HOMELAND: Falling Down (Part 1 of the HOMELAND Series) (4 page)

He walked over to one of the marchers, a bearded man in his early twenties, and asked, “What’s your name, sir.”

“Sebastian. I’m a student at New York University.”

“And why are you here, Sebastian?”

“I’m sick and tired of the corporate fat cats taking all the money, man. People are starving while they live in luxury at our expense. They’re destroying the environment. They’re killing children! They’re making slaves of us! I’m sick of it! We’re all sick of it! We are the ninety-nine percent!”

The crowd cheered in agreement. A tall blonde woman among the protestors raised a bullhorn and led the chant, “'Corporate Greed has got to go, hey, hey, ho ho! Corporate Greed has got to go, hey, hey, ho ho!”

Eduardo pushed through the press toward the woman. She made eye contact with him as he inched closer. A faint smile crossed her lips, then she was gone, vanishing into the human haystack.

Her megaphone sounded from somewhere in the mob, “Long live the revolution!”

Something overhead caught Eduardo’s eye. A spot of flame streaked over the crowd toward the police. The light hit the asphalt and shattered, splashing fire in all directions. The police tried to get out of the way as another Molotov cocktail impacted in the their midst. Then another.

The activists screamed insults at the police as the uniformed men tried to avoid immolation while maintaining cohesion.

The emboldened protestors pressed their advantage. The blue line cracked. Melee ensued. Rabid demonstrators clawed at police. Outnumbered police swung batons wildly in self-defense.

Eduardo asked Sam, “You getting this?”

“Every bit.”

Eduardo jumped in front of the lens. “The situation here in Zuccotti Park has erupted into violence.” He pointed to the struggle behind him. “Police and protestors fight tooth and nail for control of the city streets. Pandemonium reigns.”

Loud pops sent Eduardo ducking. “They’re shooting!”

The canisters landed with clunks nearby. Then the hissing cloud appeared.

“It’s tear gas! They’re gassing the crowd!” Eduardo and Sam coughed and gagged as their throats were gripped by the chemical agent.

Eduardo choked, “Go! Go! Go!”

He and Sam scrambled to safety, neither knowing which direction or how far they went.

Eduardo’s eyes, nose, and lungs felt like they were on fire. Snot and spit dangled from his tortured face. He was blinded by tears. From the sound of Sam’s gasps and grunts, Eduardo guessed that he was in the same shape. They crawled for what felt like miles on their hands and knees until the air no longer felt like acid.

“I think we’re clear,” Sam coughed, “I can breathe a little bit.”

“Yeah.” Eduardo tried to determine where they were, but his vision was like a camera lens coated in Vaseline. He pulled a bottle of water from his pack and used it to wash the sting from his eyes.

Sam choked and grunted, “Hey! Save some for me.”

“Here.” Eduardo handed him the water with a cough. “Knock yourself out.” He lay on the cold concrete, trying to catch his breath.

Sam wiped his face and blew his nose. “That sucked.”

Eduardo laughed. “Now
that’s
great TV. How’s the camera?”

Sam checked the device. “Trashed. Broke the lens on a curb I think, but who the hell knows.”

“Angie’s gonna kill us.”

Sounds of conflict still raged from the park.

Eduardo sat up suddenly. “Where’s Angie?”

He grabbed the water bottle from Sam, wet his scarf and wrapped it over his nose and mouth. Sam ripped off a shirt sleeve and did the same.

They sprinted back to the park. The police now had the upper hand. The diehards continued to fight, but the mob frayed at the edges as less dedicated members took their chance to flee into the night.

“There she is!” Sam shouted. Angie sat, dazed, leaning against a barricade.

Eduardo knelt over her. “Angie! Are you okay?”

Her glassy eyes found him. “I looked for you. Where were you?”

“They used tear gas.”

“I know.” Her words were slow and weak as if she were drunk. “I thought I was going to die.”

“What happened to you?”

“Don’t know. Something hit me on the head.” She leaned over and vomited.

Sam shined a flashlight in each of her eyes. “Poor pupil response. She’s got a concussion. We have to get her to a hospital.”

Eduardo picked her up. “Lead the way, Sam.”

Angie smiled. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

“Too bad we have to take you to the hospital. I like you better this way.”

