41
Several days later and any miles away, Agent Wilson Cogs spoke to a medium level special unit inside the National Security Agency. The newspapers abbreviated the agency’s name as NSA as it had always done with all government agencies. Agents like Cogs showed more respect and frequently pronounced its name in what he considered to be its sacred entirety.
“The National Security Agency needs to get onto this disaster like flies onto fresh poop,” Agent Cogs told the group that had been formed to investigate. “I have followed several Obama Care serial murderers, and one thing that struck me about them from the beginning is their personal sense of loss over the death of each citizen’s family member. They take this very personally.
“Now, despite the fact that some citizens out there have a solid gripe against the government for the way this program is being carried out, we as agents still have to stop them from threatening the security and prestige of our nation and people. Needless to say, every act of terror diminishes the power of the United States of America. In addition, every senseless act of murder and revenge, when it results in deaths, demonstrates to the citizens that we have been ineffective. It shows them that no matter how much we have spent on the war against terror we are as much in the dark as they are about how to defeat these mass killings. Obviously, many Americans have begun to feel unsure about their futures. This is exactly what the Obama Care killers want to achieve. They want our people to be not only uncomfortable but frightened.
“It is our job to give our people a sense of security which allows them to live their lives happily and openly, lives without any terrorist worries whatsoever. That’s what we are here to do.
“So, what can we do to help them? A lot of things.
“We can profile these killers. Sometimes he or she is someone who has himself been diagnosed with a disease but told that it cannot be treated in a professional manner because the insurance companies will no longer pay for that treatment. Sometimes it is a family member or friend who just lost a dearly beloved person or is about to. Usually, they seek some sort of revenge for a wife, daughter, son, mother, father, sister, brother, grandparent or business friend. At times it is someone who was demoted from full time work down to part time work of less than twenty-nine hours per week so that his employer would not have to pay for his health insurance premium. So, they lash out at society. They pick innocent people and kill them to make a splash in the news. They articulate their rage by sacrificing these unsuspecting people in public places where they gather. They turn these crowded whereabouts into killing areas in much the same way the Aztecs and Incas did as they sacrificed their victims high atop their stone pyramids for all to witness their power to do so. Sometimes, these priests sacrificed thousands in a single day. The more the merrier, as they say in Shakespeare’s plays, but don’t quote me on that. I was never an English major, but if Shakespeare had thought of it or not, I can assure you he would have used it.”
Some of them laughed for a moment at the Shakespearean reference and retraction. These meetings needed more humor, and they were thankful that Agent Cogs had the sense of decency to amuse them at least once.
“The question is how to profile would-be killers and create a pool of suspects and to do so before they act out.
“Please turn to page three of the handouts I gave you. There we see a sample database of those who are gravely ill and were not treated because of government or insurance rules, because we think that some small percentage of the persons associated with their specific situations might become Obama Care killers. They are the most likely to strike out against others as a result of the perceived hurt they think was done to them or to their loved ones. Therefore, we have begun to assemble lists of persons diagnosed with fatal illnesses or once diagnosed, have passed away. Their distraught relatives and friends are prime suspects. By interviewing these victims as well as their neighbors, we can obtain a list of people most likely to join in this ensuing chaos that has taken off around the nation. While we interview them, we are alerting them that they are under surveillance. Knowing that we are already watching them will make it less likely they will ever act out their pain. Why? Because they know we are watching. We are now requiring that doctors assemble lists of their fatally ill and recently deceased patients who were not receiving the care they thought they deserved before they died and who their friends and loved ones are. We are beginning to interview these prime suspects. In the past, some of this information was previously collected by physicians such as the names of friends and next of kin in case of an emergency. We are mining these lists. Any questions as to what we are about on this?”
“Yes, sir. I am Bob Moore. I’d like to know how we will follow up on this?” Bob asked.
“We will ask the police to knock on doors and interview these people. It will be a local job, not one for National Security Agency staffers who have other jobs on their plates. However, once the police find a person of interest, we will then interview them ourselves. It is hoped that many who might do something anti-social will stop before they start once they realize the local fuzz and the feds are both on their heels. However, we must be vigilant with these people. They might be so mentally compromised by their grief that they might still lash out as killers. Some might be more than willing to die in the process than others, and we need to determine who they are. Such persons will always be with us. It is our job to pinpoint who they are.
