Battle Road Page 2

  TWO

  “What the … ,” Dylan Fraser yelled as he swerved his SUV into the left lane to avoid being hit by an old beat up shitbox of a car that had pulled out in front of him. It was driven by a long haired teenage punk, with three other punks in the car laughing hysterically. Probably stoned out and on their way to High School. “Fucking idiots,” Dylan spoke to himself in a calmer tone. The boys sped away, continuing to drive recklessly.

  That was me ten years ago, he thought. He briefly remembered back to the old days, all the good times; drinking with his buddies, smoking weed, getting wasted, and doing crazy shit. “Which one was I, the driver or one of the kids in the back seat?” he continued speaking aloud to himself. Mental images of his youth raced through his mind. Suddenly remembering he wasn't a leader, he was one of the followers. But hell, it was a kick ass time.

  Dylan refocused on the present. He was still pissed at the little snots. He had just bought the metallic green StarCrusier sport utility vehicle a couple of weeks earlier and had that 'Oh my God, I can't get a scratch on it' mentality. The Chinese made StarCrusier was the most popular car for the 2037 model year, not to mention the three previous years, as well. It had a translucent carbon fiber body and completely computer controlled. It was the epitome of cool. In both looks and features. The waiting list to get one was over a year. Except for Party members of course.

  Dylan was suffering from another hangover. This morning it wasn't as bad as usual, really no more than a moderate headache. The new car smell from the StarCruiser wasn't helping any. He listened to some soft jazz hoping it would relax his slightly throbbing head.

  His commute took him through the back roads out of Boston to the city of Burlington. It was a better route and much less stressful than taking the highway. The back roads had little traffic on most days. The highway, in contrast, had seemingly endless traffic congestion.

  This morning turned out to be an exception. As Dylan turned off from a side road and drove onto Middlesex Turnpike in Burlington, the traffic suddenly came to a crawl. An accident, he thought. The traffic managed to move along but it was slow going. Dylan tapped his fingers on the molded black plastic console of the car while slouched down in his drivers seat. He reached over to fiddle with the display to the sound system, tapping the display and moving his finger back and forth across an image of a radio frequency spectrum. Finally settling on his favorite Christian rock station. Using the manual controls instead of asking the computer to change the channel just gave him something to do.

  A few minutes later, when the Christian rock tune ended, Dylan snapped out of his commuter trance. He shook his head from side to side trying to keep himself awake. It occurred to him to see if he could find out what was holding things up. At least it was something to occupy the time. Rolling down his window and sticking his head out, he couldn't see anything other than the reflection of police strobe lights bouncing off cars and buildings.

  He straightened himself up and stretched up as high as he could, pressing his forehead against the roof of the car. Looking ahead by the expressway on ramp, he could just barely see three Homeland Security police cars in the right lane with their lights flashing. It appeared they had stopped a car for something. Speeding? Dylan slapped the steering wheel with both hands and in his anger let his native Boston accent uncharacteristically slip out, “You gotta be frigg'en kidd'in me. All of this for some punks go'in too fast!”

  A few moments later the satellite radio station started playing one of his favorite songs, “White Light” from the Christian rock band HigherCalling. Dylan slouched back into his seat to sing along with the tune. He was resigned to the fact that he was just going to have to wait.

  Traffic was down to two lanes and was being directed by one of the Homeland Security troopers. While the cars inched along, Dylan looked about as he continued singing. He glanced down over his left shoulder to see a balding middle aged guy in the passenger seat of the car next to him checking out his StarCruiser. Yeah, you wish. Dylan smirked sarcastically at the man. He knew the jealousies his new SUV evoked. Or so he believed.

  After a couple more minutes of stop and go traffic, Dylan finally reached the police scene. Homeland Security soldiers, dressed in black fatigues, had pulled over a car with several older teenagers and were in the process of arresting them. Dylan passed by just at the moment the soldiers were putting the boys into the back seat of the cruisers. They looked like clean cut college kids, no more than eighteen or nineteen. I wonder what they did, he thought, before finally managing to get free from the traffic.

