Uncivil Liberties (5 page)

They drove in silence for about ten minutes, pulling up in front of the Dublin International Airport terminal. Donahue turned toward Castro and smiled. “Here we are, Mr. Castro.”

The driver was already at the boot of the car, placing Castro’s suitcase on the footpath in front of the international terminal.

“You’re a hard man, Mr. Donahue,” Carlos said, looking directly at the former IRA operative. “Any message for my boss?”

“Tell the
general
congratulations on his promotion and new assignment. I look forward to meeting him in person again one day. In a
peaceful
context, of course,” he said, chuckling.

Castro broke into a smile, his first friendly gesture of the meeting. “General Connor said you might surprise me.”

“Satellites can’t see
everything
.
With all your American high-tech capability, you lads seem to have forgotten the good to be had from a bit of fossicking around by a man with a good nose. Of course, you knew that in east LA, didn’t you? All good intelligence still comes from a man, or a woman, on the ground. Fortunately, ‘
Paddy’
has been emigrating throughout the world for two centuries, but they all remember where they or their parents were born. Best intelligence network in the world, bar none. Maybe the Jews are as good, but they don’t frequent the pubs.”

 He paused, offering Castro a handshake. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Mr. Castro. Now that we’re friends, perhaps you’ll allow me to call you CC. I’ll get in touch with you about our mutual friend. I should hear something soon—probably sooner than you think. Have a safe trip home, lad. The world’s become a dangerous place, even for innocent bystanders. By the way, since you and your boss are into, what did you call it,
public relations
,
do you think your new president, Bill Snow, will survive his own public relations storm? From the sound of it, Cumberland took the easy way out and Snow has to carry the can for the decision to shoot down the terrorists. From my perspective, it was the only decision to make, you know.”

“Gracious of you to concur,” Castro replied. “But one can never tell about the public, or the politicians. One thing’s for certain—the next lot of fanatics will think twice.”

Donahue shook his head. “Don’t be naïve, lad. The terrorists won that round. And you lost an eighty-million-dollar fighter and a fifteen-million-dollar pilot. You’re still a bit young, lad, but if you’ve read that the old Irish groups were terrorists, it would seem that these jihadists have put a whole new light on political action. In my father’s day, they
brought
the bomb in a suitcase. These new fanatics
are
the bomb. Someone bent on a trip to paradise is hard to deter. Not much defense against that, lad. Safe journey, Carlos.”

Castro exited the vehicle, then stood by his suitcase and watched as Donahue departed the terminal drive. He then picked up the bag and turned to enter the building.

At the Aer Lingus flight center, Carlos worked his way to the front of the check-in counter. The young woman appeared barely twenty, her dark red hair cascading down her back as her fingers flew over the keyboard, her intense concentration masked by the bright smile on her face.

“That will do it, Mr. Castro. You’re all checked in, and, as I’ve already explained, upgraded to first class. You’re welcome to use our VIP lounge just inside the security area. Please have a wonderful flight.”

Apparently Donahue had made the final parting gesture, upgrading his flight accommodations. Carlos Castro smiled at the thought. He  picked up his boarding pass and his leather laptop case, stepped away from the counter, and moved behind the line of passengers seeking to discard their luggage in care of the airlines, thereby freeing themselves to hit the duty-free shop.

Passing the roped-in area, Castro felt his Blackberry vibrate.  He stepped out of the traffic aisle as best he could and clicked the icon, slowly reading the e-mail as people flowed around him, jostling for position.

Dear Irish Tourist:

Asshole convention will be held in East Timor first week in March. Attendees include a lone wolf, traveling as Juan Hernandez on a Portuguese passport. Remember, always wash your hands after attending an asshole convention . . . or bring your local wiper!

A friend of the Old Sod

Carlos smiled, clicked to store the message into the Save folder, and returned the Blackberry to its holder on his belt. He then cleared security, entered the VIP lounge, and took a seat near the overhead television. A room attendant dressed in the Aer Lingus uniform brought him a small plate of cheese and crackers and took his order for a Heineken. On the television, a discussion was in progress on Fox News’s “The Factor,” with Bill O’Reilly voicing his normal opinionated commentary. Carlos placed his laptop case on the small table beside his chair and watched the proceedings. He quickly recognized O’Reilly’s guest as Donald Read, a well-known liberal columnist syndicated across the nation.

“ . . . in all respects, Bill, he should do the honorable thing and resign.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake? He was the legally elected vice president. That’s how our system works, whether the president has been in office for three years or, in this case, three hours. Why should he resign?”

“He campaigned for the presidency in the primary, Bill, and Cumberland beat him. Two others beat him also, so they should be given the opportunity to compete in a special election. Snow never appealed to mainstream America. They didn’t like him as governor of Arizona and they don’t like him now.”

“
You
don’t like him, Read. Sorry to break it to you, but you’re not America. And that’s not how our system works. Snow was elected to the vice presidency.”

“Not really.
Cumberland
was elected, and Snow came along for the ride to pull in the western states.”

“Your version of American politics is a bit distorted, Read. Snow might have brought geographical balance to the ticket, but there was more to it than that. There always is.”

Read shook his head in disagreement. “It doesn’t matter. He has no right to be our president. He’s opposed to abortion, and Cumberland was, at least, open-minded. As governor of Arizona, Snow opposed increased funding to the needy. Plus, those rumors of an affair are probably spot-on.”

