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.