission. He felt he could not personally live with the estimated amount of blood soon to be, indirectly or not, on his hands, and went on to strongly suggested that we, and by we I mean us, find another way to achieve our goals." She is maneuvering through traffic with the deft aplomb of a fighter pilot in a dog fight, and continues, "It was a political given that once the brains in the room, and to be sure one could not toss a biscuit in that room without it hitting a genius, that the device would be used to end the war - and hence saving countless lives in addition to those already lost. The point being that it was a fait accompli, a foregone conclusion, that we would drop Fatty and Junior on Japan. It was a gamble upon which we wagered our entire fortune and a decision made more by the American people than by congress. Truman's non-decision being that he could have stopped it, but chose not to, intentionally or otherwise. And grant you he was in a tough spot politically, but when history cites his 'decision' to drop the bombs, that is a gross misrepresentation of reality."

"And I beg your pardon for my knee-jerk reaction and connection of, ahem, red dots, to your Pearl Harbor allegory. I know you meant no harm." She says.

"The connection is valid to this day," I begin, having a vague, general, idea of where I would like to steer the close of our conversation as we near the federal building in downtown Sacramento.

"Those pilots willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their devotion to honor, homeland and their Emperor, are no different that the radical extremists who strap on a suicide vests and walk into a crowded marketplace with one intention."

"Difference being that in the former we are talking about war-time, fought by soldiers, and in the latter by civilians in otherwise peaceful circumstances," she adds.

"That being the main reason why terrorism, and in our case the homegrown variety, is so insidious."

We park in the reserved area and walk towards the imposing white marble building. Security seems heavy. We are met and escorted into the building by two agents. As we submit our weapons and badges at the security check-point, I wonder how things might have changed had Harry actually 'decided'.

What world would now exist? Where would we be? What meaningful work would the two of us be doing in service? What spin would Philip K. Dick take? Would we still be walking into the local FBI office to gauge the local terrorist threat level?

Maybe Harry was right.

Food for Thought

336.

We wake to the unmistakable sensation of a dramatic reduction in air speed. This is followed by our pilot's announcement that we have begun initial approach and will be touching down in fifteen minutes. I look over at Mustang as she slowly responds to the call to action; seat backs up, shoulder harness' on and instruments stowed. She looks at her watch and decides she can execute a round-trip to the head with time to spare and is off with a sleepy 'good morning' along the way.

If this day is going to start on time I am going to need a gallon of JP-5 Italian roast. I ask our flight attendant who is hustling around preforming landing protocols with a serious look, if a single cup might be available prior to landing. He makes the executive decision that it is possible, yes, but only after his initial directive has been performed. I leave it at that and tend to my own duties as Mustang returns from her trip down the short aisle.

"I'm curious," I open, "if you went deep enough," I look at my watch, "in the two hours and nine minutes, into REM and remember any dreams you might have had."

"Funny you should bring that up because I did, lucid and in Avatar quality color," she says with interest in the subject. "I was in a battlefield, maybe WWI in France, smoke, sickening smells of gunpowder, sulfur, fire, total chaos, carnage, human suffering. I was in a trench trying to keep debris and shrapnel off my head long enough to rise and fire. But every time I did my carbine jammed and I sank back into the ditch wondering what to do."

"Go on."

"After another futile attempt to do the soldierly thing and fight fire with fire, I heard a voice from somewhere above, maybe from a tree, suggest to me, and it was very clear - cutting through the cacophony of hand-to-hand combat - that our problems cannot be solved using the same energy that created them. I was stunned at the profundity of this and found myself wanting more than anything else, more than a cease fire, more than a warm blanket, more than clear water and a hot meal, to love. To love someone. To say I love you and mean it with every fiber of my being. I also thought how magical and miraculous it would be to have it be reciprocal, to have someone return the emotion with the same degree of authenticity and respect."

I sit in stunned silence listening to her retelling of her dream, more than simply because it is a fascinating story with deep allegorical significance but because I, too, had one of a similar nature. I waste no time in the sharing of mine.

"I am playing chess with Albert Einstein, amazed that I have kept the match alive to the point of us each having just our Kings and a pair of pawns. I wonder if he might be toying with me but accept the reality that either way, this is terrific fun. As is common, our conversation between moves is half philosophy and half mathematics. A few moves, and maybe two hours ago, as he took my bishop with a diabolically designed trap, he raised the question of free will, asking my thoughts on perhaps the most esoteric mystery of the universe. One thing leads to another, I take his knight with what can only be described as an ambush, and he suggest that thoughts are energy as much as the cleanest smashing of atoms," I detail, noting that she seems as interested in my dream as I was at hers, and reaching the same conclusion that they are connected by serendipity as well as subject. "He tells me that all of man's problems cannot be changed by using the same thought patterns that created them. Think outside the box being the current meme. The symbolism of him mentoring me on this subject is overwhelming to me and lost in contemplation I can only watch as he maneuvers me into check in three brilliant moves to end the game."

"It's the same dream. The same meaning. Mine of energy and yours of thoughts. Do you see? Our collective sub-consciousness is guiding the way. There is no way we are going to defeat domestic terrorism by engaging in fire-fights, detention and increased surveillance."

We hear the Captain announce that we land in two minutes and that the opportunity to provide the coast-to-coast service has been a pleasure. He terminates the communication with a "and I hope you liked the stir-fry and gelato."

"Certainly food for thought," I softly say.

Now Sleep

 335.

I can see that she is tired. Our meal, including the lime gelato for desert, was about as good as dining at 40,000 feet while traveling over 500 mph can be. But the day, begun in Colorado, transiting through DC and now approaching Sacramento, CA, has taken a toll on both our reserve energy tanks.

"The seats tilt back to within a few degrees of horizontal, there are comforters and pillows in the overhead compartment, also, on the consul is a seat warming function so you can dial in your preferred napping temperature," I inform her using my best flight attendant's drone.

"No magic fingers?" She quips.

"I can order up some turbulence from the pilot, but other and that, nothing but the vibration from the twin Rolls-Royce turbos - and they are pretty smooth, sorry."

"Do you have a go-to power nap technique?" She asks reaching for the sleep aids.

"Absolutely. Regardless of time constraints, anything from twenty minutes to two hours, I first ensure my hydration. Second comes warmth, and third is spatial limitations. Once those are configured the actual technique I continue to perfect, mostly involves breathing and parking the runaway freight train," I offer, wanting to accurately answer her question, provide some context but not engage in an overly long exchange. "So deep breaths, relaxing every muscle group, finding the secondary level of calm, and then making an agreement that all abstract thought, the playback of review tapes, speculative analysis, strategic planning and mental notes taken during the day, are to be put on hold, shut down and turned off." Satisfied that I have thoroughly addressed her inquiry, I return the question: "You?"

"The only thing that I do different, or in addition to your very practical technique, is to find something, somewhere that will cause a spike in my happiness graph. Something that settles the need in my soul for meaning. It does my heart good to remember why we are doing what we do, and to affirm that we are surrounded by beauty," she tells me in a petite and poetic voice that I could listen to all night. She continues, "I respond to the balance, the yin-yang of the natural world, harmony, music, joy. When I am deprived of sleep my first response is to course correct and meditate on the values we hold so dear that we are willing to make extreme sacrifices to ensure. I find this so relaxing that, almost always I immediately drift off into a very restorative REM state."

"In a perfect world we wouldn't need to fight so hard and long to ensure that balance," I try, desperate to uphold my end of the waning conversation.

"It might be enough for us to simply have the mindset that if our efforts in this regard are perfect, that is enough. The world will never be perfect until all its inhabitants are."

"Amen sista."

I dim the overhead lights and begin the sequence of my power sleep routine. I am immediately met with a road block whose detour is manned by ghoulish Qanon radicals and Proud Boys whose mission statement is singularly to inflict physical pain on those that prefer peace to war.

My intent and my effort are pure. We will prevail.

Now sleep.

To Our Success

 334.

"The way I look at it, we have four hours to file our report," I begin once our wheels are up and internet connection established. "Which will leave us with a couple of precious minutes to power nap before starting the investigation."

Mustang is along for the ride no matter what, making this improbably demanding scenario just another day at the office. Still, I feel, that in a perfect world, her real-time, live-action, everything on the line indoctrination should be a touch, what? Easier, less stressful, more forgiving? The reality is that we are jumping into a live fire-fight where the bad guys - the latest intel indicates a joint venture between QAnon and the Proud Boys - are about to unleash a novel form of lethal carnage on innocent citizens, making our job of stopping them before their demented ideas of righteousness manifest as violence and terror, quasi-impossible. We run schools and training centers for this, but nothing, NOTHING, takes the place of active duty experience. As much as it pains me to say, to beat them at their own game one must learn to think like them. Stay one step ahead and bet them to the punch. So strenuously suggests my experience anyway - and I've been at this for longer than I care to remember. For these, among other reasons, I try to shield her from the sheer violence hidden between the lines of our job descriptions and the physical, emotional and social tolls that they take. Amazingly, she has yet to file a formal complaint.

