Three Months-Chapter 5

 

November 1, 2020

Matt carried his bag and pads up two flights to his apartment at Reston Town Center and put all the gear in the second bedroom. Aside from the hooks on the wall and a twin bed, the room was barren. He hung the sweaty gear up on the hooks to dry and pulled the note out of the inside pocket. A quick check to make sure all his gear was out and drying and couple of sprays of Fe-breeze, then he walked out to the living room.

He flicked on a light to dispel the darkness. Even at midnight, there was still a glow coming from the city lights, so he didn't have to fumble for the switches to turn on the other lights. The TV started to a recap of the day's NHL games. He grabbed an IPA from the fridge and settled on his couch. Like the spare bedroom, his living room was bare. The main decoration was the huge flat-screen TV.

“Sunday 9 AM.” was all that was written on the note. Matt tore it up, started the gas fireplace and tossed the pieces into the fire.

No location, day and specific time meant use the seventh set, ninth location. It was easy to memorize them, so there was no paper trail. They were meeting at the Baltimore Aquarium.

Tim was sitting on a bench outside the aquarium, with his coffee and wearing a light jacket. Low fifties and partly cloudy made the mid-October day pleasant.

“Whatcha got?” Matt asked, sitting beside him with a hot pretzel.

“Why did you send me those names? What are you into?” Tim's voice was harsh and caught Matt off guard.

“Why?”

“Answer me, Matt.” There was an underlying tension that started to worry Matt.

“The three Russian targets have a history of running US assets abroad. I think they are expanding into the US. I can only find limited informaition of them entering the US, but the intelligence Russia is getting follows their patterns of harvesting. I think they are working through third parties, so that's why I sent the Chinese and North Korean names. The Iranian names, I'm not sure about, but wanted to cover more ground. Did you find a commonality?”

“You need to drop it.”

“Why?” Now Matt let his frustration show in his voice.

“I got censored Friday. My searches were flagged eyes only way above my clearance.”

“How can it be above your clearance? You're cleared on everything Russia.”

“It is. And now I'm being monitored. I can't help you on this.”

“What did you find? You wouldn't give up without a reason.”

Tim looked around out of habit. The area was in the open, but there were normally too many people in the area to make spot surveillance a viable option. The meeting location wasn't known until he got there. The likely-hood they they were being monitored was acceptably minimal. “New York. The Korean, Gyeong-Hui, has political ties to New York. The Iranian, Hashem, also has ties there.”

“Political? How high?”

“You know who Ralph Quince is?”

“He's President William's senior advisor.”

“He also owns three off shore businesses with those two. They aren't running assets. They are running operations. From the links, they have more influence than anyone expects.”

“They're running Quince?” disbelief filled the question.

“Or he's running them. I got locked out before I could get more. But that's the gist of what I was able to get. You're going to get burnt on this one, pal. Do yourself a favor, drop it and burn it.”

Matt sat in stunned silence for a moment. “That doesn't sound like you.”

“It's not. Trust me. But I know when to make an exception. You need to make that exception too, buddy.”

“I'll think it over. Give me a couple of days. I'll get back to you.”

Three Months: Chapter 4

 

October 31. 2020

Matt slung his hockey bag and pads over his shoulder and grabber his goalie stick. His lucky parking space had been taken, so the night was already starting off bad. But he still skipped the last three steps of the sidewalk and cut through the grass to entrance to the ice rink. The board had his team, The Capital Benders, in locker room 2. At least that was a good sign. He rested his stick against the concrete wall and used his foot to push the locker room door open. Runt was catching a Bud Light that Bill had tossed. It popped open with a hiss and some beer sprayed out.

“Matty, you're here!” there was a bit of a slur in Bill's yell.

“Bill, you're drunk!” Matt called back. One drunk defense man, gonna be a fun game.

“Only a little, gimme till the second period. And I'll be good.”

“And we'll be down by 4. Solid plan.”

Matt dropped his bag and began digging out his gear. The Ritual. Catcher and Blocker on the bench next to and knocking his water bottle off. “Fuck” Pick up the water bottle with the gray duct tape around the top. Then pants on the other side. Now cup and knee pads, but right one first and over the knee brace. Then left over the knee wrap. Now socks. Those don't matter with legs, but the CCM logo has to face out.

Steff pushed the door open and walked over to her place. The unwritten rule was wear shorts so no one gets offended. Matt lived close enough by that he could wait until he got home to shower. “Hey goon,” Matt tossed out as he pulled out the beaten up goalie skates.

“Hey, sieve.” she shot back.

“Gonna stay out the of the box tonight?”

“Gonna stop a puck?”

The ritual done, Matt returned to lacing the pads to his skate. There were clip on ties that were faster, but the manual dexterity of lacing the long laces through the holes on the skate was relaxing.

“Yo boys!” Tim said and sat between Matt and Steff. “How's everyone doing this fine evening?” He caught the automatic beer toss from Bill.

A chorus of goods and fuck offs came the team. Tim was the last one on their 10 person roster.