“I have passed out in my materials how we expect agents to go about this business of intercepting trouble before it starts,” Agent Cogs said.
“Please study these materials. Learn them by heart. Tomorrow when we meet there will be a test to ascertain that you not only read this material but that you understand it. I think that will be all for today. Thank you for your attention.”
Wilson Cogs left the meeting and walked to the executive offices where he had a desk with a window, computer, and phone lines. He spent the rest of the day telephoning suspects, police departments, coroners, and special agents who were doing the dirty work of snooping and asking questions pertinent to the on-going Obama crisis.
42
On his way to the family cabin, Ranger James Stone passed a political rally. Old tea party hippies were flashing signs against government spending, state medicine, endless war, and trillions of dollars wasted on bailing out the banksters. James agreed with all of their views.
As soon as he reached the cabin, Ranger James Stone remembered the warm happy days just one month before before his son, Brandon, was born. His wife’s belly was swollen up. It looked to James like a watermelon had crawled inside her. It had nested there for its own amusement and convenience. James had placed his head against the swelling and felt his son’s feet kicking inside his wife’s warmth. Those were wonderful days.
In his first year, little Brandon crawled across the rugs and reached for everything he could touch. His smile warmed James’s heart. James would pick him up from the floor like a soft rag doll, only Brandon was far more precious and heartfelt than any doll in the world would ever be. Brandon was just about everything in life to his father.
As James spread out onto the bed in the little cabin, he saw the hand built baby furniture that he had placed his son in. He smiled just looking at it. Brandon would reach up at the toys that James and his wife had placed throughout the room. As proud parents, they watched their son reaching for them with his tiny spastic arms which as yet he could not completely control. But James knew in his daddy’s heart of hearts that someday little Brandon would grow up to be the star pitcher for his high school team. Then, Brandon would be tossing fast balls, sliders, and curves with pinpoint accuracy and turning the girls’ heads. At least that was James’s fondest hope, and he was determined to help it happen.
In his mind, he saw Brandon swimming in the stream at the state park. It was a beautiful place where the family would camp for the weekends. Brandon was a great swimmer. He took to the water much like a fledgling duck. The first time his father le
t him go, he swam well enough to make it fifteen feet to his mother. All of them were smiling from ear to ear.
Some nights, they slept together in the family bed, and Brandon’s proud father would feel the heat pouring from this son’s body along with his little arms reaching up to feel his face. A tear fell from the far corner of James’s left eye as he remembered those moments.
These were times that no one thought would end. The world was good then. Brandon was his little healthy son rolling around on the bed, in the grass, and on the floors of the cabin and the home where they were happily living. These memories continued collecting themselves in James’s mind as his son grew and matured into the athlete his father always knew he would be. Later, he entered the military and survived two tours.
After he came back the final time, Brandon was sick. He had gotten cancer from the depleted uranium in the army rifle casings and canon shells they had given him to fire off at the enemy day after day. Iraq was powdered with the stuff, and so were the soldiers. After two months of being diagnosed, Brandon had wasted away, but the doctors did nothing to help him, because the medical insurance protocol mandated that no one be treated for the cancer Brandon had, because it was determined to be terminal and because of tight budgets and criticism of the Iraqi war from the start, no one with Brandon’s cancer was getting anything but pain medicines.
“You mean you cannot treat my son for cancer, because it might not work? What if it did work? Could you do it then?”
“Probably. Maybe. But not necessarily,” Doctor Alan Mosler said. “It all depends on those who make the decisions on Obama Care. Unfortunately, the insurance companies are top dogs in deciding who gets treated, and it’s to their advantage not to treat people wherever that’s possible. The reasons are always defined by the insurance executives, and that’s what I think is so darned wrong about it, but I have no say. I am just a passive player here.”
“I’d like to be treated, sir,” Brandon said. “I’m young, I served my nation, and that’s how I was exposed to radiation.”
“I understand,” Doctor Moseler said.
“So?”
“I have nothing to say on these decisions. They are not made by me, but I have to carry them out. I am the one who has the duty to inform you of them. I’m the man who has been assigned to serve on the front lines here, but my physician rifles have been taken away from me, so to speak. All I can do now is to carry out their program, not mine,” Doctor Moseler replied. “All decisions are from above.”
