Deadline Man

***

Fitz threads his way back to the freeway in an ebullient mood, mostly telling stories about me from the Army. They called me the PVLT—permanent virgin lieutenant—because I couldn’t get a date.

“You should have stayed in the Army,” he says. “You missed the ‘we came, we saw, we kicked their ass’ days.”

“And how many times have you been to Iraq?”

“That came later. A charlie foxtrot from on high.” A clusterfuck. “Anyway, you had to go off to right all the wrongs in the world, become the big-time columnist.”

“Yeah, some big-time columnist. I’m probably out of a job. Can’t get anybody who’ll pick up what I write. Maybe I’ll reenlist.”

“We’re desperate, but not that desperate.” He cackles with a high screech. “Anyway, you think you got a story now?”

“I’m getting there. It’s interesting that everything I see connected with this story has no people, except for the assassination team that was after my ass. Two paper mills that are supposed to be open are closed. ODS’s office out in the suburbs turns out to be a broom closet without even a nameplate on the door. Now, the prison complex that’s not really a prison, but it’s deserted.”

He makes his rumbling “mmmmmm” sound. “That empty training site back there? They’ve deployed those people somewhere.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Like I told you, the early years of the Bush administration were really good for the private contractors. Then things got tougher. With the deficit and the new administration, hell, finally more pushback from the brass—the gravy train has slowed down. And it’ll keep slowing down, contracts keep drying up, unless there’s an event.”

The sun breaks through making the cab warm but my legs go cold. “Event?”

“Think about it,” Fitz says. “What happened after 9/11? The whole country goes ape shit. The contractors make billions. What happens if there’s another event? Maybe that’s your eleven/eleven. And these Praetorian assfucks are deployed and ready to go as a paramilitary force to restore order. It happened with Blackwater after Hurricane Katrina. It wouldn’t surprise me if there are much bigger contingency plans out there. Maybe a contract has already been let. Top secret, of course.”

“Can I quote you?”

“On background. Call me a high-ranking intelligence officer.”

“You’re a light colonel.”

“Heavy enough to order around where your butt used to rank. Call me what you want, but leave my name out. I know these contingency contracts exist for homeland security, even for operating detention facilities if there’s major civil unrest in the homeland. ‘Homeland,’ my ass. Sounds like Nazi Germany. It’s a permanent state of war, baby, a permanent state of fear. And I can’t even imagine how much money they’ll make.”

It’s not long before we’re swallowed up by the city and a long traffic jam, which we mostly endure in silence. Finally, he swings the truck under the motel portico and I prepare to get out. We exchange a firm handshake, but he pulls me over and gives me a quick hug.

“Take care of yourself.”

“Do my best,” I say.

“What are you going to do?”

“All I know how. Write the story. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll work it from my end. Who knows what’s already set. Your girlfriend’s daddy, the spook, seems to know something. It’s going down.”

“I’ve got to get back to the Northwest in a hurry,” I say. “Can’t wait for the bus or train. But my FBI friend told me not to fly.”

Without a pause, he says, “I can fix that. You sure that cell phone’s secure?” I nod. He says, “Then I’ll be in touch later today.”

I climb down, wishing I could borrow the high-tech shotgun. The truck is coated in dust.

He says my last name. “You were a good soldier, you know.”

“I would never have been accepted by you West Point snobs.” I smile at him.

“You still got that

chip on your shoulder, but you know that’s bullshit. Your only problem was you were too sentimental.” Wrinkles furrow his dark skin. “You’d better think about that if you meet up with your killer threesome again. Yucatan, baby.” He laughs his long, infectious cackle.