Gordon Ryan - Uncivil liberties

“More weapons?” Hegarty asked.

“A small nuclear package, being delivered from another source in Chechnya.”

“ Nuclear?” Hegarty said, his face betraying his shock.

Harford nodded, but grinned. “We’re not going to use it, Dev, SI troopers are going to find it and once again, save America. That will absolutely confirm our dependability and insure the growth of support forces for Domestic Tranquility.” He paused for several moments and added, “But if we have to use it to show Americans the dangers we face

… well, we’ll face that prospect later. Just see that it gets here in one piece. The gentleman who set this up is the one who’s now in federal custody in Illinois, but I have the Danish contact information you can use. The shipping arrangements have already been made. It’s machinery for a new plant in Ohio. Then you’re going to find a way to get Mr. Wolff out of federal prison. Can you accomplish that assignment, Devlin?”

“I can damn sure try.”

“I’ll give you further details next week. Now go have a pleasant lunch with your new team member. Don’t think I’d enjoy a lunch with Campbell. These hard core militiamen are interesting, aren’t they?”

“Not my kind of life,” Hegarty responded. “We did some rough stuff in my day, but we always stayed in top hotels when not on operations. These guys like to sleep in the mud.”

Senator Rachel McKenzie’s Residence

McLean, Virginia

July

The following Thursday evening, Pug drove to Rachel’s home. She had arrived the previous evening and spent all day Thursday in her senatorial office, preparing responses to constituents calling for immediate passage of the new bill submitted only 48 hours before by Senator Augustus Winchester, Democrat from Connecticut. She also sent several letters of sympathy to families that had lost relatives in the Overland Park Mall shooting. She spent the rest of the afternoon reading the text of the draft Domestic Tranquility Act in preparation for the sub-committee hearings scheduled for Monday morning.

Pug had called that morning to ask her to dinner, and she was ready when he rang the doorbell. They stepped out onto the terrace where they both paused for several moments, gazing out over the Potomac River.

“You look tired, Rachel,” he said.

“I’m exhausted, Pug. Bone weary. It’s emotional fatigue, I know, since I’ve not had any time to exercise, jog, or do anything physical. I’m just physically drained.”

“Why don’t we just sit here for a bit before we leave? I think you need some time to unwind.”

Rachel nodded her agreement. “That sounds wonderful. Let me get us a couple of glasses of iced tea.”

“Sit down, Rachel.” Pug said. “With your permission, I’ll get them.”

“There’s a pitcher in the fridge, with glasses in the second cupboard to the right of the stove,” she said.

When Pug returned, Rachel had moved the deck umbrella to shield them from the setting sun and placed two chairs near the small table. Pug placed both glasses on the table and slid his chair next to hers, both facing the river.

“I could get used to being served,” Rachel said.

Pug smiled. “Living alone can become rather selfish,” he admitted, “but one has to fend for one’s self. Serving each other is part of the human contract, isn’t it?”

“Are you selfish, Pug?” she asked, a softer tone appearing in her voice.

“Sometimes, I probably am. No one to answer to, time commitments only to myself. Yes, I suppose I am.”

“That’s why I try to convince my daughters to come home as often as possible. The ‘mom’ takes over and I become the servant, rather than selfish.”

“I could drop by occasionally if you need someone to cook for, or to serve.”

Rachel looked at Pug, her eyes bright and suddenly cheerful. “You are good for me, Pug, but I meant what I said before. That road is full of potholes.”

“I beg your pardon, madam. Are you calling me a pothole?”

Rachel laughed out loud, the first time in over a week. “What’s the old country music expression, five miles of bad road?”

Pug reached for Rachel’s hand, pulling it closer to his lips and kissing it. “Why don’t we just consider me a ‘detour’ road for awhile? Maybe we’ll find out that you can get where you’re going without dropping into one of those pot-holes.”

“Why don’t we just finish our tea, watch the sunset over the river, and drive to the restaurant? I’ve had too many potholes already this week.”

They sat silently for nearly five minutes, sipping their drinks before Rachel spoke again. “I think I’ve let my sorrow overwhelm me. Three of the people in the mall attack, two women with whom I’d served when my girls were in Brownies, were killed. The father and one son who had gone to a basketball game that Saturday were devastated. I attended church with Mom on Sunday, the day after the attack, and the pastor asked me, and Mom, since she’s in the women’s organization, to go with him that evening to visit the family. I knew this woman, Pug. I loved her and her family. These people were not constituents, they were like sisters. So very close to my heart. My mother’s strength pulled me through it. I could see that even the pastor admired my mother for her strength. Joan’s — that’s her name, by the way, the woman who was killed — husband was virtually speechless. The boy, he’s about fifteen, was in tears the whole time, but silent too. I’m not a psychologist, but he seemed to be in shock. They couldn’t understand how this could happen in America. I can’t either, Pug. On the flight back, I even asked myself how God could let this happen.”

“That’s understandable, Rachel. You’ve already had more than your share of tragedy in your own life. It’s too close to the surface every time you see someone else struck by tragedy. When I was young and something terrible would happen, and I would question why, the answer my father always gave me was that we all had to remember the basic premise of free choice. We choose, not God. He gave us that right. And good people often suffer the consequences of the evil decisions of others. We can only see this life, but if someone believes in an afterlife, then the eternities will hold the answers for us. We may eventually see our mortality as but a weekend with respect to eternity. A tough weekend sometimes, but comparatively short. It’s not pleasant to contemplate, Rachel, but life comes with many types of potholes.”

Again they were silent for several minutes before Rachel broke the silence. “I’m hungry. Are you ready to go?”

Pug gathered up the glasses, walked into the kitchen and rinsed them in the sink, placed them in the dishwasher, then returned to find Rachel standing on the front steps. As he closed the front door, they descended several steps off the porch and walked toward Pug’s car, and once inside, Rachel pressed a Speed Dial number on her cell phone.”

“Activating the security system in your house?” he said, remembering the first night he had driven her home.

“You learn fast. No wonder they made you a general,” she said.

Three hours later, as they arrived at Rachel’s home, it was nearly midnight. Pug walked her to the front door, where they paused near the railing on the porch to view the moon reflecting off the Potomac.

“Thank you for tonight, Pug,” Rachel said. “I needed this tranquility.” She hesitated, her face turning grim. “I may grow to hate that word, given its new affiliation with the bill Senator Winchester introduced on Tuesday. It would be a shame to lose such a peaceful word because of association with more distressful events.”

“Will it pass?” Pug asked.