ENEMY AT THE GATE

From the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"

Chapter 15: Enemy At the Gate

Jake snatches his birthday pistol off the table on his way to the large terracotta flowerpot just outside the tasting room entrance where Theresa strategically arranged an assortment of colorful early season flowers in a way that inconspicuously leaves an empty patch in back. He brushes away topsoil revealing a submerged box for emergency keys whose top pops up allowing Jake to position the pistol inside. He replaces the potting soil, “the Watchers won’t think to look there.” He then walks into the tasting room to deposit the bullets on a shelf below the bar. While not a long-term solution, this is Jake’s first pistol, and he doesn’t own a proper lock box; acquiring one’s a bit dicey since the Watchers no doubt monitor such purchases.

After rattling around in the back storage room, Jake emerges with a cooler of micro-brews that he carries outside just as Preston pulls up in his rust riddled Range Rover with the excessively loud exhaust due to someone stealing his catalytic converter that he’s not inclined to fix; “why” he always says, “the stinky pendejos will just steal it again.” By the time he enters the courtyard, Jake’s finished building a fresh cocktail. Preston usually is first to arrive because he values one-on-one time with Jake, which for the past few months has been almost nonexistent. “No Dario?” He observes, helping himself to beer.

“We won’t be seeing him for a while.” Jake states.

“He was doing so good.”

“Frequency’s down, but intensity’s rising.”

“Wish he’d consider counseling.”

Jake starts tossing empty beer cans from earlier this evening into a garbage can. “VA’s pretty high on his list of useless organizations.”

Theo and Jon arrive in a banged up black Subaru whose rear door won’t open on account of the great parking lot fiasco two summers ago. Theo constantly threatens to fix it, but never gets past the estimate, rationalizing that he doesn’t use the crumpled door so why spend the money?

Trailing quietly behind is Dwayne in his pristine vintage Lincoln Continental. It takes a while for him to put the top up and make his way inside, which gives Preston time to finish scanning for ease-dropping devices and Jon a chance to get his homemade jamming hardware operational.

“Whoa there ya nasty varmint,” Jon teases as Dwayne enters the courtyard, handing him a beer.

“I asked you to stop doing that?”

“If your hair was anything but red, if ya lost the handlebar mustache, and those ridiculous suspenders, my obvious reference wouldn’t apply.

“I am what I am,” Dwayne proudly states.

“Oh, so now you’re Popeye?”

“Ya know,” Dwayne fires back, “If Sponge Bob had a Jersey accent, then that’s who you’d be. Then again, anyone with a stupid-ass New Jersey accent is already clownish.”

“This from a bottom feeding Berkeley lib.”

“Guys!” Preston intervenes. “Little help here?”

Jon and Dwayne stare in silent acknowledgment they’ve razed each other enough and as part of their negotiated settlement, they pitch in setting up the large round folding table leaning against the side wall. Meanwhile Dominic glides in with his new Tesla, it’s not really new, but given that driving from Los Alamos to Jake’s is as far as he ventures, it might as well be. Armando rolls up last in his fully restored 68 Chevy pickup, one of many vintage rides he stores in the old barn behind the Al Azar. With newly installed glass-packs, dropped down suspension, and fresh metal flake paint, this valley special is built to cruise. As soon as Armando steps into the courtyard, Jon makes a dramatic point of handing Theo a five-dollar bill. “You win, Homes, mañana-man is last to arrive.”

“Just as we’re done setting up,” Theo confirms.

“Funny,” Armando smirks, “I couldn’t close until customers left.”

“Both of them?” Jon teases.

“Bite me, Cabron.”

“Alrighty then,” Jake interrupts.

Every week it’s the same nonstop shenanigans and if he doesn’t force them to be serious, they’ll screw around all night. “First of all,” he states as the last of his cohorts settle in, “thanks all of you for your help today. It was, intensely surreal. Luckily, things ended about as well as they could and as Preston properly predicted, I probably overreacted.”

“Ya think, Cabron?”

Dismissing Armando’s dig, Jake continues. “I’m also, sorry for delaying our phase two launch.” The mostly demur grumbling confirms no one’s happy. After weeks of planning their prove-in experiments and hypothesis refinements, the boys were mentally ready to initiate their high-risk, carefully choreographed plan, but rather than dwell on decisions, Jake leans forward. Even though the ANA is officially an informal organization, they’ve evolved a tradition of beginning each meeting with a preamble satirically used to create what politicians call, ‘plausible deniability,’ in case their security is ever compromised. Recently, as their subversive planning has given way to more serious, and in limited cases, preparatory actions, it’s been deemed a necessary way to remind themselves of the boundaries and operating parameters their continually evolving charter constrains.