Matt pulled on the goalie pants and made sure the internal pads were positioned right. Then he started on the skates and laces. Most of the team had ink that told stories. Tim was the only one that didn't, but that Tim and it was respected.

Toes loose, but pulled tight right at the break of the ankle. The last couple of loops were pulled as tight as Matt could, then wrapped around and pulled tighter again. Then the pad laces around his heal and cinching the skate laces. Same for the left skate. Then the straps for the pads, start at the top and work down.

“What happens if you get the order wrong?” Runt called from across the room.

“He has a melt-down and goes to his quiet place.” Thom replied and everyone laughed.

“Piss off,” Matt growled as he buckled the last strap. “I like my quiet place, none of you assholes are in it.”

“Got any clear tape?” Tim asked as he pulled his socks over his shin pad.

“Bag,” Matt answered, checking the fit and movement on his pads.

Tim leaned over and dug into Matt's bag, finding the tape in a inside pocket. Matt caught the piece of paper that Tim slipped into the pocket in place of the tape.

“Bars are still on lock-down,” Tim said while wrapping the clear tape around his socks. “I have an early morning tomorrow, let's do drinks another time.”

“No worries, bud. I'm going to be tired after all the break aways tonight.”

Three Months-Chapter 3

October 29 2020

The glass windows on the executive briefing room were darkened and the doors closed. Once the screens were lowered, the room was sound-proof and all electronic signals were blocked. Only a single high speed LAN connection allowed data in or out.

Lev stood at the head of the executive table, Six men in tailored suits sat around the table and watched as he arraigned his folders. No one was checking watches yet, so he had their full attention. One more moment to let the anticipation rise.

“I'll keep this short, everyone is busy, so let's proceed,” He said, standing straight, meeting each of their eyes. “Our miss-information campaign is ahead of schedule. We will have full saturation by November 2. This will allow two days to fine tune results prior to the election. We have seven points we are pursuing; fake mail-in ballots, mail-in ballot destruction, main stream media hiding legitimate stories, the President being censored, the other party being supported from foreign entities, election fraud and violent leftist protests.”

Several nods greeted his status update, but he only cared about one. That one was watching, had a distracted look. “We have people in place to start rallies, riots or protests as needed. They can be mobilized within minutes and we have the apparatus in place to move these agents as needed.”

“Plausible deniability?” One of the suits asked.

“Tainer has no knowledge of this and is only concerned with his election campaign. There is no chance he will lose Kentucky.”

“Show me, show me showme!” Matt muttered under his breath. The monitor on the wall showed all the known airport, train and exit points over the world. Each person in his query had a different color. Lines connected every dot, but it was a massive web that made no immediate sense. “Find the pattern, Matty,” he coaxed, swaying in his chair. It was there, there was always a pattern. Two had been in Paris. One was in England three days before those two in Paris. The three Russians never went the same path, but they did connect with others at other destinations. Of the seven, three had been in the US within the past two months, but they arrived in different cities, and non of those were New York or Washington DC.

Once in the US, he lost them, but Tim could track them. He sent a quick inter-agency email to Tim with the specifics and went back to staring at the display.

Lev was alone in the room with Ralph Quince. “What's the long plan?”

Ralph Quince remained seated, watching over thin, tented fingers. “What long plan?”

“Come on, all this is too mundane for you. You don't need this, it's a waste of your time.”

“He's not going to get re-elected.”

“Excuse me?”

“Williams, he's not going to be re-elected.”

“The numbers look good. Granted the pandemic and economy have hurt him, but there's still his base.”

“His base are idiots and so is he. He's done too much damage to the party and the economy. He has to go.”

“It's a little late for that. We can't put in a new Republican nominee for President without fracturing all support. There's no way I can pull that off.” Lev stared at his old friend. “This is bull shit! And you are still going to pay for what I've set up and the break down of operations.” He added the stress out of frustration. He was alright with a failed plan, but hated intentionally wasted efforts.

“Ease up,” Quince held up his hands. “We're still proceeding as planned. That hasn't changed.”

“You better explain then, I'm lost.”

“The details aren't important right now. You keep building the base up, get your players ready and keep increasing them.”

“Why? It's a waste of effort if you aren't going to use them.”

“They'll be used. I need you to make sure they are primed and ready.”

Quince's limo drove through the gates at the White House with only a momentary pause to check his identity then proceeded to the entrance. The Secret Service guards nodded at him as he exited the limo. He waited a moment for the positive identification, then pulled up his face mask and entered the White House. As a senior presidential advisor, he had access to the executive offices and just had to sign in at the checkpoints.

His first stop, on the way to the oval office was the Vice President's office. “He's expecting you,” Sandra, Vice President Patrick Donor's Executive Secretary, said from behind her antique desk. “I'll let him know you are here. It'll be a moment, please have a seat.”

Quince sat in one of the thick leather chairs, his overcoat folded across his lap. He knew the wait would be short. Donor still had political aspirations and even if Williams won, he was going to have start cutting ties from the toxic president. The writing was on the wall and Donor was starting to read it.