We diligently prepare our report, leaving one open ended question regarding a cousin of the perpetrator with a history of sympathetic communication with known enemy combatants as follow up. I open our encrypted portal and file the paperwork, job done. Our Air Force flight attendant stops by to see if we need anything and, knowing the drill, I ask what we stocked the galley with prior to take-off. Upon his reply I know that our MO has been successfully passed along the chain of command.

"Outstanding, let's try the tofu stir-fry, assuming its still sizzling, the garlic naan, a bottle of the sparking water and a pot of french roast."

In preparation for the meal, we close our laptops and push them far right to clear table space.

"Looks like they know their audience," she comments about both the menu and the service.

"Ha, yes, I raised such as stink on our first shuttle about the grease burgers and stale fries that the protocol was literally changed overnight. Now, they stop on the way and stock up with fare a touch healthier - and tastier."

"Nice to have contacts in high places," she says.

"I think we deserve it, after all, food is fuel, and on this team, our fuel needs to be high-octane, clean, and, perhaps above all, enjoyable."

"Because…"

"Right, because you never know if this one might be…"

"The last?"

I look at her closely. This is not the conversation direction I was heading. She looks back in complete understanding and acceptance. She is right. She knows. She agrees. This could be, could very well be, the last decent meal we ever share together. And that changes everything. It makes each breath special and every minute count. It makes the water sweeter and the air somehow less polluted. Our meal arrives. It smells magnificent. We savor and smile. I raise my glass.

"To our success."

This Incredible Team

333.

Without time to unpack, we get the news. Julie has launched the mission in three of the four target cities. Our orders are to get to Sacramento sooner than possible. With Davis and The Queen in Madison, Drysdale and Saunders in Austin, TX, and Julie and Harlan in DC, the fourth and final state capitol experiencing dramatically increase chatter is ours. Take the GulfStream she adds, its ready to go, and please file your report on Boulder while you're in the air. I inhale deeply and let the urge to ask a sarcastic, 'anything else?' go along with the lung-full of nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide. Mustang looks at me with huge sympathetic eyes glistening with hope. I silently wonder if she is having second thoughts about signing on with this troupe of mercenaries, one-third SEAL one-third CIA and one-third FBI, but she appears to be all-in, so I leave it at that, glad to have her special talents and calming influence on board as my temporary partner.

Preston navigates through the afternoon traffic and drops us at the landing strip connected to Reagan Intl. Waiting, as always, is a USAF pilot and one assistant, in this case a young Staff Sergeant acting as everything else. I am surprised to see the pair of new faces and inquire about their predecessors, friends from several missions flown together over the last decade.

"Major Tomkins is in Kabul and AFC Torres running air-cargo into and out of Diego Garcia."

"Good men, both. How fast can you get us to Sacto?" I ask stowing our meager gear and setting up shop in the GulfStream's ground-to-air war room, an area we call the Eagles Nest.

"Have you been?" I ask.

"To Sacramento?"

"No, DG."

"Not yet sir, I hear good things though, can't wait to get out there."

"I was there on 9/11, leading a SEAL team through a rehab tour, it is one of the most stunningly beautiful places on the Earth, but on that day, also one of the busiest - and deadliest. I will never forget the Skippers all-hands announcement about the terrorist attacks - and how they would impact us, the base, in response. He said, and I get goose bumps every time I think back on hearing his steady voice finish the announcement with a sober 'This is not a drill.' We were as of that moment, at war."

"One we're still in," he offers in a objective facts-only tone, one in which I detect notes of both regret and resolute acceptance.

"Yes, we are. Sounds like you might have that as part of your story, too."

"I enlisted on 9/12."

I salute and note his name, suddenly proud once again to be part of this incredible team.

One Remaining Gram

332.

Over time one's empathy can become wrapped in a protective layer of calloused skin. I have been doing this long enough to know that it is a blessing and a curse. We have to ask the tough questions of those choking in the grip of grief. Fortunately Mustang's employment history, most notably as a post-traumatic neurologist, has provided her with a few the necessary prerequisites, but not all. It remains one of the toughest parts of the job comparable to the nightmare of first responders assigned to doing just that. Carnage is carnage whether it's physical or emotional. Blood unleashes a autoimmune response in any sentient human being.

Our task is not in solving the crime, but in understanding it. The local Police have the lead in making arrests and gathering evidence for subsequent court proceedings should the perpetrator be captured and not killed. Our job is to determine if the gunman was acting alone or as part of a larger web of dissidents, that being a kinder, softer, word for domestic terrorists. We start with the family.

No matter the fealty, standing, history or criminal record of the person of interest, emotions quickly rise to the surface. Good times and bad, highlights and low, smiles and tears are all waiting just below the surface for the opportunity to escape, to be released into the custody of sympathetic ears. I try my best to establish a bond of trust, one that will allow the sharing of facts that sometimes have been suppressed for decades, secrets that were locked away for protection, but now need the light of day - if there is going to be a useful and/or cathartic exchange. The skill of the police interview is something that must be learned by experience, not merely understood from a classroom lecture or film study. Every situation is unique as is every individual put in the unenviable position of answering difficult questions. The final challenge is often in determining an acceptable degree of confidence in cross-cultural examinations, and in this case we are dealing with a young Syrian born Islamist, a circumstance some social umpires call two strikes.

Do not rush to judgement. Let the story be told. Establish as solid a relationship as possible in the first ten minutes based on trust. And most importantly, ask the right questions and then shut up and listen. The protocol we have established calls for me to interview and Mustang to  transcribe as much of the exchange as possible in shorthand, even though every second is being recorded to audio tape. Our field experience has shown on countless occasions that environmental interference such as wind, rain, traffic noise, birds and even a child asking for something to eat can render key passages not only inaudible but inadmissible. There is also the undeniable fact that body language, slang, dialects and other communications can only be felt, and then noted, undetectable by even the highest quality recording devices. So I talk and she writes.

After several hours with an entire household of relatives and a small community of well-intentioned, mixed-race neighbors, we have enough to formulate a fairly accurate profile of person one: A young, troubled and angry, American born local High School athlete with a short fuse, paranoid and borderline psychotic, anti-social, isolated, and perhaps, PERHAPS capable of extreme violence as a form of response for the perceived hardships inflicted upon him by a society that discriminates and agitates people of color. He has a minor rap sheet, most notably violent social interactions, is an average student, and prefers video games to dating, and rap music to reading. There is no obvious link suggesting he might be a part of a gang, organized radical group or other street club. Records now indicate that he purchased the weapon, the go-to AR-15, just six days prior to the mass shooting, the only form of ID required a valid Colorado drivers license and the payment of eight-hundred dollars in cash.

We call the information in to and ask Julie and ask for background checks on the family, suggesting also that it appears at this point to be an isolated case of a kid with limited coping skills no longer able to dismiss the pressures of a modern oppressive society and eventually choosing death by cop in a desperate cry for help.

That he took ten innocent others as proof of intention and was subsequently taken alive, creates a much larger and more complex riddle for our fractured judicial system to unravel.

We decide to stay another day and look around. After a relaxing meal we arrive, exhausted, to a hotel near the college campus. Before retiring to our rooms we divvy up the homework and I offer an outline for the effort: "Don't spend time on detail, just get the facts lined up chronologically, we'll review once more, reading between the lines, on the second pass, tomorrow."

She seems troubled, so I ask, "You OK?"

"Yeah, just emotionally fatigued," she says.

"I hear ya. Not my favorite part."

"Tough times to be a cop."

With the one remaining gram of empathy I have left to give, I offer her a "Welcome to DT."

Chill

331.

Our three days of focused and energetic effort are cut short. Julie calls, apologies for the interruption and assigns us to the initial investigation of the latest mass shooting, this time in bucolic Boulder, Colorado. In cases like these I find it amazing that such a peaceful and lovely place could ever house such random violence. Ten are dead. The shooter, allegedly disturbed and suffering from acute paranoia, extended his imbalance to the trigger of a military grade automatic assault weapon. He is in custody. He is a US citizen, of Middle Eastern descent. It appears that he was acting alone, and that the victims were simply at the wrong supermarket at the wrong time.

Victims include a police officer who was a first responder. The connections, and therefore connotations, are more political than judicial. Our job is to make sure that the purp isn't part of a larger organization that may have other targets in the cross-hairs. I ask Julie to run a search of known or suspected terrorists in a 100 mile radius of Boulder, a circle that would include Denver, Colorado Springs, home to the USAF, Laramie, WY, and several ski resort towns such as Aspen and Breckenridge. Not much - but a start.

We are packing as if the cabin is afire, tossing essential clothes and gear into a single carry on bag, one each. By the time we zip the overstuffed luggage, the cab that Julie arranged is in the driveway, the driver calming his nerves with a filterless cigarette, his N95 protecting the whiskers on his chin as he deeply puffs.  

