The Unfolding, page 39
“I’m not going to ask where those came from,” Frode says. “I’ll be Hot Waste. That’s what we call radioactive debris.”
“Fine,” the Big Guy says. “You’re Hot Waste. Tony is Myrna Loy, his choice.”
“I might have wanted to be Myrna Loy,” Metzger says. “She is from Chicago, after all.”
“You know what the Secret Service calls Cindy McCain? Parasol. And Reagan was Rawhide,” the General says.
The Big Guy looks at Metzger. “For you, I have Flak Jacket, Twizzler, or T. Rex.”
“I’ll go with the theropod,” Metzger says. “Rex means king in Latin. I was always a fan of the band.” He sings from “Bang a Gong,” pounding the bass beat on the table.
“T. Rex it is,” the Big Guy says. “And Eisner, the youngest among us, is Crayola. It’s fitting. The crayon debuted in 1958 on Captain Kangaroo. The name comes from the French word for chalk.”
“Fits perfectly,” Bo says.
“Did I leave anyone out?” the Big Guy asks.
They point to Kissick.
“Apologies. You, my friend, are either Hijinks or Pawnbroker.”
“Hijinks,” Kissick says. “Now if I might get back into the substance of the matter.”
The General clears his throat. “Before you go in too deep, Kissick, may I take just a minute?”
“I yield the floor.”
“I’ll keep it short. As I said to the Big Guy months ago, I want to assure you that times like this have been on our radar for many years. We have known that a decision day would come. It was never an ‘if come’ but a ‘will come.’ I have spoken with those above and we appreciate your investment in our preparedness. The kinship between us is real, and we will work with you to ensure that we are all on the same page and speaking the same language. Since the end of WW2, we have been placing high-ranking officers, foot soldiers, citizens, and surrogates not unlike yourselves in areas that include our military, banks, communication and transportation facilities, and other essential operations. We have charts of who is in charge and who gets the little white cards that get you deep into Raven Rock. I just want you to know we are signed on and good to go.”
The Big Guy is tearing up. “Thank you, General, I am so moved.”
Bo winks. “I knew you would deliver.”
“I am only a surrogate,” the General says. “I am a vessel, a carrier of these directives. That is what we must all remember—we are all citizen soldiers of one sort or another.”
“Beautiful,” the judge says. “Please tell your people we are ever grateful and they can count on us for continued support.”
“About those little white cards, they’re real?” Kissick asks.
“Indeed,” the General says, pulling out his card and flashing it in Kissick’s direction. It’s plain white, thick, with something that looks like a lump in the middle.
“It looks like what you use to get crumbs off the table,” Kissick says.
The General shrugs. “It’s the ‘get out of the nuclear war with your ass still attached’ card. There are five thousand of these on the East Coast and equal amounts on the West Coast.”
“Who gets them?” Kissick wants to know.
“Those deemed essential.”
“Put my name on the list,” the Big Guy says.
The General laughs. “I’ll see what I can do. The Supreme Court justices have them—but just for themselves, no wives.”
“Not a problem as far as I’m concerned,” the judge says. “Being without the wife.”
Bo goes into his earbud recitation drone again. “Now it’s the replay. ‘Hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict.’ ”
The judge says, “He’s not wrong when he says, ‘Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.’ We are looking at opposite sides of the same coin. Maybe there is comfort in knowing we are seeing the same thing. We are more awake than we’ve ever been.”
“But when the question is asked—What is our dream?—you can be sure that the answer will be different,” Kissick says. “We may live in the same country, but we are not dreaming the same dream.”
“Are you using the word dream on purpose?” Metzger wants to know. “Do you mean dream in the Martin Luther King sense of the word?”
“That sounds like a question my wife would ask,” the judge says. “She is a real Texas lady, lets you know what she thinks in that traditional Southern way. You think she’s saying something nice, but she’s really taking you down a notch. It’s a skill. You just don’t want to talk to her after six p.m. She’ll fillet you; she can debone a man faster than a fishmonger.”