The Vice President's door opened and Donor came out to shake his hand. “Ralph, it's great to see you back in the West Wing. You been away too long.”

“You know, meetings for the President, rallies, pressers. This is crunch time, Mr. Vice President. How are you and the family?” Quince asked and Donor lead him into the office.

Donor sat on one of the two chair set up, facing each other, for casual conversation. “They are good. Anxious as we all are.”

“Mr Vice President,” Quince started after sitting across from Patrick Donor. “We need to start long term planning.”

“Of course. The logical step is for William's to endorse me in three years as his successor and I'll run for President.”

“Can I be honest? This has to stay between us.”

“As long as it's not sedition,” Donor chuckled.

Quince paused for a moment, weighing the risk, but it had to be taken. “We need to plan for sooner than that. You have to realize that even if he's elected, Williams won't serve out his term. He's a risk to the party and the country. I can't control him and he's believing his own publicity.”

“You're not seriously talking about a coup?” Donor's shock was written on his face. His hands moved to grip his own knees.

“Of course not,” Quince said, watching the Vice President relax slightly. “But he barely weathered the first impeachment. Democrats are going to keep the House and stand a great chance of taking the Senate, even with all that we're doing. We have to think about what happens then. Or if he does go off rails, there's the 25^th Amendment. You need to think about your own career. Do you want to be forever tied to the only modern day President that was successfully impeached by the House and convicted by the Senate? If you do, your career will be gone. You won't even make money on the talk circuits.”

Donor sat back, stilled stunned by the turn of the conversation. “What do you think I should do?”

Quince knew he was stalling. Donor couldn't make on the spot decisions, especially without his trusted advisors backing the decision. “You need to slowly distance yourself. Don't break ties. That will lose you his base. You need to start pulling the more moderate conservatives. This alt-right base is bad for everyone. They are too easily led.. too volatile.”

“Where do we start?” Donor asked, now leaning forward.

“I don't know yet. I need to figure that out. But I need to know if you are up to it. Depending on November third, we might need to start sooner than expected.”

“How likely are we to lose? The real numbers, not what you're telling Williams?”

There was a gleam in his eye now, he was buying into the idea. “We'll win. That's a given. Williams will stoke up his base. They'll be loud enough for the mainstream conservatives to rally behind them. It'll be close, but after all the dust settles, we'll keep the White House.”

The Oval Office had more gatekeepers, but they knew to streamline the wait for Quince. He only had to sit a few minutes before an aide escorted him into the President's chamber. Williams was old, there was no denying with the tools available to the highest power in America. He was great at the photo ops, but when he wasn't on, the age made him sag.

“Ralph, glad you could make it. We need to shore up some points right now. We've only got three days before it's all on the line.”

“Mr President,' Quince replied, shaking the outstretched hand. Neither was wearing masks or bothering with the social distancing requirements. This set Williams more at ease, helping him forget the pandemic raging outside the White House.

“How are you, Mr. President?” Quince asked, taking one of the chairs in front of the Resolute desk. Williams returned to the high back chair, giving him an almost throne-like seat behind the famous piece of furniture.

“I'm good. Health is great. The goddamned media always gets it wrong. I get so much exercise when I'm golfing. And I'm not resting. Oh no. I'm working on the golf course. Always working. I never take any personal time. It's those fuckers at CNN that are out to get me. Them and ABC. They're almost as bad as MSNBC. Even Fox is shit now.”

Quince tuned out for the tirade. It would go on for another few minutes and he would just nod and agree. Best to get the rant out of the way and let Williams expend himself and his rage.

“How are we going to fix this shit?”

Quince raised his eyes as he heard the question. He leaned back in a thoughtful pose to give himself time to catch up on what the question was. “We've got everything under control, Mr President,” He answered, stalling more.

“No! You have have shit under control. This should be a slam dunk. Everyone knows I am the best president ever. But you let the fucking media print lies and only cover this COVID-19 bullshit. If it wasn't from that goddamn reporter, it would be so much easier. That's on you! You did nothing to get ahead of that.”

“Mr. President,” Quince heard the edge in his voice and did his best to soften it. “You made those calls. You agreed to the interviews. I advised you not to-”

“Fuck you, Quince. Your job is to have my back. You fucked that up! That was huge and I gave beautiful answers, but you didn't do your job!” Spittle was actually flying as he raged.

“Shut up,” the command was quiet, but firm. “You don't have time for another temper tantrum. Sit down and shut up.” Quince didn't move from his chair, even his hands remained still. For a second, he wasn't sure what would happen next. The always mercurial president was never easy to predict.

Williams finally sat down, but there wasn't and peace in his eyes. “Fine,” he huffed.

“You're leaving soon for rallies and meetings. You have to be on topic for those. Stay with your talking points. Mail-in ballots are fraud. You're the best president ever. The economy is soaring. The fake media only only report lies. You know the routine. Stay on script!” he stressed the last sentence.

Williams glared at him for a moment. “When are you going to get off your ass and do your job?”

