NOT what I’m supposed to be writing, blaming this one on Lawdog…
Strong language alert! Comments appreciated, as always.
Sean ‘Mac’ McCampbell walked slowly down the hallway toward his next class, watching the two young girls in front of him. Another month or so, and they’ll be back in summer dresses and shorts. I love summer in the south! He cocked his head as he heard one of them say, “Well, I don’t know. I know Prof Hue is saying people will get extra credit on April first for attending the protests downtown. There’s supposed to be something outrageous planned.”
The other girl laughed. “You just want to meet up with that boy that does the coordination again.”
“Well, he is cute. And he’s a psyche major! But that’s not for another month, so…well, I’ve got to get my grades up. My parents are on my ass about last quarter.”
“So, no protesting for you for a month? Is that…it won’t cost you points in the prof’s class?”
Mac turned into the classroom for middle eastern history. He sighed. At least this puts a check in the block for my Ph.D. He flopped into his normal seat at the back of the room and absently scratched his left foot. Why is it I have phantom limb pain after all this time? And why the hell does it go away if I scratch that proverbial itch? Shit wasn’t supposed to continue.
As the professor droned on, Mac’s mind wandered back to what the girls were talking about. He’d been keeping a low profile ever since his acceptance in the Linguistics Ph.D program at Texas, not really associating with any of the other candidates or most of the people on campus. Part of that was PTSD, and part was that he was fifteen years older than most of them. I don’t get the rioting and the lack of police presence, or the hands off stance. I know that’s not coming from the governor, he’s called in the guard and DPS on more than one occasion. And it’s cutting into my drinking at my favorite bar on 6th street too.
The professor was expounding on the differences between Wahhabism and Sunni Islam and getting it wrong. Mack raised his hand languidly, and the professor looked over. “Yes, Mr…McCampbell? You have a comment?”
“Yes, Ma’am. You are incorrect. Wahhabism is the ultra-conservative version of Islam, pushed by the House of Saud for…I think, one hundred-fifty years now. They are the…official, for lack of a better word, religion of Saudi Arabia. Wahhabi imam’s goala are nothing less than the complete subversion of the mainstream Sunni version with a complete return to monotheism.”
“Oh really? And what makes you an expert, Mr. McCampbell?”
“I grew up there. I’ve read and studied the Koran. I saw the lifestyle from nineteen ninety up through two thousand three. I’ve traveled extensively with my parents throughout the whole region. I graduated from Gymnasium there in two thousand two. And I visited that area extensively from two thousand seven to two thousand seventeen. Iraq, Afghanistan, and a few other places.”
The professor sniffed. “Well, that’s not what my references say. So, I would like to continue without interruption, if I may.”
Mac nodded and slumped back in his seat, drifting off again. I thought last year was bad, but…the election…just turned the BS up to eleven. I need one more year to have my Ph.D, and I’m outta here. He tuned out the rest of the lecture, got up when the bell rang and collected his notes.
***
Later that evening, as he sat at the bar at Stubbs, the bartender leaned across the bar. “You a vet?” Mac nodded, and he continued, “Wondered. You act like one, but don’t have the tats or a beard, and you’re older than the normal crowd. And you’re a careful drinker.”
Mac smiled. “Habit. Never been big on getting stupid drunk. And I like BBQ. Didn’t get much of that growing up. If we were lucky, once a year when we came home. My dad loved Stubbs in Lubbock, tells stories about the bands he saw there.”
“That’s a shame.” The bartender stuck a hand across the bar. “Roger Ellington. Thirty First MEU, Marines. Got out in twenty-fifteen.”
He shook the hand as he replied, “Mac McCampbell, started out in the Army, First Seventy-Fifth, went off and did some other shit, out in twenty-eighteen on a medical.”
Roger laughed. “Other shit? Didn’t we all do that at one point?” he swiped the bar rag over a non-existent spot. “You ready for another beer, on the house?”
“I’ll wait on the food, if you don’t mind. How’s the bartending business?”
Roger shrugged. “Pays the bills. Going to school at the U. Eye candy is pretty good in this job, or was…” He looked around then added, “This whole protest BS is killing us. And the girls that come in now are…” he shuddered. “Boss doesn’t like it, but I’ve been carrying for almost a year now. We’ve been lucky so far, but I told him I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let some idiot come in and trash the place or hurt our customers. Thankfully, they’ve stayed mostly on Sixth Street.”
Mac nodded. “If it comes to that, just don’t do a Jake Gardner.”