  He didn't think about the police scene for long. The DJ on the satellite radio station cut off the end of “White Light” and launched into a particularly stupid monologue. Dylan let out a fed up gasping sound. “I pay money to listen to this crap?” He decided to listen to the news. “Athena, switch to NCR.”

  Athena was the name he assigned the sport utility vehicle’s on board computer. Although, Hal was probably the most popular name people gave to their computers, Dylan never liked that name. Nor did he like the male voice used by most computers. The female voice was much more soothing. “Locking on XM frequency 1-1-5-6, National Christian Radio,” the synthesized female voice echoed from the sound system. The local NCR station was in the middle of it's morning news broadcast; presenting the news about the landslide presidential elections, the cooler weather on the way, and another great month for the stock market.

  At twelve minutes past eight, Dylan turned onto the parking lot to building three of the regional headquarters of the Department of Homeland Security. Dylan spied the available parking spots. Good, not many cars yet, he thought. The parking lot closest to the entrance of the building was usually filled by eight o'clock every morning. Though this morning was one of the exceptions since it was the day after the presidential election. Most of the employee's of the Department of Homeland Security that worked in his building would have been out late the previous night celebrating the re-election of President Thompson. It was an unspoken rule that everyone in DHS, as Homeland Security was popularly known, participate in at least one of the celebrations that went on election night. Expressing patriotism was an important aspect of job security.

  Carrying a computer briefcase in one hand and fumbling with his trendy dark green necktie in the other, Dylan casually made his way across the parking lot to the heavily guarded entrance. Only a few other employee's were making their way in as well. The main entrance to Building 3 had decorative four foot high granite vehicle barriers placed before the bridge walkway leading to the main doors. Only foot traffic could approach. The entire complex was designed for security. Inside of the primary barbed wire security fence, a concrete moat thirty feet wide and fifteen feet deep completely encircled the complex, making it impossible for terrorist car bombers to penetrate. A no fly zone existed for a two mile radius. The latest generation of electronic jamming hardware, radar controlled Gatling guns, and surface to air missiles at the ready.

  Dylan crossed the narrow walkway and flashed his badge to the DHS troopers armed with battle enhanced M32 assault rifles. One of the soldiers in the guard post nodded his head, giving Dylan the OK to proceed. He moved on to the thick, bullet proof glass doors where he stopped for a fraction of a second to glance at his own reflection. Once inside the foyer of the double doors, Dylan swiped his badge across the magnetic card reader mounted on the wall. The locking mechanism of the inner door made it's clicking sound as it unlatched, mechanically sliding the door open, allowing him to proceed to the security checkpoint. It was all part of the morning routine.

  Dylan walked down a roped off lane leading to one of three security checkpoints located in the center of the lobby. He choose the line with the fewest people. But that was always risky. You never really know which line will move the fastest.

  While he waited in line, Dylan stared blankly at the ubiquitous posters hung across the walls of the lobby. Dozens of the three foot wide oval shaped posters of a red letter �
�T” in a blue and white background decorated the drab unpainted concrete walls. At the bottom of each poster were the words 'Re-elect President Thompson'. The posters had been up for months. But Dylan hadn't given them much thought until today. His mind focusing on how long it would be before the maintenance staff would finally take them all down. No doubt to save them for next time, he thought.

  He finally reached the security checkpoint and placed his briefcase onto the conveyor belt of the weapons detector. Turning to his side, he leaned forward and put his head level with the eye scanner. A low intensity aqua blue laser scanned his right eye while a security officer looked him over menacingly. Every morning Dylan saw the same few security guards at the checkpoint. And every morning they had the same mean look across their faces. While he waited for the scan to complete he wondered whether the security guards were under orders to act the way they do. They couldn't really be that psycho. Could they? he thought.

  A green light flashed above the scanner. The security guard looked genuinely disappointed, as if he wanted the light to flash red and have the chance to pull out his machine pistol. “Move ahead,” the guard uttered, while motioning Dylan to walk through the metal detector.