“Stay on topic!” Quince repeated. Left off, you fucking, mouth-breathing moron. But he also had to stay on topic, tomorrow was going to be a tipping point and he had to have something positive to report.

Quince stood up, the re-positioned his chair in front of the Resolute desk. “I'll meet you in Florida, tomorrow afternoon. Tampa, right?” He fully knew Williams schedule.

“I don't know. Check with the schedulers. Don't make me wait where-ever we're meeting.” 

Three Months-Chapter 1-2

(Fixed the dates and a few typos)

October 27, 2020

Matt Blair swerved from behind the bus to his normal spot next to the sidewalk. The bus exhaust faded with the warmth. The traffic rushed by as he dropped his bike into neutral and stood up just enough to slip his massive right hand glove under him and sit down. His hand slid free and unzipped the heavy coat pocket to retrieve his badge and clip it to his left glove then slide back into his glove. All within 30 seconds then he shifted to first gear and swerved into the first opening and leaned into the turn to the security gate. The old '88 CB 750 was a massive steel creation and once going, was a joy to ride, but sometimes made the stop and go of city driving a workout.

The armed guard nodded at the badge, but they never stopped him or asked him to remove his helmet. Parking was easy to find in the Reston undisclosed branch of the CIA. He kept his helmet on until he was almost at the sliding doors, then removed it so the ice wind only burned his face a moment. His riding sleeve cut most the burn though.

“Why?” The guard at the desk asked.

“No snow on the road,” Matt replied. “Uses a lot less gas and I can use sidewalks,” he added with a wink and tapped his badge against the reader to get through the turnstile.

“Man, I wouldn't ride one of those things around here, even in the summer.”

Matt pressed the button for the elevators, avoiding the steps since his knees wouldn't de-thaw for another 20 minutes. “You know, the new natural gas buses have much cooler exhaust than the older ones.”

“I heard they are pretty warm in side,” the guard chuckled and then turned back to the monitors when the elevator opened and Matt entered.

It was only a moment before the doors opened to the second floor. Matt's vault was towards the end of the long hallway. “How many times today?” he asked himself as he walked. The combination lock on the thick, sound-proof door was old. It usually took 4 tries before the temperamental lock opened. He had to spin it 3 full turns to the left, but those turns had to start on the last number of the combination. Otherwise, it was four turns, maybe. Then each number had to stop on the exact tick of the number, to the millimeter. With his fingers still somewhat numb from the half-hour freezing ride, the shaking never helped.

Five tries this morning, damn. He'd get an email from his chief in 20 minutes to justify the potential security break. Damn.

The lights in the room popped on as the door opened and he saw his other 3 office mates, or was it 2 now, weren't in yet. He hit the button on his computer to start it, then went to start the coffee. All the security programs, monitoring tasks and daily updates would take five-ten minutes to load, so he'd have a hot cup of coffee by the time he could log in.

While waiting, he plugged his cell phone in and turned off the signal. No signals got through in the vault, so no sense wasting battery. He saw that his voicemail light wasn't blinking so he started getting undressed. The heavy boots, snow pants and long johns all fit in the bottom drawer and his back pack held a fresh change of jeans and polo shirt and it only took him a minute to dress. He'd only been caught in his underwear one time, but that was enough to make him dress faster. His dress-sneakers were in another drawer and he usually didn't put those on until after the coffee had kicked his bowels into action. Lastly, he placed his Glock in a locked drawer after removing the clip and checking the chamber.

Finally his screen prompted for the username and password, which led into another two minutes of loading profiles and adding icons to his desktop. Every reboot essentially rebuilt his desktop, so he could log into any computer on the network and have access to his information.

There was the email from his chief, so he pasted in his normal reply, “Vault lock doesn't work, needs replaced. I raised a ticket 3 months ago.”

Armed with coffee, solitude and warmed joints, Matt started the real work. Yesterday he's been read into new compartments and had access to the data systems he'd been requesting for two months.

At 44, he was part of the “new breed” and used computers as well as field work to track down the threats. His primary love was using computers, but he stayed updated and certified in the field work requirements.

Staring at the SQL screen, he let his mind roam and sipped coffee.

There were three Russian agents he was tracking. Facial recognition had them flying into New York over the past seven months under different names, but no arrests were made and he couldn't access the domestic tracking data, that was under NSA purview. Today, he was able to open his query to other regions. The first query was broad, all know assets from North Korea, Iran, China that flew into New York on the same dates as his three agents.

The coffee was working and it was time to put on his shoes and walk to the other end of the hall. He locked his computer and opened the vault door to walk down the beige hall and outdated carpet. Afterwards, he stopped by his chief's office. The door was open, but he still knocked before walking in.

“Morning, John,” he said as he walked in.

“Matt, don't worry about the email, it's just procedure,” John said, just glancing up from his computer. Then he looked back. “Matt, we've talked about the dress code.”

“No management is here. They're all over at Langley. This happens every four years. They are scrambling to keep their jobs and appointments. They'll be walking a tight-wire until mid-November when the results are announced. I have a suit and tie in my vault, so I can do a quick change if I need to go upstairs.”

