State of Terror Read online

  She held on to his hand, not letting go.

  “We really need King,” Benson said. “We really need a strong leader. He’s looking out for us. Can we count on your support?”

  “What’s that?” The woman seemed confused, needing to collect her thoughts. She moved in uncomfortably close, touching his chest with her other hand, her face barely an inch from his, giving off a scent of cigarettes and strawberry cosmopolitans. “Yes, well, I guess he’s better than the other guy, what’s his name? I always get them mixed up.”

  “Carp. The other guy’s name is John Carp.”

  2

  Identification, Please

  CITIZENS WERE NOW COMPELLED to carry a new kind of identification — kids over 15, too. Benson’s son, Daniel, received his REAL ID in the mail one day. He opened the official envelope and peered inside before scooping out a short form letter and a thick plastic card. He had been expecting to receive his permanent driver’s license after successfully passing the exam many weeks before, but this seemed to be something entirely different.

  His picture appeared on the card’s right side next to a holographic pyramid, a glowing human eye at its apex. A beam of light from the eye illuminated a globe of the world. “CITIZEN,” in large block letters, was overlaid on the pyramid’s base. “USID” appeared on the left side of the card. Just below this was printed “Department of Homeland Security” and Daniel’s identification number, name, and home address. At the base of the card, an optical memory strip with symbols embedded into its mirrored surface held his fingerprints, digital photographs, retinal images, facial geometry, voice prints, medical records, and DNA sequencing.

  Daniel turned his strange new identity card over to examine the reverse. The seal of the Department of Homeland Security covered the entire right side in soft green hues. Overlaid on top of the DHS mark was “ID 009-99-D121,” Daniel’s number. On the lower left was a microprocessor; a gold square with raised lines running through it. Along the card’s base was a long sequence of bar codes.

  “Dad, what the hell is this? No way I’m carrying this creepy card. This is bullshit.”

  “It’s like the old driver’s license — and watch your language. You’ll be needing this to attend school and travel anywhere. At least you got yours in the mail — I have to appear in person.”

  Some years before, new passports had been introduced with embedded radio frequency identification and digital biometrics. No one had put up a fight. The State Department quietly explained that these enhanced passports had kept radicals, agitators, and dangerous fanatics from entering the Homeland. For reasons of national security, further details could not, of course, be revealed. In much the same way, REAL ID internal passports could help identify criminals, extremists, and insurgents already in the Homeland. Microchips inside the cards transferred data to readers placed throughout all the major cities, linked through the Internet into a globally networked system tracking terrorist movements. REAL ID would also be used to establish employment eligibility, replacing the popular “E-Verify” program.

  Citizens were required to produce identification upon demand. It became a routine matter of law and order, and everyone got used to it soon enough. As a series of public service announcements warned, you couldn’t tell just by looking if someone was in the Homeland working on the job legally. He or she could even be a terrorist. One of these announcements, broadcast during children’s programs, featured a collage of average-looking adults represented by a mix of ethnicities, genders, and attire. Some were professionals in suits toting briefcases; others wore denim overalls with hammers and saws in hand.

  “Hey kids!” said the announcer. “Can you spot the terrorist?”

  Another group of adults carefully drawn from the same socioeconomic strata flashed on the screen.

  “Can you spot the terrorist in this group?” asked the announcer. “Well, neither can we. You can’t tell just by looking. If you see something, say something. Call 1-800-TIPS. And now, back to the show.”

  “No shoving, please!” police on horseback called out every few minutes through bullhorns.

  Citizens lined up around the block in the early morning, waiting for their turn to enter their local Department of Motor Vehicles for processing.

  “You over there, move along quietly!”

  Police in their smart new black uniforms and helmets patrolled up and down the lines, watching carefully, occasionally taking notes. The long lines of people, impatient as they were, dutifully submitted, already having been alerted by mail that it might take all day to be photographed, fingerprinted, scanned, indexed, interviewed, and stamped for their REAL IDs.

