Chapter 30 from the R.M. Dolin, "What Is to Be Done"
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“Is it true,” Sympatico sheepishly asks, stepping into the dimly lit courtyard, “what you said to Senor Preston. I didn’t mean to hear, but I did.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jake coldly stares into the infinitely dark night.
“About what happened at Senor Armando’s bar,” Sympatico presses. “Is he really taking me back?”
“Yes,” Jake quietly answers, “but I don’t know why. All the demented bastard said was his boss wants you back.”
As emotions rises from the depths of Sympatico’s soul, flooding her with panic just as her knees give out as she faintly falls against the wall. To know the freshness of freedom is forever unobtainable moves her soul from the purgatory of hopefulness back to the hell of no escape. Slowly stiffening herself with the timid resolve of a gallows prisoner taking their final steps, she looks painfully at this suddenly small man who had seemed so large, so heroic, realizing that like him, she’s equally isolated. She accepts he’s just a man doing what he can against an infinite force, a lone beacon who’d given her so much and taken nothing in return, a person so out of place in the world to which she’s inevitably tethered.
She’s about to explode in fear-filled terror when Jake turns to face her, “don’t worry, that’s not gonna happen.” He attempts a reassuring smile but to Sympatico, it leans more toward indifference, maybe even quiet acquiescence.
“I do not care about me,” she manages to say in an effort to minimize impact. Needing desperately to be distracted she abruptly changes topics to the only thing that can help her forget her pending doom, “did your wife really die in the pandemic?” Jake turns away and steadies himself with a brace of Bourbon. “I hope it is not wrong to ask, it’s just well, Theresa told me.”
After a long pause that silences even the still dead quiet of night, Jake slowly says. “No.” After another brace of bourbon, he finds the fortitude to push on. “Emelia did not die from the virus, but the greedy rat-bastard doctors say she did.” Jake takes another long slow drink also desperately needing to change the subject. “Never say you don’t care about you, no matter what, it’s never true.”
Sympatico looks away in guilt; she shouldn’t have allowed herself to escape her pain by forcing even greater pain on her benefactor. “Nothing about me matters,” she whispers, “nothing can, nothing ever will.”
“She was dying,” Jake strains, talking mostly to himself, “only I didn’t know. She didn’t tell me.” He stares into the deep dark void of the star-filled sky. “She only told Padre.” He draws strength from the Cuban he’s re-lit, “but didn’t want to burden me.” His exhale is followed by another intake of bourbon. “The unethical rat-bastards let her die so they could collect the forty-thousand-dollar bounty the government put on the sick and invalid to ensure their outbreak ratcheted into a full-on crisis.”
Whatever small comforts the world allows men like Jake in moments like this he draws from his Cuban. Sympatico looks on in vacant silence wishing they would come back to her tragedy, but that can only happen now when Jake is ready.
“You’ve endured a horrible fate,” Jake’s ready, “at the hands of horrendous men, and for that we share simpatico. The world is not kind; I know you know that. It is not just, and it is not fair. We survive only because fate finds better things to do. But all of us; you, me, Dominic, Preston, Dario, Theo, we’re all in a noose being squeezed like withering grapes in the hot sun. Hanging, until the breath we breathe needs to move on.” Jake takes another brace of Bourbon. “You know what’s worse than death? Life . . . and being alone with the knowledge you’re no longer alive.”
With that, Jake is done, but then, he restarts. “Emptiness is worse than death, as is the realization that happiness is not possible. This hell, our hell, is punishment for past sins and the longer we survive the more we must atone.”
Sympatico recalls their full moon talk and how much she admired him for having somehow found a formula for getting past all his suffering. She can’t decide if he was wrong then or wrong now, or if perhaps, like so much of life, he’s a little wrong now and then.
