//------------------------------// // 1. Overt Operation // Story: That Maverick With The Dog // by Dan The Man //------------------------------// Chapter 1 - Overt Operation (You may want to play this) It was another glorious summer's morning that blessed the countryside of golden crop fields and mighty green brushes, only to be interrupted by a lone tractor harvesting the fields and patches for its rich goods every so often. The sun was orange, and the leaves were green, just as any good June morning should be. But I simply tapped away on my car's resting steering wheel in a fit of mild frustration, disappointed at the prospect of resting in the nutmegs' shades for another eternity. I had been sitting there for four fricking hours, concentrating solely on that dirty, earthen strip of dust and sand that formed an obscurely coarse driveway. The one that ran from the tiny country lane not fifty metres downhill (the one that ran alongside the foamy brook), all the way up to the old white farmhouse with that lordly front porch and the magnificent garden. My dark green Sedan I had parked at the roadside, behind a couple of lush nutmeg trees and a desolate old ruin that seemed to have been the farm's godown some hundred years ago. That way, nobody could possibly see me when heading down from the farmhouse. Sadly, there was indeed nobody heading down in the first place, no matter how hard I wished for someone to finally emerge from the property grounds. I just sat and tapped, tapped and sat, feeling how the boredom got the better of me. It wasn't too hot sitting inside the car that point of the day; the air was still cool and a periodical lowering of the windows flushed the interior with a fresh breeze of air and the smell of forest and moss, with a small hint of manure. Because that's what you get when you are in the mellow county. And the man who owned the lagged old farmhouse knew that too, probably. There must be a reason why he refused to leave his damn home half of the day. It was too damn nice. Whatever had led him into this hopelessly isolated countryside, it probably had something to do with the view one got from the slight elevation that the house resided on, surrounded by a billowing sea of oats and wild, greening meadows. The steaming jug of black tea that stood on my dashboard had been waiting to have its contents devoured by my bloated, throbbing throat. Tea, so I found, was still the best cure against the allergy that haunted me every warmer day of the year. I picked the mug and put it on my pillion, determined to wait a few more minutes so I would have more for later. Moving the dossier out of the mug's way, I placed the latter on the seat and kept the former right in my hand. I was just curious, and took another look at what was written in there. The leaves of paper that were clamped to the inside were a fairly simple affair. A typical personal file. What made this one so special was that it showed whom I was supposed to keep an eye peeled for today. The photograph of my target person pretty much summed up everything I knew about him already. Short, unkempt brunette hair. Meek unshaven chin. Low aquiline nose. Sorry brown eyes. Accompanied by gaping ashen eye-rings. Clad by a skin with a strangely unhealthy, grey colouring. A tragic figure, from what I could tell. This was one guy who was not content with life. Quite the opposite, really. A profile of a man who was sick of life. Bored. Frustrated. Unsuccessful. Aimless. His name was Brian. Brian Fisher. They wrote he wasn't always the lonely country lad he was now. In fact, he was a Fort Pleasance native. Fort Pleasance, really? What a shithole of a town. Seriously, if I would have had the misfortune of being born there, I would be pretty pissed off with life as well. This boy was a ghetto product. A very, very sad way to start out with life. I took another look at his personal section. Age: 36 (*1990) He was born and raised even before the great industrial boom that Fort Pleasance experienced when Gladwell Inc. moved in. Fort Pleasance was even more miserable then than it was now. 29% unemployment, crime rate 500%,... this kid must have had a miserable childhood. Occupation: agriculturalist - Private Mercantilist , Woolworth - Cashier (quondam; 38 months) A supermarket cashier, one of the few jobs available in a dying town like Pleasance. He wouldn't have been too affluent when he was still living back there. On the other hand, who was supporting him anyway? Relatives: Gregory Fisher (parent; deceased, 1959-2010), Mary Fisher née Sandstrom (parent; deceased, 1961-2010) Ouch. He was barely over his legal age when they died. In the same year, no less! To call this man's life miserable would be an insult to Victor Hugo. Brian's life must have been awfully bleak before moving to the countryside. Criminal Record: N/A Now, that is one rarity among the Fort Pleasance folks. Not to have a criminal record, that is. How did this man manage to stay a law-abiding citizen his entire life? Especially without any living relatives or a safe job? He must have had a lot of time spent with something else than criminal activity. I shut the document again and pulled the black elastic strap over it. I had seen enough. I didn't really need to have seen him personally to know what things he went through. He was a bright penny in school, achieving high grades, even among his class. But as a son of two workers - white trash, some call them - he was anything but destined to get a proper University education. He, just like the generations before him, proceeded to shrivel and rot in the terrace house morass of one of the poorest