Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I (10 page)

1 February: 1400

Sophie put the final touches on her picket sign as her father finally muted the TV and sauntered into the kitchen. “Honey, for the last time, don’t go out there with all those hippi…” he changed tack swiftly when she stabbed him with her eyes, “all those protestors. This isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before. I mean, this could be worse than Rodney King.”

She sighed and rolled her emerald green eyes. “We’ve been over this a hundred times, Dad. How can I sit back and let the president take over the country? This is a coup! It’s like something that would happen in Africa. Do you really want to see America run like a 3
rd
World military dictatorship?”

It was her father’s turn to roll his eyes. “Come on, you don’t believe those new political advertisements, do you? I raised you smarter than that. For every one calling the president a dictator there’s another one calling the Floridians terrorists and secessionists. Either way, this fight has nothing to do with us. Just don’t get involved. I’m begging you baby, please.”

For a moment the pleading in his voice almost swayed her. Unfortunately, a moment is not enough to hold a nineteen year old’s sense of righteousness at bay.

Some horn blared outside and cut off the growing battle. Sophie girded her already short brown hair into a tight ponytail and snatched her world-changing signs. “Ben’s here! I have to go. Look, we’ll be safe. I’m just trying to raise awareness, that’s all. Seriously, I’m not some type of revolutionary! Love you, Daddy. Bye.” She was out the door in seconds while he fantasized about putting his foot down.

She kissed her boyfriend and slid into his hybrid with her other friends. They left the suburbs and headed downtown like any normal weekend. They stumbled into a police barricade a good mile from where they intended to meet up with some college classmates. That should have been the first clue that things were bigger than they imagined.

Onward on foot they went, joining in with whatever group happened to be marching on that block. They chanted with the unemployed, cursed with the environmentalists, laughed with the gays… it was a great time with the regular crew. However, closer into town they began noticing new actors. The themes changed from broad social issues to narrow political ideas. In contrast to the professional protestors, the amateur crowds here voiced disturbingly specific complaints. Most ominously, they also had narrow and clear solutions.

Around the next corner Sophie’s gang took, a well-dressed and mostly middle-aged group demanded the president’s impeachment. In the blink of an eye they began cussing and shoving against a strikingly similar looking group demanding the arrest of so-called “traitors and murderers.” The youngsters were so enraptured by the sight of what could have been their parents fighting in the street like teenagers that they ignored the random gunshots in the distance. Even the faint whiff of burning plastic and oil was chalked up as just the smog.

The police were nowhere to be seen. In fact, throughout the city, they were spread thin on the ground. That was partly due to the sheer size of the unrest. The nation-wide call up of Reserve and National Guard personnel didn’t help either. Too many local cops were also weekend warriors. Of course, the single biggest drain on resources was the run of the mill criminals. From teenagers organizing “flash mobs” at stores to armed gangs clearing out banks, everyone took advantage of the situation. Hell, at that moment someone was stealing Ben’s car a mile away.

During this chaos the media stuck to their predefined narratives. Demonstrators on their smartphones, especially the young, gaped open-mouthed at images of cops elsewhere in the city rounding a corner in formation. They pumped out tear gas and beanbag rounds into the crowd as if paid per shell.

The image cut off for a moment and came back with several of officers firing live rounds at someone off screen. Unarmed protestors, according to the newscaster. Some bright boy at the studio had the award-winning idea to superimpose the president’s voice from a recent speech promising, “To do whatever it takes to restore law and order.”

There was no mention of the surprised gangbangers who, in panic at a wall of police officers trumping towards them, fired wildly at the law. In the rush to be the first with something different, the media had no time to explain such subtlety. The job for the police only got harder, but with every drop of blood some news outlet grabbed an extra “two share.” When the governor deployed the already mobilized National Guard, and Congress authorized limited use of federal troops as well, the media practically orgasmed.

Sophie had a change of heart when a separate phalanx of cops came within sight down the block they were trapped on. “Come on Ben, let’s get out of here.” Her boyfriend glanced from his IPhone to her and back again. Gone was the self-righteous bravado he was so well known for. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”

He tried hollering for their friends but they were all surging forward with the crowd of other youths. Sophie and Ben would have been caught up in it too, if she hadn’t shoved him into a nearby burger joint, one of the few stores still open. When tear gas canisters flew past the windows and their eyes watered, they didn’t hesitate. The two bolted out a back service door and onto a parallel street.

They continued this half-mad rushing through alleyways and random open businesses until they finally hit a quiet street away from the trouble. A
too
quiet street, in fact. Sophie and Ben rushed to a bus stop and checked the schedule. Only five minutes to wait. They shared a laugh of relief. It never crossed the minds of these suburbanite children that public transportation might be slightly interrupted by such wide scale civil unrest.

It took a moment for the pair to notice there was no traffic on the road, or even anyone on the sidewalk. Well, not completely true. A clusterfuck of skinheads (the grammatically correct term for more than one) stood over a barely moving, dark-skinned kiosk owner across the street. They were staring up the block with their arms full of booze and cigarettes. Sophie followed their gaze.

Two dozen locals solemnly marched this way. From the Indian gas station clerk with his double-barreled shotgun, to the Hispanic furniture storeowner wielding a Berretta, not one of them looked like they were in the mood to talk. Which was just as well, because neither were the punks.

The only thing more shocking for Sophie than the shooting was that no one got hurt. The wannabe Nazis weren’t exactly expert marksmen, even the few of them that weren’t drunk or high. For their part, the locals were way too excited and fired wild and high. For most of them, it was the first time ever firing the gun kept for years behind the counter. Had she been at home watching this on television and not close enough to smell the powder, she would have had a good laugh. At the moment, her sense of humor was stretched thin.