“Gentlemen,” Jake begins, “as members of the Americans for a New America, we’re engaged in peaceful, nondestructive activities to recapture our representative democracy; to restore good governance while insuring the sovereign nation we so cherish, and have devoted our lives to protecting, is preserved. The actions we undertake are in no way intended to weaken our great nation, harm our citizens, or provide opportunities to our enemies. We are independent of any and all other organizations and doctrines, and have no goals or objectives other than those thus stated.”
“So let it be written,” Jon trumpets, “so let it be said.”

“So let it be written,” Jon trumpets, “so let it be said.”

“I never get tired of that,” Theo laughs.

“Gentlemen, please!” Jake scowls. “The hour is late, and the need large. I propose dispensing with committee reports and tabling further discussion on Dominic’s Tax-Freedom model, even though, spoiler-alert, I ran his numbers and concluded, it’s plausible.” Armando groans. “I know you and Jon are eager to present your food supply findings, but let’s save that for Thursday’s meeting. I do, however, want to keep with tradition and reflect for a moment on the profound philosophies of others who journeyed before us. Preston-.”

Preston repositions his i-pad. “Today’s moment of Zen, comes from none other than the great Roman philosopher, Marcus Tullius Cicero, who in 62 BC observed, “A nation can survive its fools -”

“Like our dumb-ass Governor,” Armando scoffs.

“Don’t forget our two brain-dead Senators,” Dwayne adds.

Preston stares sternly at his interlopers. “If I may.”

“A nation can survive its fools and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive the treason from within. An enemy at the gate is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to fear.”

“You certainly describe our dumb-ass Governor, Cabron.”

“Don’t leave out the fools in Washington?” Dominic adds.

“It begs the question,” Theo probes, “who’s the true enemy at the gate?”

Preston starts to answer, but Dominic jumps in. “Politicians of course.”

Dwayne scoffs, “it’s the oligarchs controlling the politicians.”

“Don’t forget the Watchers,” Jon adds.

“Which is why,” Preston concludes, “we must be the gatekeepers.”

“It certainly seems a noble cause.” Theo pauses to allow reflection. “Even if quixotic.”

“Come on T,” Jon grins. “Preston’s spot on.”

Theo pretends to pout unable to constrain his grin. “I’ll acquiesce to the naive chemist only because we are the enemy at the oligarch’s gate.”

“Okay,” Jake booms, “let’s not repeat last week’s meeting.”

Dwayne looks at Armando, “I ain’t owning it.”

“You smelt it, you dealt it, Cabron.”

“Guys!” Preston interjects, “Jake dragged us out at this ungodly hour for something important, at least it oughta be.”

Jake smiles at Preston. “Let me start by addressing the elephant in the room, I know delaying Phase II is disappointing, but other windows will open. The thing is, I’m not sure we even can proceed.”

The boys erupt in demonstrous frustration. Phase II launch had been meticulously planned, and their operation window not likely to reopen.

“If we don’t stop government’s attempt to catalog each American’s tolerance for social media manipulation now, how can we possibly move into Phase III on time?” Jon shouts.

“They’ve already got AI vectors based on who took the jab and who’s doing follow-up jabs,” Dominic adds.

“That’s how the German’s started,” Dwayne grumbles. “Look how that ended.”

Phase II strategy was as logically simple as it was technically sophisticated; their plan was to stealthily breach the DIA data collection center, something they’ve done before, and make subtle software modifications to yield inverse correlations in the data analysis algorithms while mismatching registration information. Success was predicated on an alignment of multiple vulnerabilities that would likely not repeat. Aborting today’s launch means they have to start over and while doing that, the Watchers grow more confident, oligarchs more repressive, and citizens more imprisoned.

“It’s not too late,” Jon campaigns. “We spent weeks queuing up that gullible reporter, and yeah he’s stupid, but we can’t re-lay breadcrumbs.”

“Agreed,” Jake concedes. “But we have a new variable; this Miguel fellow has got to be on the Watcher’s radar. Moving forward risks exposing our operation. For better or worse, as long as Sympatico’s here, Miguel and I are linked.”

“You have to get rid of her,” Dwayne coldly states.

“Dude, tell me you didn’t just say that,” Preston challenges.

Dwayne slides his thumbs along colorful suspenders with glib indifference. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“As much as I hate defending this cold-hearted Berkeley bastard, he’s right.” Jon looks at Theo. “And yes, what we’re doing matters more.”

“The needs of the many?” Theo adds.

“It doesn’t take much to see that the problems of one woman don’t amount to a hill of beans,” Jon retorts.

“Seriously Cabron, quoting Bogart?”

“Look!” Jake shouts, “I want to take these cabal bastards down as much as anyone!”

“Please,” Preston mediates, “let’s not get angry.”

“You’re God-damn right I’m angry!” Jake stares wildly in the general direction of his friends.

Armando attempts to walk Jake back from his rage. “What they did, Cabron, wasn’t right. Hell, I’m angry about what happened, but we can’t operate on emotion.”