Mustang is carrying both pieces of luggage and I the pair of modified bags that act as laptop carriers and official law enforcement backpacks, meaning that they each carry a badge, a burner, zip ties, mine a Glock nine and hers a Sig Sauer P226, as well as backup clips. The probability that these will be needed is remote, however, the fourth agreement that we borrowed from Don Miguel Ruiz, is "Never assume." So we don't.

In the back of the cab, Mustang asks innocently how I feel about the current situation of gun control in the US. Somewhat surprised that she would have to ask, I try to respond earnestly and without over emotionalizing the wedge-issue red-hot topic.

"The NRA owns the House and Senate. You know of their rating system? Until we get the dark money out of the political arena nothing will change, not even another mass shooting in a sleepy, hippy town is enough to sway votes. Background checks, making high-capacity military grade weapons illegal, would help. We need to amend the second amendment, no doubt. But we will never completely eradicate the problems until we solve the radical racial bias behind the obscene violence, not today and not in a hundred years."

She is nodding in agreement. I see that the cabbie is watching in the rear-view mirror and also listening closely, very interested in my comments as well. I want to tell him to please keep his eyes on the road, but reconsider and try to wrap it up succinctly for everyone's benefit.

"We need to all chill."

To Goethe!

 330.

"Nothing like a solid routine," she shares with me as we practice our orienteering skills in a previously unexplored section of my neighboring woods. Keeping her pace is all I can do, making my response another in a series of grunts. I try to add my total agreement with an emphasis on the second of the 'ah huh's' additionally coaxing myself into some semblance of graceful flow as we hike. I will admit that since the start of our accelerated physical therapy program, paired with the increased dosing of the steroid, the name of which I cannot pronounce, progress has been, dare I say, dramatic. Eating cleaner, sleeping better, reaching previously unobtainable flexibility poses, deep tissue massage, acupuncture, three times a day cardio sessions - a rotation to make any age-group triathlete envious - meditation, and our four times a day memorization sessions of Julie's manifesto, leave little time for sloth, lethargy or self-pity. Jammed into a single sentence, I might say that "Haven't felt this good since I was a plebe, bullet-proof and full of piss and apple-cider vinegar."

I caution myself that every time I consider the merits of the program and my awesome response to it, she seems to telepathically intuit the emotion and up the ante. Making it a wonderful exercise in humility; Stay positive and stay motivated - but stay humble. I recall my old friend Goethe saying something to the effect that it will get way harder before it gets any easier.  Or, 'It will kill you if you don't get stronger,' as we used to say in BUDS.

I will hand it to Julie and Harlan (and whomever the mysterious ghost writer is) on the depth and scope of the manifesto. It truly is a work of art. Mustang and I have evolved into a two part system in its memorization; comprehension and utilitarian jam. First, we spend one hour reading aloud, highlighting key passages and transposing to cursive. We then nap for fifty minutes. Finally we orate the passages committed to memory for an audience of one. The oratories are uninterrupted and non judgmental. Upon completion of this routine we then exchange notes on each others presentation, recall, ability to improvise, diction, impact and absorption. All that is part one.

Part two is the fun part. We get to find a way to take the meaning and add our own voice. The key here is to create such a familiarity with the subject matter that the potential for exploration exists, in musical terms, we jam. What this means to me is… How I respond to this is… What we typically do, and will experiment with alternative methods in the near future is…

We are in agreement that this was the intent of the exercise from the start. To explore new, previously ignored, dangerous or frightening, methods of combating what many intelligence professionals consider to be the most important social issue of our time: The alarming rise of domestic terrorism. Put in common vernacular Julie, Harlan (and the masked mercenary) have brilliantly asked us, without being condescending or belittling, to put on our thinking caps. It was an major epiphany when this fact dawned on us like the first light of a new day.

"Do you suppose that we will be the first ones to read between the lines and figure this out?" I ask as we sit to our 'supper' of raw carrots, celery sticks, cashews and strawberries.

"Hummm, my feeling is that maybe we might be the last."

I pause, stunned by the thought, but recover quickly and ask for the bottle of sparking water.

Pouring with attention I propose the toast: "To Goethe!"

The Whole Book

 329.

We make the obligatory stop for provisions along the route and Preston drops us at the cabin. We have another seventy-two hours of freedom, a situation for which we search for the precise word that means, "non hair on fire mode." Mustang has already authored a syllabus for the unexpected opportunity, and as I stock the refrigerator with our perishable bounty, she begins the oral outline for my consideration.

"I believe that it is better to understand than to memorize," she begins as I examine the ridiculously expensive mushrooms. "I have found, and several studies concur, that once we make the sincere commitment to truly grasp the subject material, a chemical process begins that triggers brain function to optimize detail elements critical towards success."

I glance over the counter at her in the hope of adding to my initial response to her professorial introduction but decide to keep it at 'typical.' "You sound as if a long and boring lecture is about to begin."

"Well, definitely long, but only as boring as we decide to allow, yes?" She says completely devoid of any tone relative to the key of Defensive minor. "What are some tricks you used when faced with similar assignments?"

I place the Black Morels (morchella importuna I recall) gently washed and patted dry, under a checkered tablecloth on the old Frigidaire's grated top shelf. As if propelled by their cousin's more potent magical powers, I see a vivid image of Guy Montag at the critical moment when he decides that some things deserve to be committed to memory, should other forms of preserving societies collected wisdom be unavailable.

"We were taught to break down long texts into manageable chunks, my max being about two pages, double spaced. Accomplishing that, we read aloud to any audience available, or into a mirror if no one could be rented or bribed. Lastly I would go back and highlight the key points of each paragraph and try to find some logical connection to link them thematically into some sort of flowing lyric. Something that I am sure made sense to me alone."

"Excellent, did you get pretty good at it?"

Again I see Bradbury's characters deciding at long last to decide for themselves what is important and what is censorship. Making a point of testing the sharpness of my favorite knife, I dial up the conversational temperature, "Good enough to graduate and rise fairly smoothly through the ranks, but somewhere along the line I realized that the one element missing from the routine was my opinion of it. Once I inserted myself into the equation, even with a simple yea or nay, right or wrong, good or bad, the challenge became more than just memorizing a bunch of words, or even grandiose ideas, it became personal. My spin. Variations on a theme by yours truly. I could add, subtract, modernize, juxtapose, emphasize and most importantly, personalize, to fit my needs and requirements. Risky, yes, but also exhilarating. Like starting a fire."

"They frown on that in law school, you know."

"Yes, but my response to that has always been that is the very reason why we have amendments to the Constitution. Things change. Time marches along. Civilization learns critical and abstract thought. We act independently and resist over-bearing fascist paradigms. We stop burning books and write philosophical essays. We decide not to live in fear."

"Not so far a stretch from Fahrenheit 451 to our current assignment, is it?" She asks.

"We need not to be left alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?"

"You memorized that quote, impressive."

"The whole book."

Anonymous Archectict

 328.

The teams are arranged to provide both utility and cover. Davis and Saunders especially, but also The Queen have at one phase or another had their true identities and employers exposed. The challenge is in building a successful media campaign with them as leads without unnecessary risk. The Queen, being of a modern demographic and familiar with frequent changes of appearance, is good with it, Davis and Saunders, however are on record as saying that their days working undercover are to be henceforth spoken of in the past tense only.

It took some prodding to get them into their new characters, new looks and ready for a fresh start, but, as we knew they eventually would, both have accepted their roles as bring for the good of the team. The good of the team also being for the good of the country.

Julie and Harlan have produced an amazingly thorough playbook. Weighing in at almost three pounds, it covers everything from campaign objectives to operational protocols and local and national media links. The glossary alone spans six pages. We have been instructed to spend the next three days committing its contents to memory and then returning the manual for destruction. At the mention of the time frames I immediately grin like a school-kid at recess. My concern is that, of the four target sites, all of which Julie has indicated are on the receiving end of an unusually high volume of chatter, aren't going to honor our seventy-two hour time-out and temporarily cease and desist. Not the way the terror game works. Still, I have grown into the missions overall concept and, with empty cup, look forward to its implementation and eventual success. Thankfully, at this juncture, aliases and disguises notwithstanding, it appears as if that is the general consensus of opinion with the entire team, a survey I share with Julie and Harlan after the formal presentation has ended.

"Tell me, to whom do we owe the creative kudos of the architecture of this ambitious plan?"

Julie looks at Harlan as he looks at her. I immediately deduce that there is a third party lurking in the shadows somewhere, someone who, given the world in a perfect state, would remain in the shadow of anonymous nom de plume secrecy. Julie makes the face that non verbally tells me that, as much as she would like to, she cannot reveal the identity of the mysterious author…just yet. I put up the stop sign hand and tell her that I understand and that it's OK, a tactical maneuver designed more to protect her than to power-play my way into a need-to-know status.

She tilts her head to the left and offers a telling, "Thank you," to end the conversation.

I spend the rest of the day considering who it might be, and why I would be on the outside of the inner executive committee.

Mustang sneaks up from behind as I sip a cup of tea, lost in speculative thought and conspiratorial considerations.

"Shall we call Preston and get started?"

Of Enormous Potential

 327.