  Benson and Jane advanced agonizingly slowly, often coming to a complete halt for several minutes before moving again. They came to stand in front of a giant green and yellow poster promoting greater threat awareness. Divided into eight panels, each of them asked in turn: Are terrorist groups in the area? Are they violent? Do they attack Americans? How active are they? How sophisticated are they? Are they predictable? Will local citizens warn Americans? What tactics and weapons are used? The panels were illustrated with cartoon drawings, including one of a hooded terrorist holding a handsaw to a child’s neck, one of a color-coded threat meter like those used at the airports, and some depicting hate-message graffiti, car bombs exploding, and other violent images.

  “I don’t get the point of these,” Benson said, waving his hand dismissively at the poster. “Unless you work for some kind of State intelligence bureau, there’s no way you could answer those questions. Even then, you probably wouldn’t have a clue. It just ends up leaving you more afraid, but then, maybe that’s—”

  “Say a terrorist has no criminal record, okay?” Jane said. “Let’s say he’s brand new at the terror biz — he isn’t on a silly watch list. He could get a REAL ID like anyone else, right? And wouldn’t having a REAL ID make it even easier for him to go and do his terror thing?”

  “Hmm…. You can’t be the first to have thought of that. Homeland Security has all these highly paid experts to think about this stuff. It’s their job, so they must have already—”

  “And if he’s not already in the U.S., a new terror guy could just come in with a visitor’s visa like anyone else, right? Visitors don’t have to get REAL ID, it’s only for citizens, but if foreign terrorists really want one they’ll just buy fakes and conceal them with tinfoil, or maybe they’ll forge a visitor’s visa and a passport if that’s easier. There’s always a way.”

  “Jane, keep it down, will you?”

  Step by plodding step, they made their way into the applicant holding area. They passed another poster, this one depicting a long line of faceless people all wearing the same nondescript, gray clothes. Its mood was dreary and dark. “Are Your Documents in Order?” it asked. “Citizens Without Valid ID can be Detained. Annual Renewals with Satisfactory Drug Tests now Accepted at this Location.”

  They advanced a few more steps until, at last, they stood in front of the applications processing clerk.

  “Hello, my name is Felicia, employee 02B-2331,” said the clerk.

  Behind Felicia was an old Norman Rockwell poster tacked up on the wall between filing cabinets. The scene depicted a mother and father who had just tucked their idyllic moppets into bed. The children had already fallen asleep as the doting parents looked on. On the bedroom floor was an old-fashioned rag doll. “Ours to Fight For,” the poster caption read. “Freedom from Fear.”

  “How you doin’ today,” Felicia said in a flat tone, looking over the documents Benson handed to her.

  “Fine, just fine.”

  Frowning at the papers, Felicia suddenly left her station to check a notice posted on a bulletin board. She came back and turned Benson’s application around on the counter, pointing at the offending section with ultra-long, sparkling purple fingernails. Bracelets on both her wrists rattled on the counter when she leaned over. She shook her head, looking at the documents.

  “Sorry, we
got a problem, hon,” she said, looking out over the crowded waiting room. “Form 4562-3C has your first name as Thomas but this one here, it says, Tom. See that? Shoot, I must’ve seen a thousand Tommy’s with a ‘y,’ Tommie’s with a ‘ie,’ Thomas’ with and without a ‘h,’ if I seen one. We need the same legal name on all your docs, hon, you understand? Also, your address over here, it says Elm Avenue, but it’s Elm Street on this one, you see that?”

  Glancing at the wall clock, Felicia waited a moment for Benson to take in all the transgressions. Scooping up the papers without warning, she shuffled them until they lined up precisely at the corners and stapled them together.

  “You fix these source docs and come back, okay? And because you’re filing ‘married,’ Jane here will need to come back, too. And don’t forget your urine samples. You have a nice day,” she said, looking out at the crush of waiting people. “Next!”

  “Whoa there, Felicia, just wait a second,” Benson said. “I can’t take another day off work for this. I won’t stand in line again, that’s just not going to happen. I’ll mail it.”

  “Sorry, mail’s not allowed, but you can appeal if you want.”