About two minutes into the Looney Tunes version of the OK Corral the cavalry arrived. The skins scattered as two Humvees blocked the road and a squad of soldiers dismounted. That should have been the end of it, but some of the punks decided to shoot blindly behind them as they ran. A lucky shot from a spraying Uzi struck a soldier in his bulletproof vest. Fine or not, the close call pissed the troops off…and changed the rules of engagement (
ROE
). The professionals soon silenced all the crazed shooting with controlled bursts from their M16’s.

It was simply bad luck that Ben had shaved his head in support of his passion-of-this-week charity: cancer survivors. It was also bad timing when he pushed Sophie to the ground just as a dying skinhead dropped his weapon nearby. To the young soldier searching for targets through the limited visibility of his gas mask, it sure looked like another asshole reaching for a gun.

All Sophie would remember was her boyfriend’s head exploding as he tried to protect her. Before she blacked out from screaming, she saw two of the president’s henchmen, in the heat of the moment, high-fiving over their victory. She never noticed the unit patches on their sleeves were from the California National Guard.

5 February
: 1000

The cemetery was busy for a Monday. Which wasn’t surprising after three days of rioting in LA, put down only by a massive deployment of state and federal troops. There was simply too much business happening for the funeral homes to stagger the ceremonies. Some burials would have to go on at the same time. Even if that created a few awkward situations.

Sophie couldn’t understand how her boyfriend’s mother could be so sympathetic with the other family nearby. That young soldier being laid to rest over there helped kill her boy. Oh, he might not have pulled the trigger, or even been in the same unit as the killers, but in Sophie’s eyes, he was just as guilty of shooting Ben. Just another hired gun for the rich.

The wind kept kicking up from the other funeral’s direction. Every time she heard their minister mention something about the meek inheriting the Earth, she would catch a “defending our freedoms” from the other funeral a hundred yards upwind. The rival preaching would have disgusted her…if she wasn’t already sick with anger. She couldn’t even focus on the family and friends in front of her standing up to say a few words. Her cold gaze kept drifting over to those flashy uniforms laying a casket in the ground. The folded flag, the whole shebang–so much for a thug!

The poor girl couldn’t even get a good cry in. She wouldn’t allow the enemy the satisfaction. Sophie tried to force that strange
E
-word from her mind, but it wouldn’t leave. She was a rational, partially college educated modern woman. Her social consciousness ran deep. Borderline hippie, her father would say, but she had seen where that gets you.

All the talking and singing in the world was so childish when the rich bastards have an army to do their bidding. If only there existed an army that fought for the regular people. Of course, she assumed, that would be a contradiction in terms. Regular people had to fend for themselves.

When the 21-gun goodbye blasted off, she was the only one in her circle that didn’t jump. The melody of gunfire inspired her more than any Bon Jovi song. Her rage ashamed her, but not enough to forgive. Not by a long shot. She thought she knew what hate meant, but then came something that made her lust for vengeance seem mild.

Those Westboro Baptist Church nuts were at the cemetery, but she hadn’t even noticed before. A curtain of bikers and other volunteers kept them separated from normal people. At least until the ceremonial shots rang out. With the cordon momentarily distracted, several members of the freak show somehow slipped through the human wall around them and stampeded towards the soldier’s funeral. The four psychopaths waved their anti-gay and anti-American signs like battleaxes as they charged into the grieving family.

There were no cameras around. Too much going on all over the state for the media to be everywhere at once. Perhaps that’s what drove the protestors over the edge. The church members didn’t just enjoy attention; they lived for it. They didn’t feel so insane when in the spotlight. Maybe it wasn’t even as complicated as that, since they weren’t exactly stable to begin with.

At any rate, they halted around the coffin and screamed incoherently about how “God hates fags” and this poor boy was somehow going to hell because of it. No one stopped them immediately when they began spitting on the casket, because no normal person could have ever imagined such a scenario. The fallen soldier’s father recovered first from the shock. He released his apoplectic wife and ploughed a meaty fist into the face of the closest church member.

A female protestor looked aghast. “You can’t do that! This is freedom of speech!”

Another Westboro member unzipped his pants and pissed on the coffin. “Yeah, that’s assault! You’re going to jail. You have to respect different opinions. We’re going to sue you people for all you’re worth! Fag loving Satanists!”

The last semblance of civilization left the assembled friends and family. Even the bikers hung back in fear. For a few minutes, that cemetery turned into the darkest jungles of Rwanda.

An old uncle yanked the peeing man back and slammed him headfirst into the ground. Others ringed him, kicking wildly. He wasn’t even unconscious when the sweet young widow of the desecrated soldier snatched the protestor’s fallen sign, yanked down his pants and literally shoved the thick wooden post up his ass.

From grandmothers to teenagers, everyone got in on the action. Even the minister whipped his cursing, elderly Westboro counterpart upside the head with a thick leather Bible. Almost no one’s hands were bloodless…or feet, for that matter. Of course, it was a different story when the police arrived. A hundred witnesses swore the four unarmed, mutilated bodies had attacked them.

Obviously, a simple case of self-defense. The two cops first on the scene saw the crazy signs and remembered when they tangled with these assholes before. They both shrugged, took statements and let everyone go. The cops had far more pressing matters to attend to anyway.

Sophie took careful note of the whole thing. For years, no one had ever been able to do anything about these insane religious fanatics. More than a decade of lawsuits, court injunctions and physical threats only emboldened them. However, with a little direct action, these people permanently removed that thorn in the ass of humanity. Unfortunately, that was the only lesson she took home that day.

It was a lesson she couldn’t wait to teach others.