On the way out of the medical building, they walked through a tea party Rally. Eighty citizens with signs protesting Obama Care were carrying anti-Obama signs and discussing the problems of Obama Care. A loudspeaker announced that the doctors in this medical establishment were not following the Hippocratic Oath when they abandoned their patients due to the death squads. The speaker said that these squads were made up of insurance bureaucrats who ran Obama Care at its highest echelons. Brandon could tell the rally participants a thing or two, and he asked the man to hand him the microphone, which he did.
“My name is Brandon Stone,” he said. “And I got cancer in the army. I was exposed to the depleted uranium in bullets and shells in Iraq. I have news. It’s not really depleted. It’s got live radiation in it. Now, I have cancer, and, in that building right there, I was just told that Obama Care didn’t care about me. They were not going to treat me for cancer, because it was terminal and the money would be better spent elsewhere. I protest that decision. I think they owe me.”
Brandon handed the mic back to its owner.
“Thank you. Let’s give Brandon a big hand.”
The tea party enthusiasts applauded.
On the way back home, Brandon heard his dad say, “If you die from this, I’ll kill a lot of people on your behalf. You can be sure of that.” Brandon figured he was pure bluff. His dad would never do such a thing.
James remembered when Brandon was sixteen, he was a track star. He won State three times. His forte was running. This also spilled over onto the baseball diamond at his high school where he did become one of the best pitchers his school had ever produced. He was generally able to strike out several players every two to three innings and to produce grounders hit to short and second which resulted in game winning double plays.
James remembered taking his son to baseball games during the summer at both major and minor league stadiums. The team managers scouted him and asked him into the dugouts and gave him standing invitations to visit team workouts and even to participate in them as a local guest. Brandon loved the attention.
In college, the boy did well. He made the baseball team as its first string pitcher. His averages on the mound were good, especially his ERA scores. However, the war had intervened. Brandon had decided he owed his country several years of service in the armed forces. Now he was paying for it with his life but not in the way he had thought. His father was totally pissed.
What the government had done to Brandon by not treating his cancer is just so unfair, James thought. I’m going to continue down the road of his revenge until they find me and kill me.
He would not let them take him alive. Sitting in a prison awaiting execution was not a part of his life style. He’d go down fighting. Fort Bragg had been pinned permanently to James’s Ranger chest like a bullet that had been shot directly into his own heart.
As a result of his training, James would never surrender to these bastards whose ignorant decisions had killed his son.
If James could kill the entire nation, James would do so.
In fact, he dreamed of boating on Yellowstone Lake disguised as fisherman and using diving equipment to place bombs at the lake’s bottom far below the surface. These would blast huge holes into the caldera’s roof line. When that happened, water would rapidly drain from the lake into the hundreds of super volcanoes sleeping in stealth inside the miles of magma down below. The ice cold water hitting that sea of hot magma beneath Yellowstone Lake would cause the volcanoes below to suddenly fire off, in a massive explosion of steam and molten rocks. The eruptions would soon produce species threatening pyrotechnics blowing one-fifth of Wyoming sky high. The magma would immediately soar upward into outer space for more than 50 miles, then solidify as razor sharp particles of mica and other glass chips in the perfect coldness of outer space. These microscopic particles of jagged glass would be so tiny that they would curve back toward earth and re-enter the atmosphere and float forever in its air before they entered the lungs of every American on the continent and sliced their lungs and other organs into shreds as they flowed through their bloodstreams.
To James it was a beautiful vision. Everyone would die in a fitting tribute to the sanctity of his son’s life. In James’s mind, if Brandon didn’t have a right to live, then no one did. If he lived long enough, he’d do it for sure. Nationals Stadium was just the beginning. Besides, Washington, D.C., was too hot now. James would never attack there again. Or would he? James realized he could never say no. It would be suicide, but it also might not be. To a man like James nothing was totally insurmountable as revenge events panned out. He had gotten away with it twice, but to repeat his efforts there would just allow them more of a chance to pinpoint who he was, so that was out. In fact, baseball, football, and basketball was out. Soon, they’d plug all of the security holes. Trying to score another massive big kill in those stadiums would not be a wise move to make. A smart person knew when to start and when to quit. James considered himself smart. It would do Brandon’s revenge against America’s murder of sick people no good if James, as Brandon’s sole instrument of revenge, got himself caught or killed.
Nonetheless, attacking Washington seemed to draw at him, making him want to return there for more. After all, hadn’t it become the very center of evil in America?