  Felicia pointed at a cluttered table strewn with piles of forms.

  “You go complete the forms that apply to your particular situation, then you go join the appeals line so we can process you. You’ll be notified within 120 days of our decision. The application fee is still the same $240; no extra charge for appeals.”

  “That’s $240 for both of us?”

  “No, $240 each, and next time, please have your check ready and attached to the application. That’ll speed up processing, you understand? Next!”

  It felt good to be out in the sunshine with Jane. The birds were singing in the trees. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves. Their dog, Petey, hadn’t been walked in a while, and he trotted happily next to them.

  Standing in their path ahead was a policeman wearing one of those new black uniforms, all decked out in matching helmet, flak vest, and mirrored, aviator-style sunglasses. A curly cord ran from inside his shirt collar up his neck to an earphone inside the helmet.

  Benson was in an expansive mood.

  “Good day, officer. How goes the War on Terror?”

  He regretted his quip the moment he said it. He had supposed it would be lighthearted, even witty, but the cop’s severe expression indicated otherwise.

  “Tom, don’t joke around with these people!” Jane whispered between clenched teeth. “You can get in serious trouble, like at the airport.”

  The officer stared at Benson. Petey let out a low growl.

  “Petey,” Benson said, “it’s okay, boy. Some people have no sense of humor, but not you, Officer…” He struggled to read the name tag.

  “Officer Fresher, it looks like.”

  “The name’s Officer Friscker.”

  “All in good fun, you know.”

  “War on Terror…” Friscker said, not taking his eyes from the dog. “That supposed to be some kinda joke? You a jokester, is that it?”

  Benson said nothing.

  “Identification, please.”

  Benson hesitated. He’d done nothing wrong; this low-ranking beat cop had absolutely no right to demand any documents. Pedestrians on the sidewalk slowed down to gawk, glancing behind as they strolled past. The cop waited silently behind his sunglasses. There seemed no point in a hopeless showdown. Benson opened his wallet and showed his ID to the cop.

  “Take it outta the wallet.”

  Petey growled, but Benson did nothing to restrain him this time. He would have liked to growl himself. He removed the card from his wallet, as ordered. He felt an intense disdain for this hoodlum in a uniform, but he hoped it didn’t show. Nothing good could come from showing the least hint of disrespect to a law enforcement officer. Petey, however, wore his heart on his sleeve, as it were. He curled his upper lips and snarled, baring his teeth.

  Keeping a wary eye on the dog, the officer examined Benson’s REAL ID with a miniature flashlight, casting a purple glow on the card. He waved the card under the light, waiting for the RFID chip to register on the wireless reader he wore on his utility belt. Nothing happened, so he swiped the card through the reader slot and waited. The Automated Targeting System remained silent. He entered Benson’s ID number on the keypad, but still nothing came of it. Clearly disappointed, he thrust the card rudely back at Benson.

  His fangs bared, Petey lunged for Officer Friscker with a ferocious growl. Benson pulled him back just in time with a quick tug of the leash.

  Friscker fell over backwards in fright.

  “Restrain that goddamn thing!” he yelled from the ground, his helmet skewed. “You shouldn’t have no dog like that, I could shoot him right here on the street, goddamn mutt.”

  He collected his flashlight and Benson’s REAL ID from the ground. Benson offered him a hand, but he proudly refused, fixing his helmet and pushing himself to his feet. Curious pedestrians stopped at a respectful distance and stared.

  Friscker handed the card to Benson, rather more gently this time. Attached to it was a green paper slip.

  “I’m not scared a’ no mutt,” Officer Friscker said quietly, glaring defiantly at Petey.

  Petey reared on his hind legs, barking furiously. Benson restrained him just out of reach of the officer.

  “Oh, this is no mutt.” Benson looked at his dog with undisguised pride. “He’s an excellent guard dog — for our own protection, you know. What’s this green thing?”

  “That there is an Anti-Social Behavior Order, sir. That ASBO requires you to be off the streets by 2200 hours.”

  He smirked and walked away.

  “You have a nice day, sir.”