“I’m sorry.” Jake straightens himself in his chair. “Forgive my pity party, it’s just, just, well, sometimes the shadows win, and today’s been filled with shadows.” He turns to face her. “Life’s a struggle and even though I sometimes drift into darkness, it’s worthwhile. We all stumble, get knocked down, but eventually the survivor in each of us gets up and pushes forward. My goal, besides not being pathetic, is to live each day in gratitude for the life I had. Yours should be thanking God for your chance to find happiness away from the island of despair where you’ve been prisoned.” Jake walks up to Sympatico, he gently reaches for her hand, which she does not withdraw. “It’s unfortunate you overheard about today with Miguel, but I assure you, me and the boys have a plan, he won’t get close to you.” Jake forces a smile. “Dario’s probably almost done showing Chance the perimeter system and Preston’s on his way, go inside and rest while we sort the rest out.”
Sympatico knows she should leave but can’t just yet, not with so much unsaid. Complicating things is a growing sense, well perhaps more than a sense because what needs doing seems so clear, it’s a belief this may be the last time they ever talk. “Senor Jake,” she awkwardly starts, “I know I keep saying this, but thank you, thanks for your friends, and thanks to God for helping me fall into your protection. I cannot let you all risk your safety on my behalf. You shouldn’t enter my hell, battle my evils; I cannot expect, nor can I ask, anyone to journey through such darkness, it’s the path God alone has decide I must travel alone.”
Jake softly slides hid hand up Sympatico’s arm while looking deep into her eyes, “Life comes with both duty and responsibility and none of us gets to choose what we’re called to do, or what burdens we must carry. When government turns it back on people, it’s up to each of us to help each other.” He gently guides Sympatico toward the tasting room. “Your struggle is everyone’s struggle in some form. It’s bigger than you or me; where your darkness ends, my begins, where mine falters, another soul steps in. Your happiness, my happiness, are like two sides of the same coin; mine forever looks backward at all that’s been lost as yours faces forward to a future waiting to be embraced.” Jake smiles at the woman who just days ago he was trying to dump on Padre. “Rest now, me and the boys got lots to do figuring out what is to be done.”
#
The hour and twenty-minute drive from Albuquerque’s continually expanding north side to the Al Azar is completed in fifty-seven minutes due in part to an App Marcos and his crew recently developed that tracks the location of State Troopers and County Sheriffs. The urgency of what he came to discuss and the need to do it in person are also contributing factors. Marcos quickly briefs ANA members regarding dire developments and as he departs for Jake’s, the poker players sort through mitigating strategies. Preston gets up from the poker table to follow Marcos, he needs to be there when Marcos delivers the troubling news.
Marcos’s advantage over Preston is huge, not only does he have his law enforcement locater, but his 67 Fastback is no match for Preston’s rusted out bucket of bolts. Marcos hasn’t shared his new App with the Northern ANA chapter even though his guys have been beta-testing for over a month. As the ‘Watch the Watchers’ project lead, Marcos had his crew of retired Sandia National Laboratory engineers developed the App to track targeted Watchers. They later expanded the functionality to track State Troopers and County Sheriffs, mostly for their own amusement.
Marcos arrives at Jake’s well ahead of Preston, he enters the moonlit courtyard to find Jake in his favorite chair with his signature glass of bourbon and a mostly smoked cigar, along with an arsenal of weapons and ammunition scattered across several tables. “Holy crap dude, you expecting the Russians or the Chinese?”
“I don’t know, that’s the problem.”
“Well whatever it is, I pity them.”
Normally Jake offers bourbon to guests, but Marcos doesn’t drink, so, he pulls a bottle of carbonated mineral water from the small cooler at his side. “The boys brief you on what when down this afternoon?”
Marcos nods. “Crazy shit huh?”
“I thought you and Preston were coming together.”
“He’s probably still trying to get that ratty Range Rover over forty, but what happened isn’t why I’m here,” Marcos watches headlights bounce around the trees lining the long driveway. “There’s other news of a more dire nature.”
“When it rains it pours, que no?”
“We were always gonna get here, but at least we’re prepared.”
Jake takes a contemplative sip of bourbon. “My crisis is so far off the charts I need charts to explain my charts.”
Marcos smiles, “Your crew did spin quite a story, is she here?”