cities east of Bayneck. Technically speaking, he has the perfect profile for someone I am employed to seek out. Brian was intelligent. Brian was poor. Brian was introverted. Brian was a maverick. Brian was depressive. But was Brian... a terrorist? --- It was the 26th of October, 2014. An explosion rocked the Fort Pleasance suburb of Richmond. Electricity in a radius of four kilometres simply seized to function; a city-wide power failure ensued, as well as a fire in a near coal power plant. Four thousand individuals, civilians and law enforcement officers alike, bore witness to a brightly coloured, monumental, mushroom-like cloud plus pressure wave galloping over the skies of the city, shattering windows and glassware. The epicentre of the detonation could be traced back to a large green in the district's heart, an outsized empty site that cut through the row house settlements like a dagger through flesh; Chapel Park. A rallying point for little more than hobos and junkies. Even the pickpockets had left for city centre some time ago due to the lack of passer-bys. For some reason, the population shunned the park's premises whenever they could. This was probably why there was apparently no one present in the park on that one day (at least no one who was conscious). That's right, there was probably not a single witness to the explosion, right beneath its very epicentre. That's just stupid. And there was no crater, either. There was nothing to remind us of an explosion but the blast wave (captured on 26 individual cameras), 1.500.000 dollars worth of broken glass, and another 5.000.000 dollars worth of personal injury. The explosion left eight people dead, and another 300 injured. A man fell down the stairs after his window blew up in his face. One woman was hit by a car while running for shelter. One man, a Cold War veteran, suffered a fatal heart attack while enjoying his sunny, non-nuclear autumn morn. Another man was repeatedly shot by police when he was caught looting. The electromagnetic blast alone was responsible for half of the deaths. A woman with a pacemaker, she never made it to work. A man hanging onto direct life-support machines in the local hospital, lost his life before the standby gen set could come on. Another woman received the shock of her life when her hair dryer fused. What kind of bomb would result in such damages? The official inquiry board turned up empty-handed. But the unalterable facts were these: The bomb had an astounding size-force ratio. It must have been rather small, about the size of a big suitcase, but had the explosive power of an amazing 500 tonnes. It detonated in four kilometres' height. It was suspected that the perpetrator used a model aircraft or a registering balloon to elevate the bomb to that height, and then exploded it, right above Chapel Park. It's still a mystery what the bomb consisted of, though. There was no shrapnel, no fragments or smithereens found anywhere in the blast area. Appropriately enough, the shock wave limited itself to blowing up windows. No persons were harmed by the wave itself; it operated on a purely electromagnetic basis - it took out all electricity, and precisely this was the secret of its devastating success. That was enough to alert the highest echelons of the government. For three straight days in a row, a national emergency was declared, with the HOS personally stepping before the press and the cameras roughly four times a day to assure us that everything was under control. Hell, even the President of the US was quick to summit a few kind words to us, ensuring us their aid and protection right away. The rescue services, the police, the intelligence, the army; everything was standing at the ready, prepared to be deployed anytime, anywhere. Unfortunately, the only thing that followed - the only thing after our valiant readying that really caused any more mentionable damage - was some consequential mass hysteria in the south east of the country. Turned out to be a red, vilely flagrant herring, that swallowed another three million of our taxpayers' dollars in terms of pure input costs. It would probably be superfluous to mention that the person who was responsible for this incident would spend a good portion of his or her life behind bars. --- I know, I know. I know what you'll say now. 'Brian? A terrorist? Pah, lies! Leave that poor man alone!' But I am saying, 'There is more proof than you think.' For instance, how do you like the fact that this was the man who picked up the habit to take a walk in that park every single day, starting three years beforehand? Or the fact that he abandoned this custom right after the explosion occurred? Coincidence? Maybe. On his daily strolls from his home to the park and back, he was caught by three different security camera sets, day after day. They filmed him the whole first year carrying - no, hiding - something on the inside of his leather jacket. Never picked up what it was, though. The next two years he had a change in attitude. He had abandoned his conspicuous leather jacket for a raincoat, his skaters for sneakers, and now mostly went outside with a big, ugly, black dog at his side. A strange dog. Whatever it was, this dog looked ungodly awkward on the footage. Maybe it was crippled, maybe it was a bit thick, but something about this dog's movement was so... superficial. Its feet movement was somewhat constrained, and it often shook its head wildly, as if it was trying to shake something nasty off. It's movement was stuck up, reminiscent of a five-year-old trying to walk on high heels. It just didn't look right. But still, after years and years of taking