  “Hey, what the f—” Benson began, but Jane yanked on his arm and mumbled into his jacket.

  “Do — not — say — anything.”

  3

  Just Say No

  A PRISONER IN A BLACK SHROUD covering his head and torso balanced precariously on a stool. He lost his footing and struck the concrete floor with his elbow.

  On all fours, a male prisoner wearing a dog collar and leash was led around, naked, by a female soldier. She even rode on his back and swatted his bare butt.

  A German shepherd barked ferociously at a cringing prisoner trying to protect his face, the lunging, snarling dog barely held back at the end of a long chain by his master. The piercing, explosive barks ricocheted off the bare concrete walls.

  The news reports portrayed all these scenes and more from the overseas detention centers as if they were somehow monstrous and criminal. Perhaps for the average person, far removed from the reality of fighting a hard war, they were indeed upsetting or offensive to contemplate. The public wanted its wars to be cleansed of any visible brutality. They preferred not to see innocent terror victims blown up by the side of some remote road. They didn’t want to witness their soldiers torn apart in battle and suffering in unspeakable pain, or dead, stacked like firewood in body bags. That would be too personal, too upsetting. Too real.

  Benson wasn’t much impressed with these deliberately provocative reports from the war front. If certain techniques yielded valuable intelligence that saved even one soldier from harm, it would be worth it, wouldn’t it? It isn’t torture; it’s humiliation, he reasoned. It helps break them down. There’s no lasting harm.

  Benson recalled a truly grisly incident that had also made the news. Hooded terrorists had sawed off a captured soldier’s leg as he shrieked away in agony. They held up the severed leg for the camera as if they were showing off a prize fish they’d caught, singing praises to their God. Benson had felt infuriated and sickened.

  Amputation, burning, electrocution — now that’s real torture. Our enemies have no qualms about inflicting the worst torture imaginable. Not since the Dark Ages have we seen anything like this.

  Benson knew the trauma of war. He’d seen men’s limbs blown off, their insides spilling out onto the dirt, choking on their own blood. He�
�d seen screaming villagers fleeing the searing flames, chemical sprays and napalm explosions chasing after them, their flowing white robes and scarves flapping in the wind as they scattered wildly. He’d heard a soldier screaming in unbearable agony for his best friend to kill him quickly and end it.

  Special Ops, Task Force 88.

  In two tours of duty he’d been in the middle of hell. He had stood firing into the void, unable to see through the fog and smoke, his brothers cut down by machine gun fire; yelling and crying in pure panic, shells screeching overhead, a pandemonium and terror that couldn’t be conquered by any amount of bravery or sheer force of will. Real war wasn’t anything like those movies in which the hero would walk off into the sunset and everything would be set right. He saw things no human being should ever see. When he returned, he was not the same man who left. No soldier was. They all returned physically or mentally scarred, some more than others.

  Despite the losses, the battles he’d fought back then had at least ended decisively. When going head-to-head with the enemy, superior training, technology, and numbers always won out. His company would march their prisoners down the road, the prisoner’s hands clasped on top of their heads as ordered, bowed in defeat, slogging onward.

  Our former enemies knew when they were beat, but these jihad types keep coming back for more punishment.

  They don’t fight head-to-head.

  They don’t give up.

  When we kill them they just send in more to the slaughter, like ants.

  We don’t understand how they think.

  We don’t know what they want.

  They have no rules.

  Quick and strong, Benson had excelled in hand-to-hand combat, even entering competitions. Years later, he still trained in the martial arts. He had acquired a fondness for the ideas of balance between opposing forces, of action and reaction, of the continual quest to harmonize mind and body through mental and physical discipline, but his taste for actual combat had evaporated. He moved into the officer ranks and went into software engineering, rising to lead some of the most advanced COMSEC research, publishing classified papers on cryptosecurity, transmission, emission, and traffic-flow network security. He discharged a full colonel — a rare feat for an enlisted man — earned an MBA, and tackled the corporate world. He had wanted to give something back to his country for molding him into the man he became — disciplined, skilled, and focused — but had never found quite the right outlet.