Predators

"What role did the church play in his life?"

"We went several nights a week, because he seemed to enjoy it so."

"What about your parents? Did your father play with you, with your feet?" Rutherford asked, and the woman had simply turned, looked away.

Look away. Turn away. Let your impulses control you -- never take control of them. Let other people control you, until there was nothing left of your life to control. That was the universal constant she found in that instant, and it reinforced all her earlier thinking.

So his crime had been part of a cycle, but Anne now suspected cycles like these were always involved. Sniffing feet, like a dog or any other predator might, was so obvious, too full of unexplored irony, but cycles of inverted lust weren't that obvious, and control for control's sake wasn't ironic. She saw this man's love, his seriously perverted love, had developed in a youth spent surrounded by the trappings of religious order, yet such order was little more than delusion absent real understanding of both the self and the institutional order's purpose. His mother's serialized abuse helped create a new, unholy trinity, but what interested Rutherford most was how seemingly 'normal' the man's upbringing was -- from a distance, anyway. She had been on the street long enough to realize his upbringing was far from unusual, and that just a few key differences in his mother's behavior might have changed the outcomes of an endless stream of broken lives. But because she was just part of a longer cycle playing out over time, she'd never been aware of her own role in the drama.

She returned to Washington after that and began a graduate program in psychology at Georgetown, more intent than ever of understanding the dynamics of these cycles, to unearth key differences between what might be 'normal' and what led to criminal psychopathology, yet her professors seemed resolutely uninterested in this line of inquiry.

Try Sociology, one of them told her, and so she had.

When she wasn't working on cases, she went to prisons and interviewed inmates. She went to seminaries and interviewed seminarians. She went to her husband's clubs and participated in their trivial, acted-out predations, yet she did so from then on more as an observer, as someone interested in questions she perceived in these activities, not just the answers intuited in the needs and counter needs of play-acted passion. In the end she saw, in all these settings, women and children as victims of a peculiar, predatory lust -- and she saw no way out of this dilemma going forward. Nothing would change for women and children if the status quo remained, because everything was locked in ancient cycles of need and lust, passed down from generation to generation. And this was a lust defined by men. A broken need that had become a self-perpetuating cycle of broken dreams and endless despair.

And yet, she soon discovered she was not alone in this thinking. She met other women running up against the same hard wall. Women who too often had been victims, and often enough, women who helped victims trying to cope. She kept note of these contacts, and over the years she was staggered at the tally, of just how many women, victims, she had met.

Then she began to reach out to a powerful few, to discuss the framework of an idea...

So, as like-minded women, these women met for years and discussed the problem, and in time they met and planned ways they might change the system. Physicians, nurses and social workers. Women in Congress, women in law enforcement and the military, women in academia and journalism. They met and planned at retreats across the country, and at mundane political gatherings, where like minded acolytes were first identified, then recruited. An initial network of less than a hundred mushroomed into thousands, then the tens of thousands, and still they planned.

The original group integrated with smaller sub-groups around the country. Groups that almost always included wealthy, politically connected men. Groups that her husband had once belonged to. Clubs, little play-acting clubs, with play-acted control the goal. And soon she had the means, and quite suddenly, to co-opt larges numbers of politically influential men all around the country. It didn't take long for the group to realize that the same architecture could be applied globally, and so they spent a few more years putting a larger network in place.

Then He came along. The latest president. The "pussy grabber," the man who'd allegedly raped a 13 year old girl, then had his thugs threaten her with death when she decided to press civil charges. His election was a galvanic moment for the organization, and things began to move rapidly after that.

So -- one day they decided to act, and they found a perfect first target. A pedophile mixed up with Mexican drug runners who liked to make snuff videos, who lived in Dallas, Texas, and she decided to commit her protégé to this endeavor. To infiltrate law enforcement at the highest levels of the investigation, to mask the group's activities for as long as possible.

And Genie Delaney had gone to Dallas willingly, had complete access to all the information being developed by the Dallas Police Department. She met with Delaney several times, and a key member of the department was identified for contact. A lanky, motor-jock who had flown for the Air Force, a kid named Ben Acheson.

Delaney was assigned to get as close as she could to him, to gather information that could be used to compromise him -- when and if the time came.

And then some fuck-up shot Delaney, and all their plans started to unravel.

And Anne Rutherford experienced the last epiphany of her life.