  Dylan cleared security and grabbed his briefcase before heading off to catch the eight thirty church services in the chapel before work. He didn't want to have to go back downstairs for the nine or nine thirty services. They were usually more crowded. And today he knew they'd be jammed packed with everyone arriving late.

  THREE

  Dylan's full name was Edward Dylan Fraser, Jr. Preferring the name Dylan to distinguish himself from his father. Dylan Fraser had been a software engineer for the Department of Homeland Security for the past year and a half. At twenty seven years old, he had earned a reputation at DHS as one of the top software engineers. Although he was assigned to work on many of the best projects, Dylan's specialty was developing quantum encrypted digital signal transmissions. Specifically, digital transmission control systems for Homeland Security's fleet of reconnaissance and weaponized aerial drones.

  At eleven that morning, a gentle knock came on Dylan's office door. A woman's voice spoke above the hum of the office's heating and air conditioning system. “Good morning.”

  Dylan swung around in his faux black leather office chair to see a tall, blue eyed, blond woman standing in the open doorway. “Good morning Grace. Did you have fun last night?”

  “I had a wicked good time,” Grace was prepared with her response, “We all went ov'ah to Agent Williams house where we partied until midnight. Plenty of good food and beer. I was told that was the best re-election party our department ev'ah had.”

  Dylan nodded his head as he listened, forcing a grin on his face. “Well, it sounds like I missed out on a great time.”

  “Yeah, what happened to you? I really wanted ta'h hang with you last night,” she said, all the while attempting to act casual. She moved across the office and sat at the end of Dylan's desk.

  Dylan briefly stared at Grace's exposed thighs as she sat cross legged with her hands modestly tugging her black skirt for more coverage. “I have a presentation to give at a meeting today. I went home early for one last go over and catch up on my beauty sleep.” He lied.

  He shifted his stare from her legs to her eyes. Dylan didn't care about the celebrations for President Thompson. Nor did he enjoy hanging out with his DHS colleagues either. The truth was he couldn't care less about politics. Nor did he care about anything to do with work as soon as the proverbial bell rang at the end of the day.

  The previous night Dylan had showed up at Williams' party to make a brief obligatory appearance. Then slipped away to meet up with some friends at one of their favorite downtown bars, had a few beers, actually more than just a few, and hit on some of the local college girls. Titties and beer, that's where his real interests lay.

  Grace moved her long strawberry blond hair away from her face. She was without any doubt quite attractive, thin, still somewhat girlish, with nicely shaped breasts that matched her tall frame. She spoke shyly, with her voice almost cracking. “Friday, a group of friends are getting togeth'ah. I thought...., I mean..., would you like to go?” She looked down coyly at him for a second before averting her eyes to the floor.

  Dylan knew this was coming. It happened more often than he liked to admit with the various women he had slept with. Although Dylan wasn't exactly a ladies man, the women did fall for him. He had good looks, a little taller than average, with short dark hair, and an athletic build. He could be brilliant and charming.

  “Grace,” Dylan said, as he rolled his seat to the middle of the office and reached over to close the door. “You're a beautiful, beautiful, Christian woman. I'd be very proud to settle down with you and raise a family.” He paused, searching for the right words. “The problem is, I'm not ready to commit to any kind of serious relationship at this time in my life. And I wouldn't want to lead you on in any way because I value our friendship.”

  Grace froze where she sat. It was evident she didn't know how to respond. A look of hurt rose across her face. For weeks she had daydreamed of him professing his love for her, his shyness was all that prevented him making the first move. She was certain all he needed was the right push from her to finally profess his love.

  “What is it? Is it me? I would be a wonderful wife.....”

  Dylan stopped her from going any further. “Grace. No. I told you. I'm just not ready for any kind of long term commitment. Really, I'm too young for that. Trust me.”