1. Education. How did we get here?
2. Community Outreach. What do we do about it?
3. Preemption. Before the strike.

"What we will be doing is revolutionary. No-one has ever tackled such an ambitious project covering such a broad range of interaction. One could call this a radical departure from traditional police, or in our case, counter-terrorism, ways and means. Our special weapons are our willingness to engage and our tactics the tools of change. We will seek to align communities with our efforts to bring about the total package of resistance. Grass roots policing of self. The organic rebuke of fear. We will lead, and it is our belief, that given a credible, positive and holistic model to follow, a significant counter terror program will result. History has shown us that, when provided the accurate historical background, an unsatisfactory current situation and the potential of an improved future quality of life, people will enlist for the good fight," says Julie, mincing narry a word.

I am borderline shocked at the opening of her presentation. To use the term 'revolutionary' in her description of the plan, is an understatement of intergalactic proportions. I am also a bit disappointed that they, I will assume that Harlan played a large part of the plan's formulation, didn't consult with me at any point of its conceptual manifestation. I look around the room to gauge the response from the rest of the team and see expressions ranging from disbelief, Drysdale, to enthusiasm, The Queen. I wait as long as possible before breaking the elongated silence that her proposal has produced.

"Is there a projected structure to the human resources necessary to accomplish the campaign's objectives?" I ask politely.

"The structure is us. We are it. There is not a doubt in my mind that you all have the skills, training and experience to handle the required multi-tasking.  We simply need to do it smartly and efficiently," she replies in a staid and trenchant tone.

I again review the expressions and see them change from shock, Davis, to awe, Saunders.

I want to scream 'impossible, we aren't social workers, educators or security rent-a-cops, we will be wasting our valuable time trying to be all things to all counter-terror professionals by stretching ourselves, already threadbare, to this extent,' but I bite down hard and wait for the other shoe to drop.

"I am not saying that this will be easy. What I am suggesting is that we give it a try, just four cities that have been trending in the direction of eminent strikes. Also, so you are all aware, this comes as a 'highly' recommended strategy from the interim Homeland Security deputy-director, aka our new boss, and as you might gather, definitely a left-leaning dove," she answers my question before I ask it.

"Here are the cities and teams for starters:

1) Madison, WI, Drysdale and Saunders.
2) Sacramento, CA, Cap and Mustang.
3) Austin, TX, Davis and The Queen.
4) Washington DC, Myself and Harlan."

She continues, "Please take the overview of this new opportunity home with you tonight and run it through your processing systems. Please, please, try to look at it objectively and consider that although it is a radical departure from our normal MO, the potential is enormous."

"Tomorrow, same time, we will detail some of the specifics and Harlan and I will try our best to answer any questions you may have," She concludes, ending the session with a one word command.

"Dismissed."

The Right Way

 326.

"They are basically split down the middle, 50/50," Julie says in reference to the House Committee attempting a power play to direct the course of action that will, to a great extent, direct our counter-terrorism efforts. "Along party lines as you would imagine. Those on one side applaud our recent success, and those on the other deplore it. Let's not forget that we exposed a layer of corruption that had become normalized as a standard operating procedure."

Harlan gives us an overview of the legal issues involved with the designation of domestic terrorism and the current motions on the table in both houses to give the appearance of progress. "The single biggest challenge in fighting the cells - as their level of sophistication in their organizational structure ultimately provides an autonomous and independent soldier acting alone - not like the armies gathered to do battle in the past - is the numbers involved. For every one we preemptively take down, there are a hundred others in training camps prepping for American jihad. The homegrown terrorist of today doesn't arrive by landing craft but by ransom-ware, not as a platoon or brigade, but acting alone, armed to the gills with military grade weaponry, a radical political bias and a religious, racial or social agenda to fulfill. Examples include McVeigh, Kaczynski, Rittenhouse, Paddock, and a dozen other white, middle class, males," he outlines.

"And it doesn't help us much when these soft-minded bullies get rewarded for violent behavior by some of the highest ranking and most prolific politicians at every level of government," Julie adds. "Never before have we seen such overt support for subversive behavior, actually legitimizing their violence and radical right-wing agendas of white supremacy, nationalism, misogyny and their cult of ignorance."

Harlan caps the dramatic presentation with a solemn, "We have what our political allies consider to be an impossible assignment. Look around the room," he asks with a sweeping arm gesture to encompass all eight of us, "this is it. It is us against, what intel suggests is approaching a thousand individual attacks on US soil since 1994. A thousand attacks divided by eight people, and don't get me wrong, these are eight high-performance individuals, is 125 stops per agent. To give you an idea of what that means, it took us three months to bring down Cyrus' cell of three - and we had an inside asset!"

The room is silent as we absorb and process this information. It is nothing new, we have known about the ridiculous odds against us for some time, but this new exchange, to my mind, is the precursor for the next phase of our action. Julie continues, "We have lobbied hard and long for additional resources; people, tools, equipment, mostly to no avail. We are lucky to have survived the trauma and political turnover that flooded us downstream after the success of Operation Firecracker/Mongoose TOM. And please, regardless of what they spew on that right-wing propaganda quasi-news channel, it was a great day for democracy, you are all to be congratulated for your fine efforts and courage under fire," At this Julie pauses to allow the earnestness of her message to be appreciated by all, "But the time is at hand to make a bold new statement in our counter-terrorism effort."

"At 1000 tomorrow, right here, we will outline the new direction that we intend to steer this battleship - and launch the next phase of our operation. Until then I would like to leave you with an oldie but goodie, a meme I am quite sure many of you have heard a thousand times, but maybe for others it will be the first time." She moves to the far end of the conference table and pulls the string on a sheet covering a hanging new wall poster.

THERE ARE TWO WAYS TO DO THINGS:
1) THE RIGHT WAY, and
2) AGAIN.

"See you all tomorrow morning."

Coffee Please

 325.

"That went well." We are leaving our appointment at the clinic, designed to follow up and add data to the progress of the experimental steroid on the regeneration of nerve fibbers on my right side. "But why didn't you tell me about the side effects?"

"Ah, because, I was, well, a little..," I stammer, wanting to avoid the analysis altogether.

"Embarrassed?" She correctly asks, turning right onto Ohio St.

"Way past embarrassed, closer to humiliated," I confess.

"You know, for a self-professed tough-guy you sure can be a wimp sometimes."

"Truly an amazing fact, I agree. Let's grab an espresso on the way back to the office, I am feeling lethargic. If you don't mind."

"Not so fast, first, from this point forward, as your heard Dr. Spelling suggest, any change to your stasis is to be reported to me and logged, including disfunction, erectile or otherwise, and we will try the onc-shot-per-week routine to insure compliance with the testing protocols. I will administer. Should you decide to accept this change in the terms and conditions of your neuro-biological therapy, you may have an espresso as reward," she teases.

"Where do I sign?"

"All kidding aside, this is our last chance to leverage the circumstance. Coupled with the success of our sabbatical in the forest, this medical technology might allow the emergence of an altogether new you. If you want to become a fire-breathing butterfly you need to morph, and rather quickly, from your current caterpillar state of being."

"I get it. I'm in, not to worry," I add in my own defense, "It may take a while for all this new and improved self-help, be here now, grasshopper coming and going Zen focus to manifest as the new me. Remember that we discussed the role that flow plays in all of this."

"I understand. But its my job to add another level of quality control to your transition, so let's keep that in mind as we navigate the mine-field, OK?"

"Roger."

"So how bad was it?"

"Like High School déja vu all over again. Coffee please, this fire-breathing butterfly runs on high octane."

Cut Out for Us

 324.

I lock up the cabin and stash the key in the usual hiding spot with no attempt at secrecy. Preston our limo driver has been waiting patiently for fifteen minutes as we procrastinate on departure, milking the tranquility and guessing the color of alarm code back in DC to be somewhere between red and red hot.

"I think we made some progress," Mustang says as a way of offering a farewell, bridging the gap from the past to present.

"I think so too, but I still wish we could extend the stay, as they say in hospitality circles."

The return trip is quiet with melancholy as we each mentally review what was accomplished, and how that might segue into the enormity of work still to be done. We had agreed to spend three hours the day prior in solitary confinement; nothing but our laptops, to complete the homework assignment ordered by Julie. After an initial - and failed - attempt to itemize the plethora of potential ways and means to skin the terrorist cat, it seemed to me that one tactic, perhaps too general, perhaps not, held commonalities with all the others, and that thread, however thin, linked all the possibilities, probabilities and certainties and their solutions together like the yarn wound inside a baseball. Resisting the urge to be clever, I simply asked what I considered to be a legitimate question:

"Do we over-provide terrorists, especially those homegrown, with reason and/or cause enough to consider extreme and violent political response?"

Unable to resist answering my own rhetorical question, I asked another; "And if so, what deterrents can we initiate to lesson the likelihood of violent domestic terrorism in response?" In the fine print of a smaller type-size and italicized font, I offered a few heavy-handed suggestions.