“You're pushing it. Like everyone else, we're just trying to keep our head down and get the jobs done. Don't rock the boat. That's all I'm telling you.”

“Got it boss. I'll change when I get back. Ok?”

John sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, everyone's stressed and stretched. What do you need?”

“Nothing. I've got my access. I'll coordinate with with Tim Aster at NSA if I need to, but I'm thinking that won't be for another couple of days at the earliest.”

“Keep me posted. Run this strict, Matt. With the turmoil upstairs, they're going to pick everything apart. Right now, they're looking for scapegoats. Depending on who wins, there's going to be heads rolling. If you see anything political, run it by me first.”

“You betcha, boss. Anything I can do to help?”

“Don't cause waves for the next couple of weeks.”

October 28, 2020.

Matt exited the metro at Gaithersburg and began walking to the Lakeforest Mall. He could have taken one of the taxis, but it wasn't that cold for October and he needed the exercise in the winter. This year he'd sworn not to fall into the seasonal weight gain. His riding sleeve covered his mouth and nose and most people were wearing face masks as he walked to the mall. The restaurants were only doing take out or delivery for another month, so there wasn't a lot of foot traffic on the street. All in all, he started to enjoy his break from the office and the sun seemed a little brighter.

The food court was closed for seating, and the lines we almost non-existent, but he grabbed a coffee from Auntie Ann's and found a bench near the food court to wait.

“Thanks for the excuse to get away,” Tim said, sitting next to him with his own coffee. His black over coat covered his suit. “What's up?”

“Ceiling,” Matt said and nodded up, the joke slipping through his internal censors. “What's your load look like?”

“Busy, but nothing critical. We're in the normal pre-election holding pattern. Normal chatter out of Russia. Nothing unexpected.”

One of the reasons he got along with Tim was they both spoke Russian. Matt had studied it college and worked as an interpreted for a few years, but switched to computers and eventually to the CIA with his background. Tim was one of the best linguists in the country and spoke fluent Russian, Ukrainian and a few other languages. Matt's Russian had slipped over the years, but he could still carry on a conversation and vodka definitely help his fluency.

“I might need your help. I've got some leads that are outside.” Both agents kept the conversation general and didn't mention names. The area wasn't secure so the paranoia was part of the job.

“Sure. Normal stuff, I assume.”

“Yep. I got three you've met. I'm checking on other teams, and it looks promising.”

Tim nodded and he sipped his coffee. “Same positions? Or different?”

Matt and Tim had met five years ago playing pickup hockey at a rink in Reston. As their friendship had grown, they'd run into each other in briefings. Matt covered Russian activity outside the US and Tim covered activity inside the US. The more they'd worked together, they developed their own codes and used hockey as part of it. Same positions meant Russians, different meant other countries.

“Different positions. Two of them can play forward and defense, but only in a pinch.” Different countries, but at least two had affiliations with Russia.

“That's going to make a crowded locker room. Not everyone's going to be on the same page.”

“Exactly, I don't think they'll be a threat to our team, but we might be able to recruit a couple to round out our roster. You in for the game this weekend? It's late, 10:30 I think.”

“Yep, I'll be there. You've got net?”

“Yep. No drinking before this game, but I'm buying rounds after.” Matt laughed. They did have a game on Saturday, in the Over 40 league. Tim was a solid defense, but usually drank one too many IPAs before the game. Matt had given up pre-game drinks since they slowed his eye-hand coordination.

Tim got up and tossed his empty cup in the trash can. “Saturday then. I might crash at your place.”

“Always welcome, bud.” Matt stayed seated and continued to drink his coffee. “Gimme a call if you need anything.”

“You gotta love technology,” Gary Sidowski said, surveying the room from his glass office. There were 20 laptops, all with fiber optic connections. There were also three green screen rooms with the software and scenes to seem to broadcast from anywhere in America. Right now, one of his agents was standing in one, Zoom broadcasting to a small group of Christians from different locations. He was explaining how the current President, Clarence Williams, had fought non-stop to protect Christian values and the main stream media had subverted all the good he'd done. The stream had been going on for twenty minutes and currently had thirty-one viewers. But tomorrow, there would be double that for the replay and his live broadcasts would grow more and more.

The room behind him was full of the other team members. They were discussing the false stories and facts. Last he heard, they were going to find a box of “thrown out” mail-in ballots, filled in for the incumbent president. That was the one of the first plots that had struck gold.

“You're not making enough progress,” Lev said, still standing, looking at what his money had bought. “We need more.” He glanced at the overhead screen summarizing the statistics. “Thirty-one people are not going to win us this election. It has to be in the hundreds of thousands.”

“You are looking at one broadcast, from today on a new story about destroyed mail-in ballots. It's lunch time. We had all three booths running this morning and a total of four hundred viewers.” Gary said, sitting straighter.

“Four Hundred? That's nothing!”