“Let me get her,” Jake jumps to his feet, staggering just enough to confirm the bourbon’s working. “It’s important she meet the great Marcos Burrego.”
“Sit your ass back down you half-drunk bastard, there’ll be time for that.”
Preston arrives just as Jake’s flopping back down in his chair, “For the record, I don’t do anything half-ass, but please, do tell what compels you to drive all this way.”
“You know we’ve been working various surveillance strategies as part of our ‘Watch the Watchers‘ campaign. We’ve analyzed internal NSA and DIA communications, and this new cyber security dude in Albuquerque is not DOJ as advertised, he’s NSA.”
“Freaking Watchers!” Preston blurts out louder than intended.
“And he’s not assigned to cyber-crime, his specialty is anti-subversion.”
“Well poke me with a pitchfork,” Jake stammers.
“His name’s Alverez, and based on past performance, he’s a shit kicker.”
“Is he on to us?” Preston worries.
“Don’t know, but it’s clear he’s either hunting us, or we have competition.”
“It’s that damn White House memo Dario let loose,” Preston grouses. “We knew it’d come back to bite us.”
“We don’t know it that,” Jake defends, “besides, there’s no way that memo works back to us.”
“So what now,” Preston shouts, “wait for the inevitable?”
“We’re not at inevitable,” Jake calmly retorts as he allows his cold elixir to coat his anxiety.
“My crew’s already executing countermeasures,” Marcos tells Preston to calm him down.
“Good,” Preston says, allowing the calm confidence of his comrades to settle his nervousness.
“Heard you postponed Phase Two?”
“Shouldn’t impact your schedule,” Jake replies.
“Agreed. And regarding Alverez, we’ll monitor his activities and slip in soft diversions whenever it seems appropriate.”
“You’ll keep us in the loop, right?” Preston anxiously asks.
“It’ll require more face to face meetings, which will have to be done with increasing discretion.” He reaches into his backpack. “I brought you something I think can help with your other issue.”
“Something new from our very own Q,” Jake teases.
“Me and the boys developed this App, initially to monitor and track the Watchers. But what good is technology without some fun, so, during beta testing we modified it to track State Troopers and County Sheriffs – haven’t gotten a speeding ticket in over a month.”
“So how are you testing your ability to hack law enforcement and municipal court data bases?” Preston asks.
“Not to worry Obe Juan, I’m still getting tickets around town and dismissing them with ease. Long term I plan to load Alverez into the App and monitor him.”
“As usual, way cool, but” Jake adds with skepticism, “how does this help us?”
Marcos’ phone pings from an incoming text. “After briefing your crew,” he says while reading and responding to a text, “I had Gilbert modify our App so you can track Miguel. Gilbert says it’s ready.” As if on cue, both Jake and Preston’s phones signal arriving text messages. “I added each of your crew’s homes and the Al Azar. The App will alert should Miguel get within five hundred yards of any programed location.”
“Wow,” Preston says already immersed in playing with the App.
“Just a tiny touch of genius that makes you wanna sit back and say, whoa!” Marcos pontificates. “It’ll also alert you of the distance from your current location to Miguel, in case that’s ever important.”
“Pretty sweet,” Jake enthusiastically concurs. “But what about the Watchers?”
“They’ll never crack our encryption,” Marcos answers emphatically.
“Too cool for school,” Jake exclaims lost in the technology.
“You’ll notice two panic buttons, one calls 911, the other you can program to any other number. If you hit the button called ‘crew’, everyone gets notified you need help along with your current location.”
“Dario’ll be happy not to have to stand guard.”
“I can know you guys are safe whenever I want,” Preston adds.
“You Sandia savants always amaze.” Jake leans back in his chair. “Ya know, given how things are coming together, maybe we should launch.”
“Not now!” Preston insists. “Not with Watchers on our scent.”
“Don’t be a fretting Fred,” Marcos teases, “my crew ’ll keep Alverez distracted.”
“What about Miguel’s girls,” Preston pleads from a different front. “It’s our new number one priority.”