“Did you get good footage?” she slurred.

“Yeah. Good stuff. You’ll be proud. Let’s get out of here. We’ve had enough fun for one night.”

2

COLE

Fort Campbell, Kentucky

Friday, October 30
^th

10:35 AM

It was good to be home. Well, good to be back in the States anyway. After a combat tour in Syria, his quarters were home enough. The deployment had ended suddenly. The Pentagon pulled the entire division three months early with only seventy-two hours’ notice. They were needed back in the States. Things were going to hell. He knew it was bad. Pay was two months behind and the few news reports he’d seen painted a gloomy picture back home, but it was the panicked faces he saw in the rear echelons during the return trip that told him there was more going on than the usual political bullshit.

Cole Sexton stood in the doorway of his billet, looking around the room, taking it in. It was as if he’d opened a time capsule. Everything was just as he’d left it. For a moment, he wondered if he’d really left, if the last nine months were just a nightmare. Maybe this was the dream. Maybe he was still in that place of blood and sand.

He let the heavy duffel bag slip from his shoulder to the tile floor with a dull thud as he walked to the bed. He sat on the mattress. It was softer than he remembered. Cole put his face in his hands. Four tours in seven years. So much blood. So much death. Too many friends lost. He wondered how much more he could take, what it would cost him, and how much of him would remain after paying the toll.

Someone appeared in the doorway. It was Private Hicks, a young soldier in Cole’s squad.

“Hey Sarge! We’re going to Nashville tonight. Hooters! You in?”

“Sure.” He didn’t feel like going, but it was tradition and sounded a hell of a lot better than sitting alone with a bottle of bourbon all night.

“Great! We roll in two hours!” Hicks lingered, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot.”

“What is it?”

“Uh….Sarge…I mean…Sergeant Sexton…”

“Spit it out, Hicks.”

“Could you drive?”

Cole gave a tired chuckle. “Yeah. Why not? Somebody’s gotta keep you goons outta jail.”

“Thanks, Sarge!” Hicks started to shut the door.

“Leave it open.” The crisp autumn air was a welcomed change from Syria’s dusty heat. “Hicks!” he called to the trooper as he dashed from the doorway.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Anybody that pukes in my car is a dead man.” Cole took off his shirt and walked to the bathroom. He glanced at the mirror above the sink, then looked again in disbelief. The face staring back at him was worn and haggard, far older than his twenty-nine years. His enlistment was up next month. Did he have enough in the tank for another go? What else could he do?

He had a degree in philosophy, for all the good it did him. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but looking back it wasn’t very philosophical. His only postgraduate career options were teaching philosophy or writing astute observations that no one would ever read, as he slowly succumbed to madness and substance abuse. So he enlisted. The plan was to get in, pull a quick two-year stint, and get out with a nice fat G.I. Bill to pay for his PhD. But seven years later he was still here. Somewhere along the way he decided that a true philosopher was smart enough to avoid a career in philosophy.

He stepped into the shower. The hot water bettered his mood. He felt as if it washed more than sweat and sand from him.

He had a four-day pass and had promised to drive five hours east to Freeport to visit his parents the next day. He reasoned that it was a good idea to blow off some steam before going. A little self-defilement did sound tempting after months of harsh sobriety. A night on the town was sounding better and better as grit and stress disappeared down the drain.

But he needed a nap first.

*****

Cole awoke with a start. The nightmares were back. It happened after every deployment. He checked the clock by his bed. It was 2:00p.m.

He grabbed some jeans and a button down from his closet. They were roomier than he remembered. He’d always been slim, but Syria whittled away even more of him, taking its pound of flesh and then some.

He grabbed a plastic bag from the closet floor and walked to the motor pool where deployed soldiers’ cars were secured behind chain-link fence topped with concertina wire.

The guard checked Cole’s ID card against his list. “Welcome home, Staff Sergeant,” the corporal said as he opened the gate.

“Thanks.” Cole found his Toyota Highlander easy enough. He carefully inspected it bumper to bumper. Not a scratch. He climbed in and popped the hood then retrieved several quarts of motor oil from his plastic bag. He’d drained the engine’s oil and replaced the filter before going overseas. He had also disconnected the battery and put additive in the gas tank to keep its contents from turning to sludge while he was away.