“Four hundred is amazing. What you are not seeing is that those four hundred sent a total of over four thousand emails to to their friends and contacts with links to the videos. Those four thousand will send another ten thousand and by tomorrow, we'll have links shared on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and SnapChat. You start with a few and then they spread your message. If we send out thousands emails, they will all be deleted, but when the emails and links come from their friends or people they know, they will read them and click the links. Most won't bite, but we're after the zealots, the ones that will clog the internet with our stories. Once enough are posted, they become truth.” Gary stood up and walked from behind his desk.

“You know the media stories about the mail-in ballots thrown out in South Carolina? They started with one photo of, I think, two boxes. Only two mail-in ballots were visible, but we did a good forgery and the photo was just clear enough to see what we wanted. Now, it's believed by hundreds of thousands and each new one we post, those are automatically believed as a fact with no basis in fact. That is how you win the war now.”

“How long until we have actionable people?” Lev asked, still wanting something concrete.

“From today? Unknown. But in total, we have 43,289 that will organize or attend protests. Thousands of them have been at opposition events and started counter-rallies. We were instrumental in starting the riots at the George Floyd protests in New York and other cities and you've seen how effective that has been. See, it only takes one person to strike the spark and others will follow. Now the violence is blamed on BLM and ANTIFA.”

Lev stopped his pacing, for the first time realizing what he's unleashed.

“It's not the numbers, Lev,” Gary says quietly, his arms wide, embracing the room and all it encompasses. “It's the belief. And we manufacture belief.”

CSV Pariah

Introduction


Typical miserable Seattle spitting weather.  It can't even get it's act together enough to be a real rain, she thought as she kept cover under the store eves.   Every time a car, and those were few tonight, made the slow trip up the street, the girls poked out like cuckoo clocks going off in a row.  She watched the sedan crawl up the street, almost sneaking from streetlight to streetlight.
She knew her ass was in perfect form, the six inch heels did remarkable things to her legs and thighs.  After fourteen months on the street, the heels felt more natural than any other shoe.  If it hadn't been such a slow night she doubted she would have even made the effort.  As the car approached, she turned, giving the driver full view of her assets.
He stopped, they always did for her.  She leaned into the open window, making sure her cleavage left nothing to the imagination.  An eerie green glow from the dash lights covered the joe's face.  The white clerical collar seemed to repulse the green tinge.
“Looking for redemption, Father?”
A handful of bills answered her.   Before she could reach for them, they disappeared into the darkness.
I've done worse and weirder.  The seat-belt gathered her into a secure embrace and the steering wheel folded back into the dash.  “I guess we're going to my place.  Yours might be crowded and threesomes are extra.”  The smirky comment was out before she could stop herself.  A sideways glance at the greenish face showed it was either ignored or not heard.
A pale hand offered her a thin cable.  She took an antiseptic wipe from her small purse, condoms and wipes, a walker's tools of the trade, and cleaned the hookup before inserting it into the adapter implanted in her left shoulder.  Matching his silence, she mentally sent the information to the car's navigation system.
Soon, they arrived at the hourly rate hotel.  Once in the room, she turned on the light.
“Oh my God,” she gasped as recognition flooded her face.
“You’ve strayed, my child.  It is time to return to the flock,” the preacher said, his kindly old face was pockmarked and creased with years and living.