“What are you talking about, Read?” O’Reilly said, his voice rising and his body language aggressive, leaning forward. “Bill Snow said he would follow the law of the land on women’s rights. The funding he opposed was to the labor unions, who demanded exorbitant multi-year contracts, and he’s the only Republican primary candidate who’s been married once. Absolutely no corroboration of those rumors has surfaced, and that’s with an army of corrupt media clamoring to find incidents of infidelity, reporting rumor as fact when they failed. Tell me
that’s
fair and balanced. You’re spewing garbage, Read.”

“What about his racially biased stance on immigration? His granddaddy and great-granddaddy were Arizona Rangers, killing Mexicans even before Texas or Arizona became a state. He’s a racist, from racist origins, pure and simple.”

Becoming exasperated by his guest, O’Reilly just shook his head. “I’m sick of all this racist crap. It’s gutter politics, Read, and beneath you. Look, you’re from old New England stock. Are you prepared to have someone poke into
your
patrician family history four generations back? You got any family members who killed off the original inhabitants of Massachusetts? Any rum runners who profited off the poor? Any railroad barons who stole Indian land in the west for right-of-way?” O’Reilly taunted. “What you claim is hypocritical. Every family has skeletons in the closet. The fact is, William Snow is now president of the United States, for better or worse. And I, for one, can think of a lot worse. That’s how I see it, but I’ll give you the final word.”

“Just wait and see, Bill. The American people will not stand for it. Now he’s in charge of the federal government and immigration. The Hispanic people deserve better. His true colors will surface, and then the American people will see who he really is.”

“Give the man a chance, Read.” O’Reilly turned to face the camera,  shaking his head again. “We’ll be right back with the voice recording and transcripts of the Dutch airliner cockpit voice recorder. They clearly show that both pilots were killed—their throats were cut—by the terrorists at least thirty minutes before the Air Force brought fighter jets on scene. Those who are second-guessing President Cumberland’s decision to shoot down the airliner should listen carefully to these tapes and drop their ridiculous assertions that the downing of the airliner was not needed and that it was only a communication problem. Stay with us.”

Carlos turned away from the television screen and pulled out his Blackberry again. He sent a quick email to the general’s secretary to advise her of his arrival time at Dulles International Airport. Then he began to make notes for his briefing to General Connor the following morning. Pausing for a moment as he tapped the keyboard, he reflected on the first time he’d met Captain Connor, his newly assigned company commander, back in the early nineties. Several battalion sergeants made bets that the new, soft-spoken guy couldn’t handle a tough situation. Two weeks later, returning from a covert Pakistan insertion, Carlos had new respect for his captain. When they had been ambushed by a local guerilla band, Captain Snow had killed four terrorists—two with a knife, hand-to-hand. Carlos never doubted Pug Connor again.

But whether the new president was tough enough to meet the challenge facing America was another story. The media had made a big deal of his supposed anti-Hispanic stance during the campaign, making so many false assertions. Even the rumored infidelity issue did not bring Snow to anger. As a candidate, Snow had never lost his temper in situations where Carlos would have knocked the media hack on his ass. Carlos himself had been an illegal immigrant, but he supported control of the borders.

Since his conversion to Islam over a decade ago, Carlos Castro, of Catholic heritage and the former leader of El Toro, the new name he had given his east Los Angeles gang, had become a gentle person in almost every circumstance. But like Pug Connor, when called upon to fight, Carlos Castro was a natural warrior, instantly and usually fatally violent to his opponent, as he had proved on many occasions.

The new president was an unknown quantity, certainly pertaining to Trojan. As General Connor had explained it to Carlos when he reported for duty, former President Clarene Prescott had formed Trojan within thirty days of her ascension to the presidency after President Eastman had been assassinated during his congressional address the previous September.

According to the general, President Elect Cumberland had been briefed in December, before taking office, and had agreed to continue the formation of the unpublicized domestic terrorism task force. But what about President Snow? How would he handle it? Resigning from the Corps to take this new position had been Carlos’s choice, and Connor had offered him a way to decline, but now the die had been cast. How long would the job last? Would Snow kill Trojan? That question was yet to be answered.

As the year 2012 ended, the state of California had entered into a twenty-four month countdown toward secession from the United States of America. Despite considerable opposition from state and national political leaders over the past eighteen months, a U.S. Supreme Court ruling that it was unconstitutional, and a brief, but violent military confrontation in Sacramento that the press had dubbed The Battle of Capital Mall, the people had spoken—three times, actually—at the polls. Preparation for the formation of the Republic of California began in earnest. The date for implementation was January 1, 2015.

California Governor Walter Dewhirst, initially a staunch opponent of the secession, had responded to his constituents’ demands and called for international recognition of his new nation. Mexico, along with half a dozen other sovereign Pacific Rim nations, had responded affirmatively.

The previous August, when secession seemed imminent, Daniel Rawlings, a young, newly elected state legislator from Davis, California, had found himself immersed in both a secret presidential task force investigating the origins of the secession movement and a gubernatorial assignment to draft the new California constitution. For several months, he had wrestled with the dichotomy of the two assignments: one to stop the secession, and one to prepare for its eventuality.

Even the discovery by the presidential task force that the elections had been rigged, electronically, by a group of corporate financiers for whom the secession was a means to an end, did nothing to stop the steamroller effect. Convinced by the false vote tally that their fellow citizens were in favor of secession, the people demanded freedom. Freedom from Washington D.C. and burdensome taxation; freedom from confiscatory redistribution of wealth; freedom from myriad government regulations that  invaded areas that most people knew were historically private: religious affiliation, sexual preference and even medical records. And freedom, when the judicial system was stacked against them, meant separation. Even in a state known for its liberal, ‘anything goes’ philosophy, enough was enough. The conservative voters, along with the vast array of independent middle-of-the-roaders, had overwhelmed the activist liberals and made history at the polls.