With Jake still seething, Jon takes a go. “Allow me to paraphrase our nasty varmint, we need to help get her home before our launch window closes, win-win, right?”

“Not an option,” Jake definitively asserts.

“Why the Hell not?” Dwayne counters.

“Exactly what I asked Padre yesterday, he said I have to help her.”

As a casualty of more than one of Padre consultations, Armando shrugs his shoulders. “Well, that’s that I suppose.”

“You’re not suggesting, our entire operation grind to halt on the whims of a parish priest?” Jon argues.

Dwayne abruptly sits up aggressively clearing his throat. But before he can contribute his condemnation, Preston intercedes. “We can all concede on some level Father Paul’s right; I’m not sure of the logic, but he’s right.”

“I don’t disagree,” Dominic states, “But as heartless as it is, and as much as I hate saying it, Jon has a point and I guess by extension, so does Yosemite Sam. Her problems can’t trump our mission, our obligation’s to the nation.”

“The risks are too high,” Theo asserts. “If we’re outed, everything we’ve worked for goes down the toilet. I say we pause until she’s squared away. What say you?” Theo shoves his fist into the center of the table with his thumb up. Preston immediately extends his fist thumbs up. Dwayne hesitates before inserting his thumbs down and is quickly joined by Jon, “we have to press on.”

Dominic reluctantly votes. “I’m with Yosemite and Sponge Bob, too much is at stake.”

Jake rolls in with a thumbs up leaving the deciding vote to Armando, who reluctantly extends his uncommitted hand. He looks at his compatriots betraying no emotion, then slowly turns his fist thumbs up. “Ya can’t expect me to go against Padre.”

“Just great,” Dwayne grouses. “Revolution by consensus. Might as well be debating climate change.”

Silence shrouds the courtyard, absorbing emotions with the glutenous gusto of a black hole gobbling gravity. The thing about intellectuals though, is they don’t linger. “I know we’re on an abridged version tonight,” Dominic interjects, “but I’d like to provide a quick update on my P-factor monitoring. I wouldn’t bring it up, if it weren’t important.” To seal the deal he adds, “it’s pandemic related.” With no objections, he continues “First, the Watchers finally rolled out their much ballyhooed security enhancements.

“Whose backbone we wrote,” Theo caveats.

“I was expecting something significant, why I don’t know given the crew, but I made myself a nice Pastrami on homemade Rye and settled in for a challenge. Wasn’t even through the first pickle before I was in.”

“The swamp has many creatures, Cabron, none of whom can be called smart.”

“What about our back door?” Jon asks.

“Figured for sure they’d close it this cycle, but still wide open.”

“So, what’s up with the P-factor?” Jake impatiently prods.

“Since I had a mostly uneaten sandwich and half a glass of Chianti, figured I might as well poke around. Dario’s still hovering close to one.”

“He’s a combat vet with guns,” Jon chastises. “Of course he is.”

“True dat,” Armando adds. “The fact he’s a Catholic homie ain’t helping much either.”

Dominic looks at Jake. “You’re still solidly in quadrant two. However, since you went to church yesterday, your factor’s gotta be vectoring up. The rest of you losers are obscurely secure in the third and forth quadrants.”

“Right where we want to be,” Theo rejoices. “Lost in the morass of three-hundred and twenty million souls the Watchers don’t have the resources to watch.”

“But they will,” Jon cautions, “if we don’t stop them.”

“Especially with this pandemic passport crap,” Theo adds. “They’ll be loading first and second quandrant’s onto trains heading to concentration camps before ya know it.”

“The problem is Marcus,” Dominic refocuses. “He jumped seventeen points. Still in the fourth quadrant, but that kind of delta is gonna scream scrutiny. I’m not sure what the Albuquerque crew did, but I told them it’s code orange until things settle down.”

“Shit, guys,” Jake cautions, “we have to be careful.”

“Says the right-wing radical who went to church,” Jon teases. “Next you’ll tell us you’re stockpiling firearms.”

“Yeah man,” Theo piles on, “you hang at a disreputable homie’s bar that caters to illegals, your friends with a gun loving Corpsman frequently in fights, you run a distillery, you used to design nuclear weapons, and the crème de la crème, you led the infamous Mind’s Eye Project; you’re a walking shit-show of Watcher wampum.”

“Don’t forget he runs an illegal poker ring with a cohort of questionable nuclear weaponeers,” Preston adds.

“Or that he’s now entangled with human traffickers, Cabron.

“Or that his wife died because the rat-bastards wouldn’t treat her,” Dwayne blurts. The room abruptly shifts to silence as Jake’s dagger darts cast uncontrollable contempt. “I’m sorry,” Dwayne meekly offers in rare capitulation.

“Ya know,” Dominic ponders cutting through the tension. “With such an extensive P-factor portfolio, I need to investigate just how it is the Watchers don’t have you at a more elevated status.”

“For all we know,” Jon concludes, “they’re printing post office posters as we speak.”