  Grace's facial expression went stone cold as she got up and moved across the office. Turning to Dylan as she opened the wooden office door, “It's true what I've heard isn't it. I didn't want to believe it. But it's true.” Her tall body went straight and rigid. “You've been sleeping around with those whor'ahs in the city. Those bitches that don't even believe in God.” She swung away from the door in a huff, her blond hair swirling side to side as she hurried off.

  Dylan jumped up from his chair and stepped out of the office to catch a glimpse of Grace marching down the hallway. A few of the engineers in the neighboring offices timidly peaked their heads out to see what the commotion was. Dylan stood frozen, until it dawned on him to shrug his shoulders in an exaggerated manner. He gave gave an almost comical facial expression that conveyed, 'women, what can you do'. It worked. He managed to break the tension with his colleagues, slowly backed slowly into his office, and quietly closed the door.

  His comical expression turned into a slight, contained smile. He leaned against the back of the closed office door, looked up at the cheap drop down ceiling tiles, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that was easier than I imagined,” he whispered to himself. Though he knew he'd have to smooth things out in the morning. Grace had a lot of female friends at DHS. The last thing he wanted was to screw up any chances he may have with them.

  FOUR

  Agent Mike Goodman stood on his front porch to his antique New England colonial home. He punched in the security code on the keypad next to the faded red door, while balancing a couple of plastic burlap bags of groceries with one hand and his brown leather brief case in the other. The LED above the keypad turned green followed by the locking mechanism making a clicking sound and the door opening slightly.

  It was five minutes past three o'clock in the afternoon. Wednesday's were his day to leave work early and spend some time with his family. He'd still be putting in a full day of work. It would just be done later that night in his home office.

  Goodman pushed the door open with his right foot and walked in. “Daddy!” yelled the two little girls in unison. Emily, age five, and Jennifer, age three, ran to greet their father in the front hallway. The girls hugged his legs and vied for his attention as he tried to put down his bags.

  “How's my little princesses,” Goodman said, bending down to give his little girls a great big hug. “Good.” “Good, daddy.” The girls gleamed seeing their father. Suzanne Goodman walked into the hallway, wiping
her hands on a towel she was carrying, and leaned over to kiss her husband. “Hello Dear,” she said with a tired yet warm expression.

  “Kids, let your father get in the door,” Suzanne Goodman pleaded. She picked up the grocery bags, “Can you take the kids out for a while? Maybe bring them bike riding. I need a break. An hour is all I need.”

  “OK, will do,” he said, putting his briefcase away in the rectangular wall safe installed in the hallway. “What do you think girls? Where do you want to go?” He knew what the answer would be. Emily and Jennifer jumped up and down in front of their dad. “Bike path, Bike path!” Emily yelled while Jennifer clapped her hands enthusiastically shouting, “Yeah!!!”

  The kids loved to ride their bikes whenever they could. Jennifer with her orange tricycle and Emily on her new Sunray bike with training wheels. The bike path was the old Minute Man trail that ran through their Arlington neighborhood. The old trail was in disrepair. Cyclists could no longer ride from one end to the other as they had decades earlier, but sections still remained that were good enough to ride on. The kids didn't ride very far anyways. It was perfect for them.

  “OK, you know the drill,” Goodman reminded the kids, “go find your helmets. I'll get the bikes out.”

  Goodman carried the bicycles out of the garage, checking that each one was mechanically functioning properly. When he was finished, he stood in the driveway for a moment facing the quiet street. The smile on his face disappeared. He moved his head back and forth, scanning the neighborhood for anything askew. Satisfied everything looked good, he headed back inside the house and got his briefcase out of the temporary wall safe. He carried it down the basement stairs to his office, punched in the codes to the lock, and slowly pushed opened the heavy metal door. He switched on the lights and stood transfixed in the doorway entrance inspecting the room. His eyes squinted while he slowly, methodically scanned the room from side to side. Verifying that everything was where it should be. Certain that no one had intruded into his windowless sanctum, he moved over to his desk and took off the jacket to his dark gray suit and removed his underarm holster and gun. He placed the jacket over the back of the office chair and put the handgun in the side drawer of the desk next to the Karlin machine pistol in it's quick release holder.