+++++

She was sitting on a patio at a seaside estate in Estoril, a huge stone patio overlooking the sea, and she was looking at two Russian colonels and their mistresses. They looked like whores, and she laughed a little. 'Well, maybe that's because that's exactly what they are,' Rutherford said to herself. 'They're just like me, so who would know better?'

She had her Iridium on the table in front of her, and it chirped once, so she looked at the display, then signed on and took the call.

"Hello," she said -- tentatively.

"Anne?"

"Genie?"

"Yes. I got your message."

"I've found Ben."

"Oh?"

"He's in a Russian POW camp, north of Lisbon."

"What?"

"He's in a make-shift hospital there, and I've heard he has a badly broken leg. I'm trying to get the Russians to let us get it fixed."

"Us?"

"Several of our people are here, have been since the election. Anyway, I think I've convinced a colonel to take me with him on an inspection tour of the POW camps, north of the city. Do you want me to pass along a message?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Oh?"

"Look, it's bad here. Ben's grandfather is sick...well, what can I say. Cattle are falling over in the fields, too much radiation in the grass, in the rain that's falling, and there's no more fuel so we can't drive into town, and anyway, there's nothing left, even if we could."

"The grocery stores...?"

"Bare shelves. Satellite radio was our last link to the outside, but they went off the air yesterday."

"How are you?"

"I've been vomiting blood all morning. Does that answer your question?"

"Genie, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? Well, I guess that's something."

"I know."

"Do you? I wonder? Knowing what you know now, if you could go back in time, would you do it all over again?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I knew you'd say that. Funny, I guess."

"Funny? No, that's not the word I'd use. Inevitable is a word that comes to mind. Non-sustainable is another. Maybe we just sped things up a little."

"Wow, you really are a true believer, aren't you?"

"Yes. We could have kept going down the same road, maybe another generation, maybe not, before things fell apart..."

"And you got to make that call?"

"It wasn't just me, was it? I recall you were all for it, too, along with a few thousand like-minded people. Before you fell in love with Ben, anyway."

"I know," Genie said, quietly. "Like any other cult member, I guess. In the end it all comes down to brainwashing, doesn't it?"

"Maybe. But political parties and their handmaidens in the media have been doing that for the last fifty years. We just took it to the next level."

"Inevitable, huh?"

"Yes, I think so. Any idea how long people over there have?"

"In this part of Texas, two weeks. Maybe three. Average exposure in town is now over 300 rem. Last word we had was the major cities in Texas are silent now, but Houston was flattened on day one. Something like four large hydrogen warheads. There was one on the west side of Fort Worth, to take out an aircraft plant there, and San Antonio took a direct hit according to one report, but all our fallout is coming from the west coast. I can't even begin to imagine what happened out there."

"Any snow yet?"

"Yeah. Some."

"How about power?"

"Ben's grandfather put in solar a few years ago, even a small wind generator. There's enough power to keep the lights on."

"Any news, anything on the internet?"

"Nope. It's down. Everywhere, as far as I can tell."

"Yes, it is here, too. Are you sure there's nothing you want me to pass on to Ben?"

"There's no need, Anne. You couldn't tell him anything he doesn't already know."

"Anything I can do for you?"

"I don't know. Can you make it all go away? Like this was all just a bad nightmare?"

"If I could. What about Ben's...?"

"The Duke? Carol? They're here, he drove us out..."

And the line went dead a moment later -- though whether intentionally or by happenstance, she had no way of knowing.

Now, she had one more call to make.

+++++

She saw the Gaz Tigr as it turned onto the ramp, as the Russian behind the wheel turned for the C-17, then, as it drove by, she could just see Ben in the passenger's seat.

"You go now," the GRU colonel said to her, shoving her towards the aircraft.

She nodded her head, walked towards the Tigr as it stopped by the aircraft, and when she saw Acheson climb out her heart soared. He was walking, with a cane, but he was walking on his own, and he almost seemed surprised when he saw her walking his way, but in the end he ignored her, walked up to the code panel on the C-17 and entered a code -- and she saw Piskov walking up from behind, a pistol drawn.

"Ben," she called out, "was that stuff you told me about a delayed detonation code for real?"

Acheson turned, saw Piskov, and Rutherford -- and he smiled at her 'head's up.' "Five hour delay, as promised."

"What's this?" Piskov said, clearly not believing what he'd just heard.

