Glenn Beck - The Overton Window

But even if not in precisely those words, those sentiments did sound awfully familiar. Maybe he had said those things, and it was only the current context that put them into such a stark new light. After all, things can sound different when echoed back by men who’ve decided to deliver their message with a fifteen-kiloton city killer instead of with a bullhorn.

They’d been rolling down a desolate, moonless stretch of Interstate 80 for a number of miles. The road was so dark that the world out front seemed to end at the reach of the headlights, and there was nothing to see at all out the window behind.

“Hey, Stuart?”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I agreed with these hoodlums, even one percent. I’m not a terrorist, and I’m not a turncoat.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Kearns said, his eyes on the road.

“Like I said before, these aren’t my people, and what they want to do isn’t the way to change things, and I’ve never said it was.”

“I believe you.”

For once a little mindless conversation would have been welcome, but since no chitchat was forthcoming from the driver’s seat Danny had to occupy himself with his own thoughts, listening to the sound of the road beneath the wheels.

“What kind of a phone is that?” Danny asked. He’d noticed the device before, held in its charger near the center console. It was too big to be a cell phone; it looked more like a smaller, thinner version of a walkie-talkie, but with a standard keypad.

“Satellite phone,” Kearns said. “Works anywhere. Cell phone coverage in a place like this is pretty spotty.”

“I guess it would be.”

After a while Kearns let his foot off the gas, and the van began to coast and slow down as he reached forward and shut off the headlights.

“What are you doing?”

“Roll down your window, stick out your head, and look up,” Kearns said.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Just trust me. I want you to see something. You live in the city, right?”

“Yeah, downtown Chicago,” Danny said. “Just about all my life.” He cranked the glass down, leaned his head out into the cold wind, and looked up as he’d been directed.

“Well, there’s only about three things to see out here in the middle of nowhere,” Kearns said, “but this is one of them.”

“Oh. My. God.”

The air was perfectly clear, it seemed, from the barren ground all the way out to the edge of space. From horizon to horizon there was no man-made light to obscure the view up above. Thousands of stars, maybe tens of thousands of them, were shining up there like backlit jewels in a dark velvet dome. Sprays of tiny pinpoints in subtle colors, blazing white suns in orderly constellations arrayed across the heavens, ageless by the measure of a human lifetime, all light-years away but seeming to be almost near enough to reach out and touch.

Danny pulled his head back in, sat back, and rolled up the window as Kearns flipped the headlights back on and turned up the heater to warm up the van again.

“Thanks, man, really. I was sitting over here in dire need of some perspective.”

“Sort of puts a guy in his place, doesn’t it?” Kearns said. “That’s where we all came from, out there, and someday that’s where we’re all going back.”

“You know? I saw it on your business card, but now I understand why they call you a special agent.”

“Well, son, whether you want me to or not, I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

A few miles farther on Kearns exited and soon after turned onto a dirt road. The road meandered for a mile or so between barbed-wire fences on either side until they came to an even narrower gravel path. Halfway down that driveway they saw the yellowish lights of a ranch house.

“This is it,” Kearns said. “You all set?”

Danny took in a deep breath, and let it relax the tension out of him as he exhaled.

“Yeah. Let’s do this thing.”

The garage door was up, and from their parking spot Danny could clearly see the men seated around a couple of card tables, surrounded by stacks of stored junk, auto parts, and red tool cases. They’d all turned when the headlights swung across the wide-open doorway and upon recognizing the vehicle they motioned for their guests to come on in.

Kearns stayed in the van as Danny got out and walked up the paved incline toward the house, his hands clearly open at his sides in an effort to let everyone know that he wasn’t armed. Evidently these guys had no such concern. They met him halfway up the sidewalk to the garage and greeted him like he was a long-lost friend.

There was only one thing amiss. He and Kearns had come expecting to see all five men at this meeting, and one of them wasn’t there.

The gathering got right down to business. It had been all talk up to this point, Danny told them, but now this thing had gotten real. Stuart Kearns had what they wanted, so the only question that remained was whether he’d truly found the right men for the job. There would be only one shot at this, a strike that had been years in the planning, so a lot was riding on the proper makeup of this team.

Danny took a printout from his pocket, a transcript of the most recent chat room conversation, and matched up the four men with their screen names. The fifth, he was told, a guy named Elmer, had taken an unexpected trip to Kingman, Arizona, on a related matter and wouldn’t return until well after midnight Monday morning.

At his request they’d each given a bit of background on themselves, sticking to first names only. The one interesting thing about this part was the seamless transition each managed to place between the sane and the insane things they’d said. I’m Ron, I grew up down near Laughlin and worked out here in the mines since I was a teenager. Married at one time, two beautiful kids, and I’ve been wise to those Zionist bankers and the good-for-nothing queen of England ever since I saw what they did to us on 9/11.

The four who were present had known one another for years, and they’d first met this man Elmer, the one who was missing tonight, through the chat room on Stuart Kearns’s website. All of them agreed, though, that Elmer was a serious player and absolutely a man to be trusted.

One of them had asked about the bruises and other battle damage on Danny’s face, and that gave him an opening to explain his own recent part in all this. He’d been picked up by the cops after a patriot meeting in New York City, he told them, and then they’d beaten him within an inch of his life while he was in custody. Everyone has their breaking point, and this had been his. He knew then that there wasn’t going to be any peaceful end to this conflict; the enemy had finally made that clear. So he’d called his old friend Stuart Kearns to come and bail him out so he could be a part of this plan. He was here now to help with whatever he could, and then to get the story out to true believers around the world when all of this was over.

When Danny gave him the all-clear sign, Kearns opened his door and motioned for them to come out to the van. As they gathered around he opened up the sliding side panel, hung a work light by a hook in the ceiling, clicked it on, and showed the men the weapon he’d brought for their mission.

As the men looked on with a mix of awe and anticipation, Kearns began to provide a guided tour of the device. The yield would be about on par with the Hiroshima bomb, he explained, though the pattern of destruction would be different with a ground-level explosion. The device was sophisticated but easy to use, employing an idiotproof suicide detonator tied to an off-the-shelf GPS unit mounted on top of the housing. With the bomb hidden in their vehicle and armed, all they’d have to do is drive to the target. No codes to remember, no James Bond BS, no Hollywoodesque countdown timers-just set it and forget it. The instant they reached any point within a hundred yards of the preset destination the detonator would fire, and the blast would level everything for a mile in all directions.