Make hate speech a felony. Set examples.
Prosecute the rampant racism in the military.
Level the playing field on the streets.
End systemic policies of blatant discrimination.  
Make justice colorblind.
Dramatically separate church and state again.  
Lesson income disparity.
Stop for profit incarceration.
Allow the people true social and political representation.
Get big corporate money out of politics.
Tighten gun laws.
Keep military grade weapons off the streets.
Require all 'extreme' media outlets to scroll a disclaimer stating their comments to be opinion and entertainment, not news and unbiased, objective facts.
Educate the people. Free collage tuition. Retire student debt.
Open group discussion.
Provide the haters an alternative to it.
Offer those marginalized incentives to choose peaceful solutions.

We had agreed to share each others' work. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised at Mustang's level of sophistication. Hers was a brilliant one-page treatise on criminal justice and contemporary police tactics. Her response to mine, she guessing that I willingly took the chance of my left-leaning, utopian point-of-view missing the target, was, however, the response I was hoping for.

"We've got our work cut out for us, haven't we?"

"We do, and I'm not holding my breath in the hope that we lose our jobs as a result of humanity's sudden total enlightenment."

"So we remain the last line of defense?"

"We do and we are."

"Still, you should start your screen play. I love the premise."

"There will be time. But not just yet."

Welcome Back

323.

Not completely unexpected, our final day of leave is spent mostly in recovery. I had been, for some time now, tracking the sobering rate of decline of my once high-performance anatomy. Parts were now failing faster, fatiguing sooner and taking significantly more time to fully recover. That Mustang's three-part therapy would cause the degree of uncomfortability I was experiencing is something others without my history of athletics, military service and years of specialized training might see as cruel and unusual. It was, I admitted to her, punishment of an altogether different level. It being as bad a physical hangover as I can recall only prompted return comments such as "You ain't seen nothing' yet,' and 'Would you care for some cheese with that whine?' By noon, after liters of water and electrolyte replacement, I finally give up, give in and, interestingly, give thanks.

"You can thank me when your efforts are rewarded, because you know it and I know it, there will come a time when you will need the use of your right side, the complete you, full, flexible, powerful and quick. You have deluded yourself into thinking that you can be as effective at half-speed as you once were at full, that you can outsmart and out strategize the bad guys. Breaking news: They don't give a shit about your experience, record, legend or rank. If you stand in their way, which you will, the odds of your success are reduced exponentially with every passing day. Every passing day that you fail to appropriately respond to this challenge. Right now you are like a race horse with a broken leg. Do you think that there hasn't been talk of putting you out to pasture, out of your misery?"

We are walking the trail out back of the cabin, a single-track path that keeps me hustling to keep up. I recall using this 'active recovery' in my own coaching, but her pace is the hare to my tortoise. I also sense that she is using our conversation to further the recovery dynamic.  

"Well, yes, I'm sure there has been scuttlebutt gossip of this nature, always is. I first heard such nonsense about twenty years ago. But let me tell you, the thing about last missions, final chapters and farewell tours is that somebody - usually the hero - always dies. Sometimes I think it is planned that way to avoid the messy alternatives.

"Retirement, pensions, change of commands, nothing to do but golf"

"Zactly."

"What about meaning then? What part of life's purpose do we lose once the low road is taken? With mediocracy embraced? Compromised and cozy? How do we justify our self-knowledge and self-worth with the decision to make Easy Street our new home? I don't see how such a prolific warrior as yourself could ever reconcile that choice at the expense of eternal peace of mind. Please tell me what I am missing." As she stokes the fire of my soul she leaps a recently felled and blocking maple tree in a single, graceful, spontaneous firing of mind, muscle and matter. She stands on the far side of the tree, hands on hips wordlessly asking a similar result, prolific or otherwise, from her warrior companion.

I stop short and explore my options, although I already know there to be only one.

I hear a voice inside snicker that it is 'time for some magic' so I pivot and spin, take three steps in recoil and execute a perfect foreword flip over the log, ending an inch from her statue-like position. I expect an ovation, but I get a greeting.

"Welcome back."

The Pursuit

322.

Several theories, all conspiratorial, swirl around the vortex of my hypothalamus. The one I am preoccupied with is her transparency in dosing me with an elixir designed to ease my electrified and still buzzing nerve fibbers, coaxing them towards a state of rest. Her therapy suggesting that a magnesium sulfate and gabapentin nightcap is the remedy I accept with complete trust, and partial fear. The trust from my experience in judging character - she gets my highest rating - and the fear from not trusting myself to respond as required. This is due to the second of my concerns, and the random access memory used in its processing, which centers around my reluctance to commit to the challenge, that one she tossed my way like a cheap salad, asking for nothing less than my absolute best. I remain critical of my capabilities at this stage of the game. As the old dog about to learn a new trick, I can't shake the feeling that taking another long nap in the sun might be more satisfying than yet another, and most likely painful, personal challenge. The cocktail's active ingredients and these heady issues meet in the dark ally of my imagination ready to rumble, neither of them foolish enough to bring knives to the fire-fight.

I do find it amusing that I am entertaining these negative reactions to her challenge. It is a first. Under the normal circumstances that, for the sake of this exercise we'll call 'my entire life up to meeting this person' I have never shied away from the difficult, the challenging, the exceptional or, plainly put, the hard. Perhaps because I have always sensed that should I want it bad enough, the time to achieve would be available. But now? I am not so sure. Even Gladwell put limiters on his 1,000 hours to do become anything theory. If the hard stuff was easy, the easy would be worthless. There is a degree of time involved. As I focus in on the paradox of this, I sense a strengthening of my total being, as if simply by the mere consideration of its potential, my body, mind and spirit cross swords in Muskateer-like fashion pledging the fealty of oneness. It isn't about the finish. The goal is a falsehood. That pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is a discounted currency and adjusted for inflation by centuries of hype. We have been gaslit again, always looking for the win that never quite jibes with our understanding of victory. I am in free-fall. Time. Lack thereof. Futures. Stock market optimism. White collar crime. Inflation. Commerce. Greed. The enormous societal pressure to succeed. Fucking Republican hypocrisy. Racism. Religion. Midnight. Daylight Savings Time. Addiction. Fear. Pain, suffering and ignorance. Time. Emotional sand in the hour glass. Purpose. Meaning. Hope. Love. Tomorrow.

I wake in a cold sweat wondering where fate and karma have brought me this time. I find little solace in the recognition of the tight-knot oak boards of my bedroom ceiling. My heart is approaching tachycardia red-line but my lips are parched shut. How long have I been out?

I re-thread the tapes of my reel-to-reel memory and hear the echos of my last string of Dylan-esque lyrical questioning, variations on the theme of time. A single drop of sweat falls from my nose and lands with a thousand pound payload.

Time is an illusion. There is only now. Always and forever. The eternal diegesis.

"Make the pursuit the priority."

Razor Point of Fact

321.

There are points along the timeline of an examined life that represent moments of monumental change. In script writing jargon they are known as that specific moment in time when the protagonist, wearing one of the thousand faces of a Campbell hero, decides to act. He or she may have been pushed, prodded, ridiculed, tortured, insulted, bruised or broken, but a previously missing combination of courage, understanding, need, love, duty, guilt or other reward suddenly motivates the heroic choice. One can, faced with this decision every lucky man encounters, chose the path of the superior man or spend the rest of his days in shame and regret. Until, of course, another opportunity arises offering another chance at redemption. These things can take time as they are anything but easy. There are philosophical circles that decree that this is all there is to it… one can chose the heroic or wallow away as a dumpling in the dish. Continuing this tasty allegory, these advanced spiritual avatars call everything else in life gravy.

The three-part therapy session complete, I am left as pleasant a physical sensation I can recall. I actively attempt to end the current conundrum and drift into what should be a deep and restorative slumber. But I am torn. The last time I can remember being called on the carpet, asked to choose a direction at the crossroads of courage and doubt, was when I asked coach for a breather - to allow what would turn out to be a spiral fracture of my left ankle in a playoff game - the time to tape and wrap. Matter of fact, since that incident, now almost four decades past, I have been the person doing the questioning not the answering. Up until this very evening I had considered this issue to be one of the fibers that had, successfully by most estimates, gone into the construction of my character. If you were, say, a private deceptive looking to dig dirt and collect ammo for a character assassination campaign, you would need a fucking big backhoe. How much of this is ego and how much fact is something I have never stopped to consider. Until now. This place on that timeline. I open my eyes to find that there is no place to hide.

After all, I have done OK on the rehabilitation. I was supposed to be dead. Three point-blank nines in my spine. Six months in a coma. Back to work, on the job and chosen' bad guys in remarkable time - and against the recommendations of the entire medical community - says something. Still, the prospect that what I had considered and envisioned to be an easy ride into the sunset had just been thoroughly torched by a single comment. From any other source I would dismiss as irrelevant. But.

I have been challenged. My very spirit has come into question. Her words: "the quality of the remainder of your days, while not completely up to you, is something that you can steer in the direction you choose. You can choose dumpling or warrior. And for the warrior there is nothing between," reverbate.