“Oh hell no. I knew people that knew him in the Corps. Still questions about that whole deal. He was innocent, plain and simple. Lot of his friends are still pissed.” A pretty little waitress came out carrying a tray. “That goes over here, Mindy, thanks!”
She smiled and slid it in front of Mac. “Enjoy your meal, sir.”
Mac sighed. “Sir?” Then smiled at her. “Thanks, Mindy.” She pranced off, both the men enjoying the view. Mac finished his BBQ and the free beer, then headed back to his apartment well away from campus.
Logging onto his computer, he debated working on his Ph.D thesis, decided against it, and started cruising the internet, checking his usual sites. He dipped into some of the backchannel mil sites. I’ve been out for almost three years and still want to know what is going on. I guess once intel always intel… One of the sites had a post from FoG about taking back the cities. He read it, cocking his head. That’s…somebody that…sounds familiar. He/she/it is talking about basic vigilante justice. But…considering the number of DAs and police chiefs that have abrogated their responsibilities. Doing things on the down low, sneaky Pete style.
Then he remembered seeing a Stingray set up behind Sixth Street. Getting up, he went to his closet and drug out a trunk he’d buried in the back. Digging through it, he pulled out an 800Mhz packet radio and rubber duck antenna. Inserting the battery, he thought. I wonder…dammit, battery’s dead. Charger, what did I, ah ha! He plugged the charger in stuck the battery in it, and went back to surfing the net. He found a number of camera locations, printed out a map of the entertainment district, and started marking them on the map. Flipping over to the late news, he saw that there was yet another ‘protest’ in the entertainment district that was just heating up, and he decided to pay them a visit.
Mapping his way in and out to avoid cameras, he got within line of sight of the Stingray unit, turned his laptop on, and connected the packet radio to it. He did a search and found what he figured was the unit. Now to see if the back door is still open… He pinged it via the packet radio and got an answering ping. Biting his tongue, he entered an alphanumeric string and a command and sent it. The screen popped up and he thought, Yes! That time with the agency in the ‘Stans pays off once again! He sent the dump command and sat back, knowing it would take at least fifteen minutes to get whatever was on the unit. He sat back and watched through the windshield as people walked by the parking lot, keeping his eye out for anyone weaving through the cars or busting windows. A ding told him the download was complete and he quickly logged out, turned the radio off, and disconnected it, sliding everything back into his backpack.
***
Sunday night, a tired and scruffy Mac leaned back in his chair, stretched and felt his back pop. Gah, this is worse than…hell, ain’t nobody shooting at me, so it’s not that bad. He shut the computer off, took a shower, and threw the weekend’s dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Food. I need food. Pappadeaux for seafood. That works! He pulled into the parking lot a half hour before they closed and grabbed a seat at the corner of the bar where he could see the door. He ordered quickly, and sipped a beer as he waited for the seafood to come out. Conversations swirled around him, and he caught bits and pieces of the conversations. They seemed to center around the riots in various cities and the lack of response to them. There was an underlying sense of frustration and anger that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.
As he was waiting on the bill, he looked up at the TV showing the local news. The talking head was saying that one girl was blinded by lasers and another that had been beaten with a baseball bat had just died. Mac had to work to keep the monster down as he started seeing red. The waitress delivered his bill and backed away fearfully, “Are you okay, sir?”
Mac pointed to the TV. “Just saw that the…protesters blinded one girl and killed another down on Sixth Street. I’m…sorry. Not mad at you, just that this…crap is being allowed.”
He saw tears in her eyes as she said tumultuously, “That’s why I’m afraid to go out at night, and my brother picks me up from here. I’m…probably going to quit. I’m…scared!” He handed her enough for the bill and a nice tip, patted her on the shoulder and walked out the door before he said anything else.
By Thursday, he’d had enough of classes and being cooped up in the apartment and decided to go back to Stubbs. He made sure he had his LTC in his billfold, along with his driver’s license and retired ID, then loaded his 1911 and slipped it in his holster, then clipped a double mag carrier on his left side. This is…so much bullshit. He shook his head, but picked up his sawed off Mossberg and walked quickly to his truck, holding the shotgun under his coat. Once he got in, he slipped it under the seat, making sure it was readily available.
Twenty minutes later, he parked on the street in front of Stubbs. Looking carefully around, he slid out and walked quickly into the bar. Sitting at the bar, he waited for service for a few minutes, and finally caught a waitress’ eye. “No bartender tonight?”
She glanced around. “Um, Roger’ll be right here. I can’t serve you, but I’ll go get him.”