Cole reconnected the battery, put in the fresh lubricant and crossed his fingers as he turned the key. It took two tries before the vehicle woke from hibernation. Long idle belts and valves squealed in protest, but soon relented. He revved the engine. Smooth as ever. He was ready to roll.

He pulled up to the gate and the guard asked, “You goin’ off-post?”

“Yeah. Nashville. Gonna blow off some steam.”

“Better fill up before you leave the base. Gas lines in town are a bitch.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that”

As Cole left, the guard added, “Watch yourself, Sarge. Things ain’t the same as when you left.”

He pulled up to the barracks to find Hicks and three other troopers from his squad dressed to kill and ready to go. Cole smirked. “You guys look like pimp puke.” Cole rolled his window down after they piled in. “And you smell like two-dollar whores.”

Just south of Fort Campbell, Clarksville was their first real taste of home. It was a bitter one. Lines a quarter mile long flowed from filling stations selling twelve dollar gasoline. Crowds gathered outside grocery stores whose doors were blocked by squad cars with flashing blue lights.

Cole turned on the radio and caught the middle of a news update.

“— widespread riots and looting in several major cities. The President faces the difficult task of calming Americans’ fears over the financial crisis as he delivers tonight’s address to a joint session of Congress. The administration already announced this morning that all banks and trading will be closed until Monday. The President has hinted that entitlement and public assistance programs may be affected as well.” Recorded sounds of angry crowds and sirens preceded the next report. “In other news, violent riots continue across Europe in the wake of the Eurozone’s collapse. The death toll is estimated to be in the thousands as governments struggle to regain control…”

Cole turned the radio off. He wasn’t in the mood for bad news.

An hour later, they pulled off the interstate onto Broadway, the heart of Nashville’s bar district. Thankfully, everything here was business as usual. Cole found a parking spot on the side of the busy street and stepped from the Highlander. He stood on the sidewalk, soaking the place in. It felt odd, alien compared to where he’d been. The cool air, loud music, and short skirts of an American Friday night washed away what the shower couldn’t. For the first time in months, Cole relaxed. He looked to Hicks and the others. “Where too, gents?”

“Hooters!” they said in unison.

The place was lit like a Christmas tree. It must have had a hundred televisions, every one tuned to sports. The jukebox was rocking. The women were pretty. The wings were hot and the beer was cold. Prices had more than tripled since his last visit, but Cole and his crew didn’t care. It was good to be alive.

Hicks ordered a plate of their hottest wings and dared Cole to eat some. Cole knew he was too smart to be drawn into such an adolescent pissing contest, but he also didn’t feel like being called an old man. Not tonight. He ate the fiery things and kept his cool as his charges choked and gulped cold beer to ease the sting. His mouth felt like molten lava, but he’d be damned before they knew it.

As he ordered another round of brews, every TV in the place switched from sports to an emergency news update. He looked at the grim faced anchor on the nearest screen, but couldn’t hear what the man said over the din of voice and song.

The music cut off suddenly and the restaurant manager yelled, “SHUT UP! EVERYBODY SHUT UP!” He grabbed a remote and maxed out the volume of the biggest TV in the room. The scene cut to an image of the President addressing Congress. Cole remembered hearing about the speech on the radio on the way there.

The anchor’s unsteady voice said. “—happened moments ago in the Capitol.”

The audio switched to the President’s speech. “My fellow Americans. Tonight we face the most serious threat to our national security that most of us have ever seen in our lifetimes.”

Pop! Pop! Pop! The President went down. Automatic gunfire and explosions followed. Secret Service agents dove to cover the Commander in Chief with their bodies. The chamber filled with smoke as it erupted into chaos. Security rushed the President out of the room.

The news anchor spoke again. “The President’s status is unknown at this time. There is also no word regarding any other possible casualties. The Capitol erupted in flames after the attack. Firefighters are now trying get the fire under control.”

The restaurant was struck with shocked silence. A waitress began to sob. Cole said to his men, “Time to go.” He laid three hundreds on the table and went for the door as the building shuttered with a boom so violent, it was as Thor himself had struck it. Waitresses screamed. Lights flickered. Windows rattled. Then it was over.