The true challenge is in the reality that I know she is right. Of this there is no doubt. It is a premise I have used in one variation or another in my own teaching and coaching for many years. "Your spirit knows what is right even when your body and brain resist." I am the bullseye of a lightning bolt of illuminative understanding. I have succumbed to the casual acceptance that 'things' would become easier as the workloads lessen, as we move from participator to spectator, doer to watcher, active to passive. I want easy. I want the fruits of my labors to provide a bounty of comfort, a cornucopia of convenience. Cake, I want to eat cake. I am struck by the arrow of enlightenment sharpened to a razor point of fact:

This will be hard.

Dumpling

 320.

"Its a three-part therapeutic treatment," she briefs me. "All I need you to do for the first part is to relax - and by that I mean deep and full release of muscles, joints, ligaments, tendons and the vast network of wires we call the Central Nervous System. Not many people can do it, but I have great faith that you can."

I am honored that she holds my capabilities in such high regard, and I close my eyes to start the process. Almost immediately I am informed that I cannot 'muscle my way through' the technique, and should incorporate a slow breathing cycle as well as conscious 'total body' participation, one that allows my consciousness to act as a benevolent supervisor. To illustrate, she digs her thumbs deep into the fleshy part of my back asking for submission and acceptance as she does. "Let go," she insists.

This opening round of play takes, by my estimate, almost an hour. She has traced the outline of my spine and its neuromuscular tributaries leading down my arm and leg. After a period of  uncertainty I become more and more interested in the process, trying my best to accommodate the requirements and offering little counter resistance. "This would feel pretty good it it didn't hurt so much," I offer as a heuristic update.

"Keep still and use your breathing as a balm, sending waves of restorative, healing light and love to the areas currently without. Right now your arm and leg are like a desert cactus, almost completely dried and wilted."

The second part of the treatment consists of semi-traditional acupuncture, the theory being that neural stimulation at key trigger points introduces new energies to the stagnant conduits, often enough to jump-start dead batteries, or their corroded cables, back to life. The secret, she tells me during the tedious tracing and subsequent poking and prodding is in knowing which nerves carry messages to what body parts. To demonstrate she twists a needle in my back and watches my left ring finger twitch in response. "If we can reach the level of response I am hoping for, this is a procedure that should be done once a week, along with the experimental steroids you have been taking."

She senses from my silence that something is amiss. "You HAVE been taking the medication?"

"Ahhh, yeah, when I can."

"When you can? What does THAT mean?"

"Well, we have been a little busy with other matters, and…"

"Are you aware of how important this is, how your future as a complete human being, not one needing an assistant for simple everyday tasks, depends on the consistency of this rehabilitation therapy?"

Busted, I confess throwing myself at her mercy. "I do. Sorry."

"Have you failed to notice how many physical acts, ones you once took for granted, are now failing you? Your range of motion, flexibility, endurance, explosive power and ability to recover are all compromised by the demands of your work and the ravages of time upon your bag of bones," she lectures, "the quality of the remainder of your days, while not completely up to you, is something that you can steer in the direction you choose. You can choose dumpling or warrior. And for the warrior there is nothing between."

"I want you to lay still and think peaceful thoughts for about twenty minutes. Please stay relaxed and try to notice any electrical sensations that may arise between your spine, arms and legs."  

"The third part of the treatment is  what what most people find the most pleasurable, but before we start, I'm going to need a quid pro quo of sorts," she adds, moving towards the door.

"Do I need my attorney present?"

"No, I just need you to promise me that you will, from this point foreword, be as faithful to the taking of your medication as you are to the performance of your job."

"I can do that. Where do I sign?"

She closes the door leaving me with my thoughts and a battery on trickle-charge.

"A dumpling huh?"

Luckiest Man Alive

 319.

"This reminds me of a training technique we used to use," she says, stacking a slice of tomato atop a small triangle of fresh mozzarella. I watch closely to gauge her understanding of the caprese trinity as she deftly maneuvers a ribbon of sweet basil to the apex of the famous Italian starter.
 
"As in eat to win?" I ask, using a thick slice of the Como loaf as an assistant in the loading up of my own sample.

"Ha, no, I feel so relaxed and calm, that it reminds me of the muscle memory sensation of breathing into the relaxation of the second level, you know, when you feel that next layer, deeper, more beneficial and holistic, available only when the mind lets go of all its petty earthly business and self-imposed supervision responsibilities. We practiced getting there in a one breath cycle."

"When you say we to whom do you specifically refer?"

"Our Academy martial arts group. We explored several variations of training, taking the best of the best, techniques from several forms to fit our specific requirements. Eating, breathing, resting, recovering, thought structure, complex and abstract response. The relaxation technique was always something I looked forward to after a particularly gnarly session, like yoga shavassna, …or vanilla ice cream."  

"Work, rest, recover, repeat." I comment, testing the aroma from the kitchen to gauge completion time of the baking main entry.

"Sure. Anything of value is going to require a similar structure and dedication, don't you agree?" she asks already knowing the answer but hoping for a response that only forty years of hands-on, hand-to-hand, face to face experience can provide.

"My teacher was fond of saying that the most important things in life are 'caught' and not 'taught', meaning that, as he was also known to suggest, that the best teacher is your last mistake." I leave this for consideration and push back from the two-person table to dish up the penne putanseca with eggplant. Mustang sees that I am struggling with the one-and-a half hands preparation and immediately comes to my aid, offering her assistance.

"Are you getting any more of the tingling sensations in your arms?"

"It's interesting," I answer, not entirely wanting to talk about it as we prepare for our meal, but obliging nonetheless, "the pins and needles seem to pop up when under extreme stress, when its do-or-die, it is something I don't quite understand, but…"

"… exactly, after dinner, with your kind permission, I'd like to try a technique I am hoping will prove effective in stimulating the damaged nerves in your back, one of the medical combinations we also used, hybrid of Oriental and Occidental theory."

"Is it called desert?"

"Only metaphorically."

The pasta is as perfect as the wine and topped only by the exquisite company. Despite my injuries and physical limitations, I look across the table and consider myself to be the luckiest man alive.

Cardinal Rules and Character Flaws

318.

We decide, I holding the tie-braking vote of two, to hire a limo for the two-hour drive South. My right leg in no condition to pilot Ruby and her super-sport-five-speed manual tranny,  and Mustang game to the idea of napping along the way. The fact that she seems one hundred percent sincere about the whole idea, a 'working, therapeutic, structured' two days at my humble hideaway, is a magnanimous gesture with which I struggle to accept at face value. I realize as I consider this, watching the Beltway fade in the mirror, that I am, true to popular myth, a deeply flawed individual.

I am a bit unnerved when I hear a seconding, 'Amen to that brother,' realizing too late, that I had spoken the final character judgement aloud.

The trip uneventful, we arrive to the jarring silence of the forest. The dichotomy between the relentless din of the city and the solitude of this heavily wooded retreat is something one must witness to  fully appreciate the lure of its power and profundity. For reasons unknown to me, the radical silence always causes me to take a deep breath as if in reminder that all our sensory facilities are connected and that sounds, or lack of them, can trigger equal, opposite or compensatory emotional responses. In this case, today, here and now, the wail of a single Northern Cardinal sets the compass of my soul towards the ascetic of peace and gratitude. I look to my companion for validation - and am not disappointed.

Mustang is an anomaly. I consider briefly whether she has found us or we her. As we unpack our light baggage, mine onto the Navajo blanket covered, pine four-poster bed in the master room and she into the guest bedroom's closet and dresser, I consider our brief history. From the moment I opened my eyes in the clinic after the six-month induced coma, a severe medical counter for the gunshot wounds that nearly severed my spine and caused the current paralysis, until this very moment, she has displayed the qualities and character traits I find admirable, impressive and indicative of a larger warrior spirit. Admitting again to my cache of character flaws, I also accept that if these enviable talents and purity of character weren't enough, her robust athletic physique and simple radiant beauty surely would interest any able bodied man. It temporarily saddens me to weigh the prospect that I no longer pay property taxes in that neighborhood; the demographic of the young and complete. Still, I can feel the fire, once a raging, out-of-control inferno, smoldering somewhere inside waiting for ignition by a magical paring of air and fuel.

Knowing the drill, we had made the obligatory pit stop at the local store for the main entree, my pantry holding an abundance of the basics, from canned potatoes to cases of Bordeaux.

Mustang is showering as I prep for dinner. As much as I appreciate the earthy sounds and the powerful silence, this moment, as the Northern Cardinal suggested earlier, calls for appropriate musical accompaniment.

I open the locked cabinet that houses my stereo. The old Marantz springs to attention with the pressing of its single power button and I hear the familiar click from the pair of vintage Pioneer CS99A speakers. I flip through the vinyl the same way we once browsed through collections in used record shops from Berkeley to Boston, fingers tasked with the speed of display, waiting for the right synergetic potential of sight and sound, hope and dream, light and life.

