“Hurricane Charlaine,” Van said. The late-July storm had slammed into Tybee Island and raged into the port of Savannah. The damage was so bad that the governor was calling a special session to fund the clean-up.
Van explained, “It’s yellow because the disaster is still in progress. Red Sky is part of Situational Awareness. Different branches have different levels of access. This room is the hub of the Incident Management System. If a big storm is being tracked, or there’s a critical health crisis or a terrorist attack, every desk is filled. Like, yesterday, this room was packed to the walls. We’re talking north of one hundred people. Scientists, specialists, doctors, military liaisons, Watch Staff. There’s a direct link to the White House, Pentagon, NORAD, Alice Station, Menwith Hill, Misawa, Buckley—all your SIGNIT from ECHELON goes into the portal. The Global Incident Team sends data directly into these monitors so real-time assessments can send people and resources where they’re needed.”
Faith gave a solemn nod, pretending like this Jason Bourne shit didn’t thrill the hell out of her. She was dying to take out her phone and grab some photos.
Van said, “It’s some cool shit, right?”
She shrugged. “Unless you’re on the coast and still boiling your water.”
Van held open another door for her. A row of small lockers lined the wall. At the end of the hall was a closed door with a red light overhead. “You ever been in a SCIF?”
Situational Compartmented Information Facility.
“Yes,” Faith lied. She had seen one of the ultra-secure rooms on The Americans, so that had to count for something.
Van took his cell phone out of his pocket and placed it inside one of the lockers.
Faith opened her messenger bag. She had more than a cell phone. Her laptop and iPad had to be stored, because no electronic devices or anything that could record any information was allowed inside of a SCIF.
“I always forget my watch,” Van said, taking off his Garmin.
Faith unbuckled her Apple Watch. She felt nervous, because it was starting to sink in that she was inside one of the most secure facilities in the country and now Van was taking her into an even more secure location.
Michelle Spivey had top-secret clearance. Faith had to think that somehow, Amanda had managed to get Faith a read-in on whatever project the scientist had been working on before she was abducted.
The IPA didn’t snatch Michelle out of a parking lot because she studied whooping cough.
“Ready?” Van pressed a green button on the wall.
There was a loud buzz, then the door opened. They went inside. The thunk from the door closing was like a vault sealing shut. Another buzz cracked the air. A red light over the door started to roll like the light on top of a police cruiser.
Faith took a deep breath. The air felt weirdly muffled. The room was bare bones, just six chairs around a conference table and a clock on the wall.
A young woman sat at the head of the table. She was wearing a Navy Service Khaki uniform with no name tag and colorful bars that Faith could not identify. Her glasses were thick. Her dark hair was cut short. She was the worst kind of young—the type of young that made Faith feel old. She was clearly so damn happy to be here, as eager and wide-eyed as Baby Jack-Jack. She had several folders stacked in front of her. She grinned at Van. Lipstick was smeared on her teeth.
Van rubbed his own teeth to let her know, which was incredibly decent of him.
He told Faith, “This is Miranda. Miranda, this is the agent I told you about.”
Faith assumed that was it for introductions. She sat down at the table.
Van took the chair beside her.
Miranda said, “Okay, so what factor or factors have historically led to upticks in membership in white supremacist groups?”
Faith was immediately lost. She tried to make a connection to Michelle. The woman was married to an Asian-American doctor. They had chosen to have a child that reflected their heritage. “She was targeted because of her family?”
Miranda gave Van a confused look. “I’m sorry, who was targeted?”
Van shook his head. “Different topic for a different day. Keep going.”
“Okay.” Miranda took a moment to adjust. “Okay. So, the popular wisdom is that more people join white supremacist groups in response to a sudden influx of immigration, or economic downturns, right? The harsh monetary reparations in the Treaty of Versailles. The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. Operation—excuse me—Wetback.”
“Hold on.” Faith needed a moment, too. She was having a hard time following the shift in direction. This meeting wasn’t about Michelle Spivey. It was about the Invisible Patriot Army.
A white supremacist group.
“Let’s back up.” Faith had to talk it out so her brain could understand. “You’re saying that membership in these racist groups surges because the economy goes into the toilet, jobs are scarce, people look around for someone to blame and—”
“Not so fast.” Miranda opened one of her folders. She placed a black-and-white photograph in front of Faith. A guy in a dark suit was leaning on a desk with a Sherlock Holmes pipe in his mouth. His hair was bouffanted into a classic Clark Kent. The photo was clearly from the 1950s.
Miranda said, “George Lincoln Rockwell. Founder of the American Nazi Party.” She put down another photo of another white guy “Richard Girnt Butler, founder of the Aryan Nations.” She kept dealing out photos. “Thomas Metzger, leader of the White Aryan Resistance. Frazier Glenn Miller, White Patriot Party leader. Eric Rudolph, linked to the Army of God and Christian Identity Movement.”
Faith was still lost, but at least she knew enough to say, “Rudolph is the Centennial Olympic Park Bomber.”
“Right. He also targeted abortion clinics and a lesbian nightclub.” Miranda added a photo of Timothy McVeigh. “Oklahoma City Bomber.” The next photo came down. “Terry Nichols, McVeigh’s accomplice. What do all of these men have in common?”
Faith was too confused for the Socratic Method, so she narrowed it down to one man. “I know about Eric Rudolph because most of his attacks were in Georgia. He confessed to four bombings. He pled guilty to murdering a police officer. He worked as a carpenter. He was anti-government, anti-gay, anti-woman, anti-abortion. He denies any association with the Christian Identity Movement, though he lived on a compound with his mother when he was a teenager. After Rudolph was put on the FBI’s 10 Most Wanted list, his brother videotaped himself cutting off his own hand with a radial saw to send a message to the FBI.”
“Seriously?” Miranda was thrown by the last piece of information. “What happened to his hand?”
Van said, “Went to voicemail. FBI didn’t get the message.”
Faith realized something. “Rudolph was in the Army, right? He went through Fort Benning. They discharged him for smoking weed. And—” Faith pointed to McVeigh. “He was in the Army. He was awarded the Bronze Star during the Gulf War. He washed out of Special Forces.” She tapped Terry Nichols’ photo. “The Army gave him a hardship discharge after a few months. He couldn’t hack it.”
“Yep-yep-yep.” Miranda excitedly slid the images around. “Rockwell was a naval commander in World War Two and Korea. Butler was in the Army Air Corps. Miller was in Vietnam.” She had more photos—men in white hoods, men with swastika armbands, men with their hands raised in a Nazi salute. “Helicopter gunner in Vietnam. Retired Army lieutenant colonel. Air Force staff sergeant. Coast Guard Reserves.”
“Wait a minute.” Faith had to stop this. “My brother’s been in the Air Force for the last twenty years. He can be an asshole, but he’s not a fucking Nazi.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Miranda said. “Look, I’m not bashing the military. My family has been at the tip of the spear since the Spanish American War. I’m Navy, but I’m also a statistician, and I can assure you that mathematically, these men are outliers. You have to consider the numbers. In any large group, there are going to be a certain number of bad actors. Teachers, doctors, scientists, police officers, dog catchers. There are always bad seeds. So, extrapolate that to the military. Between active and Reserve, there are almost two million service members. If you take even half a percent, that’s—”
“Ten thousand people.” Faith gripped the edge of the table. She wanted to stand up and leave the room. “You need to draw some hard lines between these dots for me. I don’t like any of these implications.”
“Neither did Congress,” Van said. “A team at the Department of Homeland Security generated a paper on the white supremacist movement inside the military and they not only lost their funding, they were forced to retract their findings.”