“I was asking so I might understand you a little better,” Metzger says.
“He’s down there today in a goddamned wheelchair,” Bo says.
“Who?” Kissick asks.
“Dick Cheney, the man the Big Guy has a man crush on. Even Franklin Roosevelt didn’t let himself be seen in public in a wheelchair. Apparently, Dick hurt his back moving boxes the other day.”
“Happens to the best of us; nothing ball cutting about that,” the judge says.
“How aggressive are we going to be?” the doctor asks. “Once this thing gets going, will we even know we’re at war?”
“Oh, Jesus, you’re calling it a war?” Kissick asks.
“What do you want to call it, a coup?” Bo asks.
“Some people would say it’s treason,” the judge suggests.
“Some people would be wrong,” the Big Guy says. “Extraordinary measures. If we don’t keep the US of A on track we are less secure as a country, less prosperous and less impactful around the world. We must remain an economic and political superpower. Let us be clear—we are protecting and preserving democracy. It’s a load of bull to pretend we have never asserted ourselves to maintain democracy and another load to claim that life is fair. Life is inherently not fair. Democracy is not fair. Factories don’t ask workers what time they’d like to come in, banks don’t ask customers how much interest they want. Not every opinion is equal. That shouldn’t come as a shock.”
“ ‘A new birth of freedom,’ it’s from the Gettysburg Address,” Bo says. “The good news for us is that this country has seen some weird shit. When they see more, it’s all gonna seem normal. That’s the trick, to make what we want look like the new normal.”
“This is the quiet phase of a campaign that will return America to its roots and rekindle the dream that our forefathers had for a country where hard work pays off, where home and family are valued,” Kissick says.
“Nice,” Metzger says. “I’d hire you.”
“What are the chances of Obama getting reelected?” the judge wants to know.
“If this election proved anything, it’s that we don’t have the control we thought we did,” the Big Guy says. “There’s always something to see when you’re looking back. But looking forward, one must have a vision of one’s own ability to conceptualize the future.”
“ ‘I love you back.’ That’s what Obama keeps saying.” Bo pauses and stabs at his food. “Trust me, there are people who already know if Obama will go two terms.”
“That’s who I want to be in business with, the people who know,” the judge says.
“Some of it will depend on how things unfold,” the Big Guy says. “I’m not convinced that Obama’s going to get any traction in the House and Senate.”
“I was at dinner last week with the Turtle, among others, and can confirm that they’re going to cockblock him at every opportunity,” the judge says. “The man looks like an owl; you know he had polio when he was just two years old. He’s charmless and as dull as dishwater but he commands. If you saw him anywhere else in the world, you’d think he was someone’s cranky grandpa. But in DC, McConnell is a dangerous man, perhaps the most dangerous man because he cares about only one thing—power.”
“Are we going to tell people that he’s not from here?” Metzger wants to know.
“What does that mean?” Kissick asks.
“Africa,” the judge says.
“Let’s just say he wasn’t born in the United States. Hawaii wasn’t always in the United States; it was a latecomer,” Metzger says. “And he’s a Muslim.”
“Is he?” Kissick asks.
“He identifies as Christian,” the doctor says.
“His middle name is Hussein and people want to believe that he’s not one of us. They don’t want to say they’re racists. This gives them an out. He’s not American. He’s a threat to our way of life,” Metzger says, pouring himself another glass of wine.
“How so?” Kissick asks.
“Like a socialist,” the judge says. “In Texas we don’t like socialists.”
“You know that’s all made-up stuff,” Metzger says. “Guys like me, we sit in our basements and make up shit that we think sounds plausible. Obama is no more or less American than the rest of us. Oh yeah, and Hillary Clinton’s a lesbian.”
“Everyone knows that’s true,” Bo says.
“Is it?” Kissick asks.