Prelude


(Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, 2008)
Text spewed across three monitors and his fingers fluttered on the keyboard.  His toes tapped the floor as he perched on the edge of the desk chair.  His right hand flew to the mouse, dragging screens from one monitor to another.  As soon as the file was dropped, more programs sprang to life.
The soft ringing barely slowed his left hand typing.  His right hand silenced the alarm between keystrokes.  “Not yet.  No, not yet.”
“Batman first appeared in issue 27 of Detective Comics in 1939.”  His words were a monotone, his lips moving just enough to let the words slip out.
The simple chair dwarfed him, but his essence seeped out, an invisible shadow.  “Otto Von Bismark united Germany.  He caused World War II.”  His right foot danced a quick jig.  “Toe, heel, toe, heel.”
His gray eyes tracked the progress as the programs loaded.  Right now, there were seven status bars, each at a different stage.
“Syntax error?” the question was a subtle crack in the intense essence of Jeremy Goddard.  “Syntax error?  I don't make syntax errors!”  He leaned forward, his elbows lifting him off the seat of chair. “Where are you, you code-crashing, loop-making bastard?”
His blunt index finger traced the lines of code as they scrolled until the cancerous code jumped out at him.  “Fucking semi-colon!” a brief crack in the teflon he presented to the world.  A keystroke later and the evidence of his humaity was gone and the code began compliling again.
Now, he took a moment to look at the alarm.  The bottle rattled the sound of control, but echoed numbness.  “To med or not to med?  That is the question.”  His eyes darted between the pill bottle and the lines of code flowing across the screen.  I'm so close.  I can taste it.  Hey, I remembered not to say it outloud!  “No meds tonight!” he crowed and flicked the bottle hard enough to send it spinningoff the desk, but not hard enough to break, Because the highs can't be too high. Yet...
The monitors beeped as all the programs finished compiling at the same time.  “Fucking right!” Jeremy spun in his chair three times before grabbing the desk to stop his momentum. The rest of the steps sped before his eyes, each blink a segmenting the process.  First, prep Pyotr.  Seond, run real time diagnostics.  Third let the fucking cat loose!
“I need stop swearing,” he muttered, the distinction between thinking and talking getting caught in the eddy's of his brain.
The fuck with that.
“Pills, where...”
“Fuck your pills!  We're flying now.” His toes were tapping under the desk, threatening to send him in a series of chair-spinning turns.  “Wire!” he gasped, reachingfor his second greatest accomplishment, but that knowledge was drowned by the euphoria filling his mind.  Even so, he was surgeon delicate when his fingers found it. The key was the tiny wire from the BNC connection.   He held it in his finger tips, holding it up, his Excaliber.  The flourescent light managing a meager prophetic glint before fading.
Next was the mutated Pyotr, a nonedescript white mouse with a swollen mass of flesh on it's right shoulder.  Even with the swelling gone, Pyotr could only waddle around his cage for short periods of time.
Pyotr made the awkward clamber into Jeremy's hand, then nestled there, absording the warmth.  “Almost done, ole buddy.”  The wince passed before Jeremy could block it.  It's science you fucking moron.  Finish it!
The hair thin wire slipped into the port that was part of Pyotr's mass on his right shoulder.  The tiny BNC connection secured the wire to Pytor with a muted click.  As Jeremy's finger moved away, he was positive that Pyotr looked up at him with those pink eyes.
Fuck, Fuck! FUCK echoed through Jeremy's subconscious as he put Pytor into the custom cage.  It's a lab rat, nothing more!
“No, it is more.  He's the first to survive the procedure.”  Memories of splicing the microscopic wires to the nerves in Pyotr's spinal cord were still fresh even after all these weeks. 
Lab rat,  Don't fucking wuss out now over a rodent!
“Shut up!  Shut up! Shut the FUCK up!”
But Jeremy was already crawling to the food bowl and picking out the pellets.  The screens were rolling with code and Jeremy could see what Pyotr was seeing and smelling.  His favorite food, a bowl full of it.  But that was the screen.  The cage was empty and Pyotr was seeing and smelling the artifical signals being trasmitted to it's brain through the connection.
“I'm a genius!” exploded out before he could cover his mouth with his hand.  But it was true.  Pyotr was living a reality totally controlled by Jemeery and his arrayy of processors.
Pyotr paused only for a second as it gnawed the virtual seed in it's paws.
Now, it was crystal.  All the myriad of inane facts left, replaced by a blinding calmness and peace.  Here' was his cure, his chance for a normal life, his brain queited, but still able to reach those meteoric highs and abysmal lows, but not controlled by the fucking medicine.
One last step...  “For us, Pyotr,” Jeremy whispered as the slot at the end of the cage opened, freeing the white cat he'd named Omega.  Jeremy's eyes didn't waver from the computer screens.  No blip, no reaction in Pyotr's mind.  No vision or smell of the cat, it was all blocked by the reality that Jeremy had programmed.  That reality lasted only a few more seconds before Omega pounced and ended all of Pyotr's realities.

Hockey

As you get older, your facilities are definitely compromised. I know this is a harsh statement and there will be some people in self-denial that will disagree. But, hear me out, I have proof.


This fall, my son decided that he wanted to try ice hockey. If you've read previous articles, you know that he plays dek hockey and over the past few seasons, he gotten very good. For some reason (maybe I had a little influence (with the uncertain economic times, I thought adding a backup plan of him in professional hockey was a sound financial decision.) in his decision.) he decided to try ice hockey. He'd never really ice skated and I hadn't since college.


So, we got some skates and and hit the ice. After a couple of sessions he found his balance and went from holding the boards to gliding along the ice. The next step was getting his gear.


As a parent, this was a complete shock. I'd watched him grow taller and add weight for 12 years, but with all the pads on at once, he morphed into a teenager in 10 minutes. Now, he was almost as tall as me. This also led to a short burst of “feeling his oats.” (As a father, I felt a small twinge of guilt when he fell, but he started it by calling me “old man.” and gravity had a definite part in the whole thing. Besides, he needed to learn that hockey is a rough sport...)


His first game was a little shaky as he took it all in. His second game he scored two goals and was a convert. To let you know how thoroughly bitten he was, after his first practice he was still raring to play (Anyone that knows a pre-teenager knows exactly how close to an unmovable lump they are. Anything that approaches actual work can cause them to react with hissing and spitting followed by dramatics that would make Shakespeare jealous.)


How does all this lead to proof of advance senility as you get older? I'm glad you asked. As we worked and practiced, I remembered how much fun I had as youngster playing hockey. Living in Pennsylvania, there are a remarkable number of adult leagues. I made the innocent comment to my wife that I was thinking about playing.


I made this comment right before Christmas. A day after Christmas, I had all the equipment a middle-aged man would need to play hockey. Up to this point, there hadn't been any real doubts about playing. Then I got home and laid out all the equipment. Here's where I ran into the first doubts... In the store I tried on each piece. But faced with the mountain of stuff, I was concerned.