the strange dog around with him, he ditched it, and never walked it again. What happened to the dog? Ever since he got rid of the it, he began carrying either a middle-sized backpack or a big tote bag with him, as if he were walking to a sport session or a pick-nick. Pick-nicking in Chapel Park? That comes right after sun-screening at the Gaza Strip. Anyway, on the day of the explosion, he had been on his way to the park, as usual. Alone, as usual. Carrying a large bag, as usual. Then, the explosion occurred. The CCTV footage shorted; it never captured him walking home on that day. And shortly after the explosion, he moved away. According to his broker, it was when Gladwell Inc. moved into town, and bought the entire district to stomp the living hell out of it. Then, they built a gigantic biofuel plant right on top of the old neighbourhood. The CEOs had used the post-explosion chaos to do the last people out of their homes. And then privatise them. I personally find that behaviour inexcusable; abusing a national emergency to relieve a few pensioners dying from shock of their terminal living space. But they made Brian a fair offer too, the broker said, and Brian was all too willing to accept. He moved within the next two months. Bought the old farmhouse 460 miles outside Fort Pleasance. The thing is, the broker never said anything about a dog, or any other pet for that matter. --- But that isn't important right now! Stupid dog, nearly distracted me from what really matters; Brian was at the park on that fateful day. If he really had been in-keeping with his basic rhythm as he had in the last couple of years, he must have been in the vicinity of the park before, during, and possibly even after the detonation. The stakes were high that he was perhaps the only person around. That meant that Brian was either a prime witness... or a prime suspect. In the aftermath of the explosion, the police was painstakingly searching for witnesses to the crime. They were broadcasting their pleas on all news channels, on all radio stations, and printed them in all major papers. Naturally, no useful eyewitnesses were found at all. The question is, of course, that, given Brian was innocent after all, why didn't he come forward then? Why wouldn't he want to become involved? Did he have something to hide? If yes, then what? What exactly did he carry in the bag of his on the 26th of October, 2014? A bomb? Or just Subway sandwiches? Crack! A sound coming from the undergrowth right behind the trees. A lone mockingbird sitting in the nutmeg jerked her head in the sound's direction. With a panicking shriek, she rocketed off into the blue sky. Now I was sure that this was it! Someone was leaving the premises. Must have been Brian, who else? He was destined to pass me and the car in merely a few seconds. And yet, all of a sudden, I felt completely vulnerable. I know this sounds fucking stupid for a field officer, but I was completely unprepared after four hours of holding out. Did I remember my cover story? Right... Birdwatching, it was. Yeah, right. Birdwatching. Inside a green official car, in a tie and a blazer. That was a stupid-ass idea, wasn't it? But sadly, it was too late to change anything now. Footsteps descended downhill, stomping on the gravel route. Coming closer and closer. Probably heading for town, for groceries or something. Then, they stopped. I froze, too. Suddenly, it was as if he weren't there anymore. Standing behind one of the trees... Silently, I unbuckled myself (I had the habit to keep myself strapped in in case I had to drive away quickly). Then, I slowly slid onto the passenger seat, nearly kissing the dashboard's black leather as I kept my head low. With a swift reach behind the driver's seat, I equipped myself with my binoculars and stared into the green thicket. Even with their +500% zoom, I couldn't see shit. Did Brian notice me? Was he legging it? Did I just blow my own cover? It were at moments like these I could just punch myself in the face. Brian was probably aware of the fact that we watched him and had taken off. At the moment, he was probably fleeing through the golden fields that he naturally knew much better than I did, and headed for the closest highway, from which he would then hitchhike to Alaska or something like that. And I, meanwhile, was still sitting in my car, with my tea, and didn't know in which direction exactly he ran off. What should I do now? Well, finish my tea, apparently. I leaned back on my seat, silently pillorying my slowness, and began zipping my tea. I couldn't stop wondering what the exact reason was for Brain taking off into the opposite direction, and I didn't want to assume the worst case scenario. I halted drinking and listened to the birdsong that was ensuing around the grove my car stood in. The thing was, there wasn't any. The bird had not yet returned after receiving the shock. It was, as if there still was someone close by. And when somebody knocked at my window, I sprayed the precious herbal liquid all over my gearshift. With my eyes wide open, I turned around to look into the glaring brown eyes of Brian Fisher. I immediately identified him by his low-hanging aquiline nose and his paling skin. I did so because there was hardly any other way to identify him. Interestingly enough, my 'patron' had undergone a conversion from the ground up. He looked quite good, actually. His brunette hair had been carefully groomed, his chin was shaven clean, and even his skin had assumed a healthy tan from doing some manual gardening labour. His sorry, drooping eyes from back then had transformed into smart and sharp ones that had poise