Bo jumps in. “Ted Kennedy had some kind of medical crisis and they just carried him out. They were eating seafood stew and something they called a ‘brace of birds,’ which sounds like roadkill. It’s a lot, gentlemen. Even for the most stalwart of us, it’s a lot.” Bo looks at the men. “Between now and our moment, there will be multiple events, forces we can’t yet anticipate that are not yet on the horizon. That’s why we have these conversations, that’s why we have to train. We have to train ourselves for what we know from history, from what the time we live in tells us, and for what our deepest and darkest imaginings of our future might be.”
“Is this the earbud talking or is it you?” Kissick asks.
“It’s me,” Bo says. “I’m talking to you in my voice, not the earbud voice.” He closes his eyes, retracing his words. “Those who wish us ill are evildoers; their minds are darker than most of you can imagine, so if you tell yourself whatever it is can never happen, I will tell you that not only can it happen, it likely already has happened and has been dealt with so as to keep it out of sight—”
“Should I be happy about that? Shit happens? Is it better for me to be left in the dark?” Kissick asks.
“Ninety-nine point nine percent of people can’t handle the truth. They panic. They go apeshit. There’s nothing subtle about it,” Bo says.
“Another good reason that we keep ninety-nine point nine percent of people out of the loop,” the doctor says.
“I’m going to keep bringing you back to what I’ve prepared,” Kissick says. “This is a long-term plan to return America to itself. And we’ll need talking points that are clear and concise.” Kissick looks away from Bo and over at Metzger.
“I’m a salesman, not a novelist; I work in the short form,” Metzger says. “Punchy phrases, haiku. ‘McCain is ailin’, chooses hockey mom Palin. You betcha, we’re pucked!’ That’s a real one from a woman named Chaunce Windle of South Bend, Indiana; I read it and it lodged in my head.”
“Our communications people will have a portfolio of outlets, radio, newspapers, and TV,” Kissick says. “You can still party down under with Foxy Rupert, but the real news will be on platforms yet to be born.”
“Exactly,” Metzger says. “What twenty years ago sounded like science fiction is here now.”
“What I want to know is what we’re actually going to see. How will we evaluate our effectiveness, what are our guideposts, indicators of success?” the judge asks.
“Thank you for that,” Kissick says. “Picking up where I left off, the rollout features a period of economic, social, and political unrest as well as destabilization and the naturally occurring failure of poorly maintained transportation and communication systems. Under the guise of protection, we will see the erosion of civil liberties and the rise of rogue nonpoliticians.”
“I didn’t know you had it in you,” Bo says to Kissick. “I like it. I like it a lot.”
“A couple of footnotes,” Metzger throws in. “You may recall the New Right grew rapidly in the 1970s, now it’s the tired Old Right. We’re going to have to reinvigorate them as well as tap into a growing resistance—survivalists, iconoclasts, people who are living off the grid, conspiracy theorists, and unaffiliated others. We’re going to bring them in and carry them forward.”
“We will be the gathering place, the watering hole for the lone wolves.” Kissick throws his head back and howls. “Sorry, I’m a little drunk. I really never drink.”
“The more invisible we are, the more powerful. We do not connect the dots until we throw the switch, then the world will be awed by our power,” the judge says.
“Invisible to all but one another,” Bo says. “Security is important.”
“Listen up, I’m giving you an actual tip,” Metzger says. “Not just some hot air. Pay attention. Two words that are game changers.”
“Game changers?” Bo asks.
Metzger starts again as though he were playing charades. He holds up two fingers. “Two words,” he says, then pauses. “Big Data.”
“Ah,” Kissick says. “Exactly.”