"Oh, come on, Leo," Ben said. "We know all you want is access to the birds so you can try and get to Kentucky, but there's no way this aircraft is going to get anywhere near the coast. Besides, just how many more bombs do you think you need to drop?"

"We will stop bombing your country when your country stop bombing ours?"

"Oh? When's the last time our country bombed Russia?"

"We hear there are preparations underway for massive strike, right here in Europe."

"Oh. I wonder who would spread a rumor like that?"

"Rumor, truth, does not matter now. Duty all we have left."

"Duty to what, Leo?"

"To the homeland."

"Ah. Well, good luck with that, Leo. Really. Now, are you going to shoot me, or let me load up our injured and get them on their way home?"

"But you just say you will not be allowed to US airspace. You think I am fool? All of us?"

"Why yes, Leo, now that you mention it, I do think you are fools, all of you. All of us, for that matter. And do you know why, Leo? Well, let me tell you anyway, Leo, because I'm pretty sure you're too stupid to figure this one out on your own. You're a fool, all of you are fools, for thinking you could win a nuclear war. You're fools for wanting to believe the same old propaganda Stalin used, lies to sell fear. You're fools even now for believing that same old bullshit, that we're getting ready to plaster good old mother Russia with another wave of atomic horse manure. You are, in fact, Leo, a race of fools, and it was humanity's misfortune to end up on the same planet with a pack of fools like you."

"God damn you to Hell. What make you think you so different than us? Righteous superiority, no? Maybe you want me shoot in face now? Save all pain?"

"You know what, Leo. You are absolutely correct. I'm a fool, all Americans are fools. Everyone who has ever thought they could build these goddamn bombs -- and use them -- is a fucking fool. But you know what, Leo? Your illustrious leaders sold your people on an idea. That Russia could win a nuclear war, and in my little corner of the universe, that makes you the biggest fools of all."

"Good. I shoot now. Right in balls, little coward!"

"Fine with me, Leo, but there's a quarter kiloton nuclear warhead ticking down right now, and it's going to go off, right here, in just about five hours."

"You bullshit. No such thing, and we know it."

"Yeah, sure Leo, just like you know you can win a nuclear war. But don't take my word for it. Come here, look at the display."

Piskov walked over, looked at the display. "So, countdown timer. Big deal. Could mean anything."

Ben went to the panel, hit the audio annunciator button, and a woman's voice filled the air around the door.

"You now have four hours, fifty-six minutes to self-destruct. The minimum safe distance from this device is fifteen miles."

"What is this mother fucker bullshit!" Piskov screamed.

"Leo, it's not bullshit. It's a point two five kiloton fission warhead, and it's going to go off in a few hours, right here, too. I'd suggest you get in that little jeep of yours and beat feet out of here."

Piskov stepped close, put the Makerov to his forehead. "You disarm now!" he screamed.

"Sorry, Leo. Once it's armed there's no way to stop it without getting airborne. And oh. If you shoot the panel, the bomb goes off. No delay. It just goes off."

"You shitting on me?"

"Well, let's not go overboard, Leo. After all, we hardly know one another."

"What?"

Acheson was grateful Rutherford turned away, hid her laughter as well as she did.

"Leo, honest Indian. No bullshit. Now, can we get my people loaded. I want to get out of here."

"But, where you go?"

"Well hell, Leo, this is the Marrakech Express. We're going to Morocco, in case you want to come along."

"Open ramp. We load now, but you go Lajes. Understand?"

Ben went to the panel and entered another code; lights came on, doors whirred open. Russians frog-marched the ground chief and loadmaster over, took off their hand-cuffs and ankle shackles -- then walked away as fast as they could.

"Chief, go wake up my airplane, would you?"

"Sir, did you really arm that warhead?"

"Yes, Chief, I did. Now, let's hop to!"

"Yessir!"

"So, is no bullshit."

"No bullshit, Leo."

"Hmmph."

"My thoughts, exactly."

"You think you pretty funny, no?"

"No funnier than you, Leo. And you're a very funny man."

The man turned, began walking off and muttered: "Fuck you, and your mother, too."

"No thanks, Leo. Trying to quit. Causes cancer, in case you haven't heard."

Piskov stopped in his tracks, shook his head, then started walking again.

Rutherford walked over and stood beside him, took his hand in hers. "You know, I wonder. Is he really that fucking stupid, or was he acting."