Tossing a dart at her tastes in music, I drop the needle on an old favorite, hoping that the test of time will ace tonight's pop quiz. As I turn to hobble back to my sous chores to the opening riffs of a Louie Prima and Keely Smith classic, she stands watching me with a knowing grin.

Are You Sure?

317.

By design the debrief has created a completely fresh and organic shopping list. Even without the now cumbersome overbalance of our new 'management' at the White House, this list would take months to thoroughly comb. There was a time when such a compilation would dictate our activities, wag the dog, but in these politically charged - optics are everything - days, the kingdom of the deaf is ruled by the sound byte. We have been assigned the chore of increasing the prevention while decreasing the profits, both economic and social, of those willing to try their hand in the enterprise of domestic terrorism. Simply put, several of our battle-tested, tried and true, standard operating procedures are now rated by the current vanguard as 'too slow to show'; or what we have come to call Triple Ts: tactics taking time. Worse, there seems to be a prevalence of deaf ears when we attempt to educate them on the value of patience.

As is her managerial style, Julie, upon completion of the team's depositions, assigns the paperwork to the industrious temp and grants us three days of rest and relaxation. Three whole days! She includes the postscript that as a result of our high-profile work in the Hartaugh take-down, we need to keep a clear view of our sixes at all times, stopping just short of reminding us of the potential for catastrophic retribution lurking in the shadows. Nobody knows this better than Saunders and myself, yet it remains a jarring emotional fact. I silently applaud Julie for her digression in leaving our specific example out of her closing commentary.

As much as our fatigued bodies and overworked minds need the break, we all pack the homework assignment for review. Julie has asked us for our input. Due in three days is a one page summary of the 'most influential' actions we could take to achieve our new directive. As I pack for the glorious two days at the cabin I have already begun the process of indexing the root causes of our homegrown terrorist problem:

Poverty
Inequality
Globalization
Technology
Energy
Oil
Islam
Psychopathy

What is to be done when individuals, with pre-meditative, systemic ideologies feel violence to be their last, best resort? Maybe the Brit's idea, however trite sounding, of Prevention, Pursuit, Protection and Preparedness is something to consider as an actionable response on our parts.

I am thinking that a "Talk to Me' policy of earnest listening, way before counseling, might go a long way towards our deeper understanding of the terrorist mindset. The totalitarian capitalists, conservatives, and hard-liners would give that about as much consideration as salary-caps, open boarders or political compromise.

So lost in this daydream scenario that I hadn't heard Mustang knock, and then enter, I am startled by her second request about my current situation.

"Are you going to be OK at the cabin?" She asks in an even monotone.

"Sure why?"

"Thought maybe we could use the time for some deep therapy and give that right side of yours a little challenge."

"Very kind of you to offer, but I'm sure you have things to do and places to go. Take the time, rest up."

"Two intensive days of specific deep therapeutic tissue work, might be the most important thing you could do with a long break, maybe the last one for a while. Last chance or I'm heading home."

I look at her. What a diamond in the rough. She has been involved in my rehab from the moment I first opened my yes after the six-month nap, then she volunteers to be part of our team, quickly establishing herself as capable and fiercely competent. Now she wants to put my needs before hers in as compassionate an offer as I can remember.

"You sure?"

HELP!

 316.

We begin the highly structured tediousness - and are instantly called away.

"They're not wasting any time," Julie comments on her way to the communications room. That she has invited me along suggests a delicate negotiation is about to unfold. I am not disappointed, nor much off-target, with my initial reaction.

The Vice-Chair of the Homeland Security committee is holding for us. Without so much as a welcome he begins what sounds like a prepared speech, practiced, rehearsed and edited, lacking only occasional sound bites of an admiring audience. "Well, I'll take old as dirt any day of the week over crass narcissism and fraudulence," I consider as he launches into his monologue. Julie immediately shoots me the 'don't say it' look taking immediate control of our side of the 'discussion.'

Twenty long and painful minutes later we walk out of the com room, pass through the dining area, where I corral another finger sandwich and a can of sparking water, and settle back into the debrief, feeling slightly worse for wear. Julie has promised to thoroughly review the conversation at a time to be named later, as measured by hours and not days. She has also reminded me that our takeaway should focus on the positive, that we have been extended to at least to the end of fiscal, and not the negative, that the new direction will focus on one area and one area only: Domestic Terrorism.

To my ears, the Vice-Chair deciding to even consider using the trite and heavily sensationalized phrase 'witch-hunt' cost him the remaining credibility I was hoping to salvage. Julie purses her lips when I suggest that another Southern conservative Republican is what we need about as much as a outbreak of shingles. I try my best to leave it on the upscale, "But yes, at least we're still in the game."

Settled back in the confines of the interrogation room we jump-start the brief. Julie wastes no time, her gift, I mentally compliment, in cutting to the chase scene.

"Let's start with Bartowski."

'Turned a corner, side-swiped a truck, crossed my fingers just for luck.'

She asks me why I grin amid such serious business.

"One day we should try to conduct an entire de-brief using nothing but song lyrics," I glibly respond, stopping her dead in her stoic tracks.

Singing: "Help me get my feet back on the ground."

"Won't you please…"

"Help me."

"Help Me."

As one: "Help me-e-e-e ouuu."

We are momentarily embarrassed by our spontaneous outbreak of joviality, laughing at our response to the complicated, chronic stress of life in the fast lane.

We Share the Laugh

 315.

We establish a rotating system of work stations to accomplish the aggressive objective. Upon completion of one's debrief, there us a shift at the communications station, and then what can only be described as office maintenance, logging the hours of media into our unique system, dealing with the near-constant demands for information from the White House, and, especially important in my case, following up on the string of criminals we had placed behind bars, hid into protective custody or simply put on probationary warning.

Most of the debriefs were running about six hours in duration. Considering all that we had done, this in itself was light. Given a more perfect environment under normal circumstances, each testimony might take two days. But if there was one thing that we had all learned, some the hard way, the perfect time, the convenient place and the ideal circumstance, rarely - if ever - offered itself as ready and willing. I considered tasking Mina with another poster job: DO YOUR BEST WITH WHAT YOU HAVE AND WHERE YOU ARE.

There was another matter that I had been subconsciously avoiding, promising my fragile ego to tend to its dark business once we were granted leave in the form of R&R. The matter of my damaged parts. Had they slowed me down or put others at risk? Was I doing everything possible to continue the positive trending - something Mustang called 'miraculous'? And perhaps most importantly, as I face the reality of nearing my seventieth year, could it be time to 'at least' consider the prospect of an official retirement? God it hurt to even think about it. The super-ego that once claimed that a half of me was worth two whole others, no longer carried the plausibility it once did. The image of rolling from Bartowski's barrage of handgun fire is dramatically inserted here as Exibit A. Maybe I'm just lucky, protected somehow by the cosmic forces that want us to win, to triumph over evil and balance the scales of universal justice. Or, more likely, am I trying every trick in the deniability playbook, fooling no one but myself?

Finally, I go from the on-deck cubicle, smothering small fires in the State Department, to my at-bat with Julie. We decide to first take a brisk walk around the block and enjoy a plate of Mina's amuse-bouche with a glass of sparking water. Out and on the street I try my best to keep the hectic pace she has established but immediately fall behind. She notices my struggle and slows her pace to accommodate.

"I heard a good one yesterday," she begins.

Hoping to engage her into the talkative mode to spare myself double-duty, I offer an open ended, "Tell me."

"The Vice-Chair and I were talking about you and TOM, about the similarities in your styles and methodologies. He mentioned that some of them, the most flamboyant - are now considered to be - no matter their effectiveness - decidedly old-school."

I remain silent egging her onward, but take a few mental notes to properly extract revenge on the appropriate offenders.

"I commented that together you two have shaped and protected this experiment in Democracy for almost eighty years, obviously spanning what might, what should, be considered passing the test of time."

There is a pause as I try to find a comfortable cadence. Perhaps she is hoping for me to set up the punch line for her, but my efforts are elsewhere, and I fail as straight-man.

"He said you knew dirt when it was young."

We stop. We inspect the color of each other's eyes. We allow the unfathomable to surface. We pine. We hear the wind whistle.

And we share the laugh.

What Must Be Done

 314.

"Attitude is everything?" She offers en passant.

"If it's not it'll due until something better comes along," I counter, overjoyed to be back in such a fertile intellectual environment, "these days I try to bring a little compassion laced optimism to every conversation."

"You should either teach or consult, then, 'cause we are up to our elbows in paperwork, and it appears as if the dam is about to break."

"Meaning?"

"I have a meeting with the deputy chair of Homeland at 1430. Word on the street has it that they are already set to move 'in another direction', and with Hartaugh out, the odds are 50/50 that we might be as well."

"Even after we…"

"…Had another terrorist bombing, this time taking 29 innocents, as we operated an illegal sting operation designed to net one of their own?" She snaps.

"Two sides to every story, are we ahead of the internal PR?" I ask with sincerity.

"I have to get this report out asap so you might check with Harlan for the details on that, please," She says softening.

"I will thanks."