“Big Data,” Metzger repeats. “There’s stuff happening that you’ll never see, a kind of modern mind control. You won’t see it or feel it, but it is already dividing this country into the thinnest of pathological slices. Big Data,” Metzger repeats again. “Right there, I just handed you the whole thing. We are on the cusp of extinction, about to become invisible. In this ‘new’ world, there are ways of communicating that are more effective than television ads and scented magazine blow-ins. The computer provides an experience so personalized that it will know what kind of shoes you’re going to buy before you even know you need new shoes. It will know what you are going to eat for breakfast tomorrow before you finish lunch today. Supercomputers will collect, parse, and sell perversely specific information about you. You will be delivered news, information, food, clothing, and sex based on that data. That data will get smarter and soon you will be fed only what you have signaled you like to eat. And you won’t know the difference. You will see only what you want to see and think that it is the whole picture. Nothing will indicate that there is another side to the story, an opposing opinion. You will think that what you are reading is true. You will think that you feel better, think that things are looking good, lining up, because you never see anything beyond your own reflection.” He pauses and finishes his wine. “More important, and this is why I am telling you, you must force yourself to become more aware. You might think you are making a decision, changing the television channel of your own free will, but there is no free will. You will think you are in control, but everywhere you go, Big Data will be there before you. It’s going to happen; it is already happening, and you have no idea of the size and scale and neither does anyone else save a few Silicon Valley unitards. By the time people catch on, the world will be so thick with propaganda that when China sends you a birthday card to your home address you’re gonna think it came from your mama. When you call your mama and thank her, she’s going to say, you’re welcome, sonny, and think she actually sent it to you.”
“I just came in my pants,” Bo says.
“You farted,” Kissick says. “I can smell it.”
“Well, it felt good,” Bo says.
Eisner flashes the Big Guy a pic from Meghan. Multiple pairs of feet, well-polished shoes on a marble floor. “She’s trying to be discreet.”
Bo grunts and jams his earbud deeper into his ear. “Now they are marching down Pennsylvania Avenue, two hundred and fifty horses, a mariachi band, and all the rest.”
“It’s scary stuff,” the Big Guy says.
“I’m gonna add a little icing to the cake,” the doctor says. “Memory. No one can hold a thought in their head. There is no memory, no context, and no history; and you wanna know why?”
“I do,” the Big Guy says.
“Antidepressants. Ten percent of the population takes them, mostly women, and one of the side effects is that this affects memory. Millions more are hooked on opioids; the boys who make those pills are pulling in billions. And the black market is just as big. It’s a public health epidemic. The herd is culling itself.”
“While you’re busy creaming in your jeans, they’re in the White House setting up their voice mail and ordering stationery. Gentlemen, we need to get to work,” the judge says. “It’s been lovely, but I can’t sit any longer. I’ve got to move.”
“What you will see is domestic disturbance, chaos, a feeling of unsafety,” Kissick says.
“Unsafety is not a word,” Metzger corrects him.
“Imminent danger.” The General scowls at Metzger.
“There will be outbreaks, which at first seem distant, but because they are reported on the news and posted on the internet, they will provoke others to take to the streets. There will be public ‘punishments’ like when the Pilgrims put men in the stockades; only this time the rap on the knuckles will be more like a knock on the head, a choke hold that knocks the breath out of someone. They will call it murder and take to the streets. There will be looting. It will move closer to home. It will instill fear. Fear itself is a good control; it makes people feel vulnerable and exposes tender spots. What starts somewhere on the West Coast will catch fire and spread to the middle of America, Phoenix, Chicago, Minneapolis. Then it will come closer to home and we will tap into that fear. There will be a rollback of freedoms, the withering of local law enforcement, violence as spectacle with disregard for constitutional rights. As this begins to unfold, we won’t know that this is what we dreamed of. It will look like chaos, like it can spin out of control; to be successful, we have to get to that edge. In the chaos there will be an opening, an opportunity,” Kissick says. “It will look like a natural occurrence, a call for security, a return to our core values. That’s our sweet spot. What we are launching is a slow-moving wave that will sweep across the country largely unnoticed until the American people have been decimated economically, physically, and spiritually. People will be ordered to stay home, not to congregate. It will be difficult to reach consensus about anything; no one will know what is fact and what is fiction.”