Acheson shrugged, then looked at her. "You have any idea where we can go?"

"Yup," she said, grinning. "You know me, always plan ahead."

Trucks began backing up the loading ramp, then troops helped carry the injured up onto the cargo deck -- which was, thankfully, still set up with standard Medevac beds, respirators and IV pumps. The loadmaster came up, asked Acheson if he had any special orders, and Ben told him to make sure the men were strapped in tight, because it was going to be a bumpy ride.

The loadmaster walked away shaking his head, wondering how the hell the pilot knew that.

Acheson walked up the forward steps and then up to the flight deck, and he confirmed entries on the code panel, released a safety -- and only then went to his seat. A minute later someone claiming to be a Marine F-35 pilot came up and asked if he could be of help, and Acheson looked at the man -- who appeared uninjured -- and asked where he was from.

"Mississippi," the man said.

"Oh? Where'd you go to school?"

"Ole Miss."

"Yeah? How 'bout them Buckeyes?"

"Yeah, they had a good year, didn't they?"

"Better than you, Ivan. Take a hike."

A few minutes later a heavily bandaged pilot came huffing and puffing into the cockpit, and he looked at the overhead panel and sighed. "Someone tells me there's an airedale up here who don't know how to fly real good, and shit, I thought bein' a Naval Aviator and all, and therefore, by definition, a better pilot that any goddamn Air Force puke that ever lived, maybe I ought to come up here and see if I could give away some free airplane drivin' lessons."

Acheson turned and looked at the man. "They take the training wheels off your Tomcat yet, hot shot?"

"Tomcat? Man, where you been the last twenty years?"

"With your mother, drilling her in the can."

"She gettin' any better at it?"

"Howdy. My name's Acheson. You?"

"Bond. James Bond."

"Right."

"You know, I'm just as fuckin' sorry as I can be, but my grandfather's last name was Bond, and so was my Dad's. And I can't fuckin' help it if they both liked Ian Fucking Fleming. Alright? Any questions?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, man. Say, what are all them-thar buttons up there for?"

"Oh, those operate the in-seat dildo dispenser. Don't touch them unless you want hemorrhoids."

"Oh, right. Heard about them things. Must be an airedale thing." Bond said as he tried to slip into the seat. "Yeow. I hurt in places I didn't even know I had."

"What happened?"

"Ejected -- at Mach 1.3."

"Never done that. Is it as fun as I hear?"

"Funner. Man, this looks like an MD-11."

"Kind of, but don't let looks fool you. You flown commercial?"

"Nope. My dad did."

Acheson heard someone close by, turned and saw Piskov standing in the cockpit door.

"You decide to come along for the ride, hot shot?"

"I come tell you your men are loaded. You now leave any time."

"Oh, well, I'll come down and see you off."

"I go with you."

"What?"

"I stay. You hide me."

Ben looked at Piskov, saw the pleading look in his eyes. "Why? Leo, why?"

"I fail. I think. I think they kill me."

"Chief," he called to the ground chief on the intercom, "I need you to give me a hand with something up here."

"Sir?" the airman said.

"Think you can hide this guy somewhere?"

"Uh...yessir."

He walked aft to a foot locker sized metal box the Russians had placed on the cargo deck, then he went over and closed the ramp. When it was closed he turned to the loadmaster and smiled: "Help me open this, would you?"

They worked for a minute, then busted the lock and opened the case.

"What is it, sir?"

"Small nuclear warhead, would be my guess."

"No shit?"

Acheson looked at the control panel, then felt someone coming up from behind. He turned, saw Rutherford standing there. "You don't happen to know any Russian, do you?"

"Of course."

"Don't tell me. Harvard?"

"You have to ask?"

"Silly me, of course you did. Mind telling me what this says?"

"Push here, then kiss your ass goodbye."

"Thanks. Try again?"

"The green button is a timer set/reset button. Yellow is arm. Red is detonate now...like I said, kiss your ass..."

"Okay, I got it. And it's set for eight hours and ten minutes right now?"

"That would be my guess -- yes."

"So, to reset to five minutes, looks like we hit the green reset button," he said, punching the button, "then turn this dial to five minutes. Next, to begin the countdown again, hit the green button again, then hit yellow to arm the bomb, then you should have five minutes to get the fuck out of Dodge. That about right?"