Twenty minutes and a minor stroke stroke later, I had it all on. Now, for an intelligent adult that fully understood his limitations, this should have been the end of my hockey career.


A few days later found me at the local ice arena with a group of like minded minded adults (By a group, I mean me. By like minded, I mean mentally unstable) getting on the ice with a group of mostly college kids. (For anyone planning on this type of mid-life crisis, when the locker room has bags from Penn State, it's probably a good bet that the game is not going to end well.)


The one saving grace was the game was at 10 PM on a Monday. If my memories of college were correct, the college kids were more than likely drunk, so there was still a chance I'd survive. In the adult league, there's no checking, so I probably wouldn't break a hip.


My first shift started well. I made it over the wall (real hockey players do not use the doors.) and didn't fall. Twenty seconds later, I was ready for a break. Thirty-five seconds later I was seeing spots. My second shift I still made it over the wall again. But this time I hadn't taken into account my stick, but I still landed on my feet. I was ready for the spots this time and if I squinted my eyes just right, I could ignore most of the double visions.


For my third shift, I remember to take into account my stick as I climbed over the wall. But this time, I forgot I was wearing skates (Honestly, by this time, my body was starting to shut down. I think my brain was officially not talking to me out of sheer disgust.)


Ninety minutes later the game was over and I was still standing. (The boards deserve a lot of the credit for that.) and we all skated off.



Now, here's the proof that age leads to insanity... My first question in the locker room was, “When's the next game?”

Old...

So, I've accepted that I am officially old. Not the gracefully aging mellow kind, but the “Damn kids! Get off my lawn!!” kind.

You're probably thinking, “But you don't have gout, that was a broken toe. Plus you are always coaching dek hockey. Surely it's just a bad day and you're really not old.”

No, this time I have to admit it. It all started innocently enough (All great tragedies do. I'd imagine Hitler started with, “I really don't like how that hat looks...” and the next thing you know, World War II...) We were on the beach at Cane Bay in Saint Croix. My son and I'd just finished a scuba dive and we were all going to eat lunch at the restaurant.

It was one of those idyllic days. Warm water, sand and sun. There were even a couple of showers rolling through to break up the heat and lead you to think you didn't need sunscreen...

My wife asked how I liked the music. Like most places on the island, the restaurant was open-air. So you had a great view of the ocean and could feel the breeze coming off the water. All in all, it was (keyword-was) one of our favorite places to eat and spend an afternoon. We've made a lot of memories there over the past five years. It was the first place my daughter danced while she ate. (no, literally danced WHILE she ate.) My son had his post-dive drink there (non-alcholic).

The music she was referring to was the live band that was setting up. Being open-air, we could hear it clearly from the beach. The woman singing, I thought, was pretty good. So, we decided that it would be fun to enjoy the live music while we ate.

My wife went and got us a table while my daughter and I finished playing in the sand and rain. (Yes, it was sprinkling, but that didn't phase my daughter. Anytime you can combine water with playing, she is completely involved. The only chance I had was to remind her that we were getting french fries.)

So, how does all this confirm that I am old? After all, playing in the sand with an almost-nine-year-old is hardly the act of of someone that is old? (My daughter was not helping my age-of-mind either. Several times, I've been told, “Daddy, I can do it. I'm not a little girl anymore.”)

I'll tell you. When we got up the restaurant, I saw the size of the speakers the band was using. They were bigger than the stage they'd set up on. I sat down and I think the waitress asked what I wanted to drink. We screamed back and forth at each other for a couple of minutes before I gave up and just nodded and hoped whatever she brought would have a lot of alcohol in it.

When we first started diving, we were taught how to clear the pressure in your ears. This is important because the deeper you go, the more the pressure builds and the more it hurts. Eventually, your ear drums will explode. In addition to the deafness, I've heard this is rather painful. As I sat there being pummeled by the music, exploded ear drums gained more and more appeal.

Don't get me wrong. I like loud music. I also like to be able to understand the words, (Yes, they were singing in English.) You might be thinking, but it's all perspective. Shut up and listen. (This is where it hit me. I actually started thinking (Because there were no way I was going to be able to have a conversation is my (equally) aged wife.)--this is a direct thought-quote-- “I remember when music was good.”)

Back in my day, we had MUSIC, not this noise the kids are listening to today. And the bands had talent. I remember the Blue Oyster Cult concerts we'd go to every summer. (I'd still have the t-shirts, but my wife threw them away a long time ago.) There was also Pink Floyd and Black Sabbath. Back then the concerts were loud, but even then, the speakers weren't as big as the ones this group was using. Back then, everyone sang along with the band because you could understand the words and tune. Back then, if the band stopped in the middle of a popular song, the fans kept singing and it sounded like MUSIC.

There is also another huge difference in today's music. Back then, music got better the more you drank. This music only got more tolerable the more I drank. Hold on here comes the waitress, I need to get some oxygen so we can scream at each other again...