“We can do both,” Jake counters. “Wasn’t it you who suggested that strategy?
Marcos grins at Preston, “Hoisted by your own petard.”
“We can’t just idle with Alverez hovering.” Jake continues.
“Logic dictates you’re right,” Preston concedes. “It’s just the first time in the water always seems the most perilous.”
Without comment Jake gets up and walks into the tasting room. A minute later he returns carrying a tray with three tall shot glasses and a bottle of rye whiskey. He sets the tray on the table and proceeds to fill each glass. Both Marcos and Preston stand as Jake hands them a glass. Normally, Marcos would refuse but he’s trained on the ceremony being initiated. Jake holds his glass up and the others follow. “I look deep into my father’s far-away eyes and asked him why?” Jake begins.
Marcos looks down solemnly. “He stares back with the sadness of those who see and says, this is why men drink Rye.”
“I look beyond my Mother’s Siberian soul,” Jake presses. “And ask what matters most?”
“We all will die she whispers in wind,” Preston lightly replies. “Just some with purpose and meaning.”
Marcos, Preston, and Jake take a moment to consider how life brought them to right now. In synchronized motion they pour a portion of their whiskey onto the flagstone. Next, they clank their glasses together.
“К жизни жил с целью и значением,” Jake salutes, which translates to ‘Here’s to a life lived with purpose and meaning’.
“Можем все мы делать это до конца вместе,” Marcos adds, which translates to, ‘may we make it to the end together’.
“На здоровье,” Preston adds to complete their toast, which means ‘to your health’.
Even though Marcos is Mormon, he understands the moment Jake brought out the rye they were performing the toast they learned during nuclear weapon dismantlement collaborations with their Russian counterparts. Just as Marcos sets his empty shot glass on the table, both Jake and Preston’s phones ping with an incoming text message.
“Shit,” Jake stammers reading the message. He abruptly hands his phone to Marcos.
“I got the acid file,” Preston adds as he feverishly works phone buttons. Last year Dominic and Marcos developed a sophisticated encryption protocol for files that can only be read once before numerically crumbling into indecipherable bits and bytes that cannot be traced or deciphered. The other feature of acid files is that they contain quantum encryption, which prevents the Watchers from capturing the file during transmission.
“Protocol four,” Marcos says with calculating caution as he gets busy on his phone. “Doesn’t get worse than that.”
The ANA have run tests and practiced drills but there’s a huge gap between testing technology and suddenly being operational. This is the first time one of their protocols has been activated for real and they’re not sure how to react. As fate would have it, they don’t have to fret too long. With the bullish bravado of a tornado in a trailer park, Dario storms into the courtyard staggering to shake the sleep his phone’s interrupted. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, boxer briefs, cowboy boots and the worn Chicago Blackhawks cap Jake gave him. Apparently, he didn’t leave his entire arsenal with Jake because he’s also holding a Luger 9mm semi-automatic. “Update me, Doc!” Dario demands while frantically scanning the courtyard. It’s only then he notices Marcos, “shit, this can’t be good.”
Marcos smiles sardonically while handing Dario his phone to read Jon’s text message.
"Remember the party is on the 4th at the Al Azar.
Preston has the sign-up sheet."
Decoded, the message says the 4th protocol is being activated and everyone should immediately meet at the Al Azar. The second part of the message indicates Preston is managing information updates and acid files.
“I’m gonna check on Sympatico,” Dario says while bolting back into the house.
“According to the Sheriff’s report,” Preston says with a fate-filled somberness shattering their sense of sanctuary, “there’s been an incident at Miguel’s ranch.”
Before Preston can continue, Dario burst back into the courtyard in full combat mode. “Shit Doc!” he shouts while grabbing his winchester and stepping boldly into the darkness on the other side of the courtyard’s archway. “Sympatico’s not in her room!”
Preston looks up from his phone with panic-stricken worry reading the unspoken detail in his report. “A man’s been stabbed and the woman who attacked him’s dead.”