“Thanks.” He pulled a menu over, wondering why he even bothered looking, since he always got the brisket plate. Roger finally walked out of the back and around the bar like a zombie. He looked up and Mac saw that his eyes were red. “You okay, Man?”
Roger coughed, rubbed his eyes, and looked up at the ceiling, letting out a long breath. “No, I’m not, but there ain’t shit I can do.” He pulled a Shiner out of the cooler, slid a coaster over and set the beer on it. “You remember Mandy?”
Mac stopped with the beer halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”
“She’s…she’s been fucking blinded. And her friend, Lissa, was killed Friday night. The other girl with them ran, so she gets to live.”
Mac took a sip of the beer just to do something while he thought about what to say. “They were at the protest?”
Roger shook his head violently. “No! They went down there to meet some friends at the Mexican restaurant and have dinner and…they were fucking leaving! They weren’t involved at all! Those—”
Mac interrupted, “They get anybody for it?”
Roger spit behind the bar. “Hell no. Black helmet, black jacket, black fucking jeans, black fucking mask. That’s…a hundred or so of them.” He threw out his arms. “Pick one, any one. Of course APD ain’t doin’ shit as usual. They are investigating.”
“How was Mindy blinded,” Mac asked calmly.
“She said…I went and saw her yesterday, she said some dude came up and started harassing them about wanting them to say some shit, and when they wouldn’t some other dude stuck a laser in her face and shined it in her eyes before she could get her hands up. She felt Lissa, or at least she thought it was Lissa pulling on her to try to get her away, and she heard a crack, and the next thing she knew, she was on the ground.” He shook his head and said quietly, “She doesn’t know Lissa is dead. I…couldn’t tell her.” Tears rolled down his face.
Mac said quietly, “Time to put an end to this shit.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I was…mumbling to myself.”
“You want your usual? Sliced brisket plate?”
“Sure.”
***
Friday morning, Mac went in early and spent the time locating Professor Hue’s office, noting the stickers and various paraphernalia covering his door. He checked the doors on either side and across the hall and found two others with the same Antifa sentiments, Professors Long and Foster. Noting their names, he headed off to class.
His meeting with Professor Engle over his proposed dissertation in the fall had been rather heated, with the professor saying it was too complicated and he’d never get it completed, and Mac saying he knew he could complete it within a year. They finally agreed on a smaller study and the agreed title was ‘The Phonolic Inventory of Arabic compared with Najdi Arabic and Bareqi Arabic and the Rule Set for Sound Interactions.’ He was finally admitted to the professor’s office and said, “Morning, Doc.”
Engle leaned back in his swivel chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s the problem today, Mr. McCampbell?”
Mac laughed. “No problems, Doc.” He pulled out a CD, and almost bound five hundred pages. Plopping them on the desk he said, “Here’s my thesis. Done. Finished.”
Engle goggled up at him. “Finished?” He squawked. “How can you possibly be finished? You’ve only…” He reached across the desk and picked it up with some difficulty, then looked up.
“I’m sure y’all will find some things that I need to fix or clarify, but I wanted to give you plenty of time for that. I’m planning on being gone by December. Is there anything else, Sir? I do need to go to class.”
“Uh…um…no.”
Mac spent the next hour of the class on Middle Eastern history reviewing the take from Stingray and plotting the phones on Google maps. Interesting…three…controllers in a single location, two blocks back at the edge of the district, four lookouts scattered two blocks further out on the main streets…warning for cops? Probably. And one, no, two moving up and down sixth. Those must be the front managers. I need to see if the data from last Friday night is still on the system. Once an intel geek, always an intel geek. He closed the file when the professor started talking about the upcoming test and quickly took notes on that.
Eight hours later, he sat in the same parking lot, cursing as he pulled the take from the Stingray and saw that it only had two days’ worth of data. He headed back to campus, parked at the library, and used their connectivity to connect to the dark web. Six of the phone numbers came up as probable burner phones, but surprise of surprises, two of the co-located phones were listed to Long and Foster. Now who’s the third with the burner phone? Since he was already connected he checked some of the mil sites, and saw another message in one of the groups from FoG about intercepts of plans for massive protests on the first of April. Who the hell is that. I…know that style! Agency or ODA? Or…Nah…he wouldn’t be that stupid, or would he?
He backtracked the IP address and sent a plain text- GHOSTRIDER REQ U COME UP RED. He quickly logged off and went back to his apartment, looked in the fridge and settled for a tuna fish sandwich on the two heels of bread he had left. He drank the last beer in the fridge with it and vowed to go to the store tomorrow.