She was right. We had created a nasty political optic with the take-down of Hartaugh, long considered untouchable, the vanguard of Blue Blood Southern conservatism. It was anyone's guess as to how long it would take his replacement as chair of the committee to discover the true off-book nature of our charter. Julie, Harlan and myself had already agreed to continue the status-quo until instructed otherwise, a tactic that immediately created another layer of complexity around an already tightly-wound pack of operational explosives.

I am standing in the foyer considering the wisdom behind "Simply do what must be done," a useful altruistic meme I lifted from a marvelous book called 'Playing Ball on Running Water' by David K. Reynolds in which he details the myriad benefits of Morita psychotherapy, when Mina runs in holding up the sign that I commissioned with nothing more than a smile and a polite request.

100% FOCUS AND
EYES ON DETAIL
IN ENGLISH.


"A winner in any language my dear, merci, gracias, danke, salamat po. Outstanding effort."

I take her poster into the conference room and proudly tack it to the wall for all to see and enjoy, doing, I affirm, "what must be done."

The Seventeenth

 313.

Unanimously passed, Harlan's motion sets about a flurry of activity. We are to complete the tedious debrief protocol with one-hundred percent focus. His caveat to the proposal, "and with a keen eye to detail," further establishes the routine's importance and timeliness. Although these parameters are always expected, they often fade quickly under the white-hot spotlight of intensity. As road-weary as we are, fatigue to the marrow, we all agree this is the way we get better and learn from our (many) mistakes. Recognizing the intensity and sheer volume of labor involved, Julie calls in a professional contact to assist in the disposition process. I once viewed this specialized vocation as government fat, but no longer as the person Julie has selected comes with the reputation as a no-nonsense extractor of truth, hurtful or otherwise. I do, however voice my unsolicited opinion that I should be debriefed by Julie herself, should scheduling allow. My reasoning is that our tenure and experience together sets the stage for a deeper analysis and broader understanding of  'situational tendencies', a term I will soon find has a secondary definition wilder than my current understanding.

The roster is drawn and work begins, everyone cognizant of the potential for serious R&R upon completion. Asking Mina for a pot of French Roast and a plate of tuna sandwiches reminds me of the simple pleasures we so often overlook when stressed with the complexities and demands of extended hours without. I feel relaxed for the first time in weeks, shoulders soft and jaw loose. I ask her for an additional favor, "Please make us a poster, big one, black on white, in English," I chide, "that says:

100% FOCUS & EYE ON DETAIL"

She flashes her million dollar Filipina smile and says, "One hundred percent at mata para sa detalye. Kaagad, si Boss."

I bow with a "Salamat" and turn to take a call from the State Department where I am dutifully read a summary of the 17th Amendment by a staffer wanting it to sound like a judgment on humanity. Being very familiar with its nuance I ask if this is in regard to the transition of power outlining the procedural flow of a removed United States Senator. I am given a surprised, "I think so."

"It is my understanding, and please correct me if I misinterpret this precious adendum, that it is in specific reference to Article 1, Section 3, that, upon removal, the process gives the state legislature the power to allow the governor to either appoint a replacement OR hold a special election." I ask trying to sound as unpretentious as possible.

"Yes, those are the notes I have, and the message I was asked to relay, sir. What is called a professional courtesy over here." He adds with a smile I can hear.

"And I sincerely thank you for that, sir. And if you have a minute, and would like something juicy to consider, should this - political science and government service - be your true calling, my mentor was fond of saying the 17th amendment satisfies all the requirements of a Constitutional altruism with its wisdom and appropriate replacement of a single word," I tease.

"Wow, what word is that, sir"

"Article 1, Section 3 replaced the word 'legislature', as it relates to the power of choosing suitable replacements, with the word 'people'."

"We…The…People."

"Right. Please keep us in the loop. Thanks again and have a wonderful Executive Branch day my young friend."

Julie walks past shaking her head.

"What?"

Absolutely Amazing

 312.

CHAPTER TEN

On the sage advice of the DA, we decide to go easy on Goldson. He had, after all, been little more than bait, offered, however unwittingly, the gig to land a bigger fish. Bartowski survived another emergency room miracle and was charged with conspiracy, reckless endangerment and a few other assorted minor charges. The former Senator, our target since the operation's inception nearly six months past, was on the receiving end of the proverbial rule-book. Humiliated by the press, ostracized by his party, with assets seized and accounts frozen, he chose the part of the victim claiming entrapment, illegal wire tapping and surveillance. For counsel he retained the services of a notoriously bigoted big-name showboat from DC, one known to flagrantly be devoid of morals.

After an extended three day recovery period we meet in our office to regroup. It is the first time in several months that we have all been together in one place and at one time. As I look around the room I feel an upswell of pride and appreciation for these people. Everyone had, at one time or another, put their lives on the line in this special call to duty. I take a quick scan of these magnificent individuals, an inventory I trust to be be a low-key tranche of the bigger team picture, the sum exponentially larger than its parts, and assign a one-word adjective to each, a single modifier that might capture their uniqueness and individual compositions.  

Julie: Thorough.
Harlan: Dedicated.
Drysdale: Fearless.
Davis: Tenacious.
Saunders: Courageous.
Mustang: Complete.
The Queen:

Here I am interrupted in my mental assessment as Julie calls the meeting to order.

"First and foremost, please accept my most sincere congratulations on an incredibly successful mission. Your combined efforts achieved results far above what we would have considered satisfactory. Obviously we will see what the shake-up means as far as our charter and future will bring, but regardless of that eventuality, please allow me to label your team effort, from start to finish, top to bottom, inside and out, absolutely amazing."

And I have my answer.

The Queen: Absolutely amazing.

Hartaugh's Waterloo

 311.

"How much do I want?" I almost scream.

"You have sunk so low, feeling bullet-proof and above the law, enough to attempt a bribe to keep all this out off the ten o'clock news and out of the courts?"

He does not answer but does unsheathe a wicked pair of eye daggers.

"You have a lot of nerve son," he opens his weak defense, "being, after all, charged with my security and singularly employed as a result of my lobbying efforts."

"Something for which I owe as much to my predecessor as to your insight into talent and ability, but let's not quibble over semantics," I make a show of pushing my sleeve high enough to display my watch, "we have less than twenty minutes to come to an agreement before landing."

"We can do this one of two ways Senator, and I believe this will be the final time I use that once honored prefix in your reference; One is you take the aforementioned honorable path, resign immediately, and I will ensure that the charges are reduced to their minimum," I start and hear him snort a "preposterous" in response. "Or, two, I can lead you down the ramp in stainless steel bracelets and into a waiting squad car."

"You have nothing on me that will stick. All hearsay, innuendo and speculation." He tries.

I take a deep breath having hoped we might avoid this part - although it does provide a deep perversive pleasure to watch him face the music in such an agonizingly horrified manner.

I display the small remote devise I have been holding in my left hand commanding the screen and play functions. Hartaugh immediately turns his head to see who might also be watching this block-busting premiere.

Inside of three minutes the alleged hearsay, innuendo and speculation has been visually and audibly rebuked and replaced with highlighted surveillance, pristine audio of conversations considered private, and a gavel-pounding black and white slide-show from the soup course of criminal intent to the flambe of a criminal plot against the government. The Queen has outdone herself in the feature's preparation and production, ending the short presentation with actual highlighted lines of the backup contract lifted from Goldson's account, detailing the nefarious 'agreements' and 'payout potential' for each party.

I turn the lights back up and see a furious Hartaugh, clenched jaw and pursed lips, smoke metaphorically spewing from both ears. I feel no empathy. None.

"Way number one, or way number two?" I repeat, making another dramatic gesture in looking out the GulfStream's port-side window and noting the landing strip looking like Christmas in Las Vegas with its strobing red and blue police lights.

"I will never forget this," He finally manages to spit out.

"We don't want you to Hartaugh. Justice, and the same oath we both took, demands that we defend our Constitution against all enemies, foreign AND domestic. And further, that the quality of justice is administered equally across the board, from the Senate chambers to the streets of the inner city, from white collar felony to blue collar misdemeanor. And you sir, have violated that oath to such an alarming, and racist, degree that I feel embarrassed that it has existed for so long on my watch."

He knows the horse race is over yet continues to squirm, flailing for, any, obscure option, the Get Outta Jail Free card that has been dog-eared and faded in his billfold as a joke, these many long and arrogant years.

The pilots voice comes on the intercom announcing our landing approach. The red and blue light show peppers the morning sky with the forewarning of loss. Loss of freedom, of dignity and of power.

I grab my radio and open communications with the local police on the ground, making sure that Hartaugh gets an earful.

"Thank you for the assist Sergeant, it appears that our transport has decided to cop a guilty plea, so we can take if from here," I look to Hartaugh with raised brows to gain his agreement, which he begrudgingly does. "You are dismissed and thank you again for your professional response."

"That a roger sir, always a pleasure helping you guys."

We both look out the porthole to see our approach. As we do the red and blue lights go instantly black.

"Seat belt sir."