written all over them. He had bought himself some new clothing, too. He had swapped the black, synthetic raincoat and the sticky, grey sweatshirt of his archive photo's teenage alter ego for a clean and much more comely blue sweater vest over a long-sleeved white shirt. If I wouldn't have known any better, I could have sworn that this man was a tasked, happy family man; at least he looked and lived like one. A conversion that would have even put Henry Higgins to shame. I scrolled down the window, both anxious about changing my approach a second damn time in less than a minute, but happy that he hadn't run away after all. I tried to smile unknowably, painfully trying to counter his inquiring, scrutinising, wary glare. "What can I do you for, young man?" I grinned. He just looked at me, his hands impatiently resting against the lacquered window frame. His stare and distrust seemed not to budge. Granted his reaction fit the one to a man in suit and tie lingering around near your house. After a short moment of consideration, he asked, "What are you doing on my property?" I feigned surprise the best way I could. "Oh, is this your property, then?" I tapped on the steering wheel nervously. "I didn't know this property belonged to someone." Again, his countenance nearly burst for the incomprehension and odium he bore against the stranger that was me. He had no intention of replying similarly friendly manner. "Why are you here? What are you doing on my driveway, mister?" I quickly reached for my binoculars and presented them. "Watching birds. I'm watching the birds in this county." Then I proceeded to point straight ahead. Even though there weren't any birds in that direction. In a short fit of goodwill, Brian followed my indicating hand, but quickly resumed to his inquiring pose. "I don't know about anyone else, but I don't usually watch birds while dressed like Gordon Gecco." My ruse didn't work. Gee, what a surprise. "I always go for a drive in the countryside after work." "At 10:00 am?" "Yes..." What should I do now? He looked like he would go after me with a hockey bat any moment. Instead, he leaned closer to the window and began to make a clear statement. "Look. I don't know who you are. And I also don't know what you want." He paused, and closed his eyes for a moment. "But I don't want any trouble with you, okay? I don't want trouble right now." I retracted and shrugged, "But neither do I. I'm just watching birds..." A pointing finger shot into the vicinity of my face. Brian wanted to show me that he meant it. It worked, even with that meek, boyish voice of his. "Don't shit with me. I know you're not here for birds. And, hell, I don't even care what you're here for. I want you to know I'm in a fucked mood right now!" He pointed down towards the country lane. "So get off my driveway before I call the cops! I give you ten minutes." "Okay, okay. Cool your jets, I'm leaving already." "Five minutes!" With that statement, he resumed on his way down the driveway. His feet stomped the path in an aggravated manner, and his head he held stiff and unbudgingly. His hands were hanging at his side, rolled into nervous fists. Yet, I then noticed that his eyes still bore some kind of remote tragedy, similar to the ones he wore in the '10s after his parent's death. It wasn't the same kind of tragedy and sorrow, however; instead, it seemed like something grievable had happened only recently. Now that I come to think of it, was there some special reason why he looked and lived like a family man all of a sudden? Maybe, just maybe, that was the reason. As I said, his broker, but also the village folk never mentioned any dependents. Like dogs. Or children. Anyway, it didn't take me long before I grabbed hold of the radio. "Hey, it's me! Fitzgerald here! Fisher is on the move! I repeat, Brian Fisher is on the move!" Moments later, Helen replied. "Roger that, Fitz. Suspect on the move. I get in touch with Baker." "Roger, Helen. Fisher is moving down Coop Street towards east; probably heading for Linlithgow. Got that?" "Roger roger, Fitz. Please hold the line..." "Yep..." I held the line, alright. And soon after that, a male voice answered, which I quickly indetified as my superior. "Okay, Fitz, we're on him. Moving south towards Linlithgow." "Roger that, Ian." "You are currently at..." "His driveway. 'Birdwatching', of course." "That's the stupidest cover story I have ever heard." "Gee, thanks." "Anyway, are any more persons on the premises?" "There shouldn't be anyone besides Fisher. Who is gone now." "Okay, listen up, Fitz." "I'm listening." "Right. Make your way up the main house and get a good look on the garden and inside." I should break in? T'wasn't legal. But it was fine by me. "Okay." "And collect all evidence you'd find interesting." I was about to give my okay, but then I hesitated. Collect 'evidence', he said? "When, Ian?" "Now, Fitz. Get moving before he comes back. We'll work on preoccupying him just long enough for you to get a good gander at everything." I was uncertain. Shouldn't I get, you know, a fricking Warrant for something like that? Next he'll ask me to bug his house as well. "Is this... you know... legal, Ian?" But Ian just tsked. "Fitz... just shut up and do it, okay?" I sighed. As if I really didn't have anything better to do. What if I was caught doing that? Without a warrant? Ah well. I guess Ian had his reasons for ordering that. After all, if Brian really was a terrorist, it would he better to collect evidence before he could catch on. It's all breaking into his house, now. I have, what, an hour time? Let's see what interesting things I would find in there.