Progtopia: Book 1 of The Progtopia Trilogy (13 page)

Twenty-five

The Year: 2032

After leaving the cemetery in the hearse, they made their way to a funeral home where they transferred into a Humvee. They drove for the better part of an hour with each passing minute taking them farther from the city. It was difficult for Camille to get a sense of where they were heading. It was still dark outside, and their travels were all along back roads in the mountains. It wasn’t until the sky made the slow transition from its pitch black background to a gray and pink hue that Camille got a true sense of their location. They were deep within the Appalachian Mountain Range. As they rounded the bend, they came upon a large, steel-reinforced gate with a small guard station located on the outside of the fortress.

The guard spoke briefly to Benson, welcoming him back, and when he noticed Franklin, he said, “Thank God you’re okay, Franklin. It’s so nice to see you.”

Franklin nodded his head as he watched the gate open. They continued to drive on a paved road flanked on either side by thick forest, until it suddenly opened into a large parking lot with an ominous complex standing before them. Benson continued to drive around the side of the building. Camille noticed how it was nestled in between the mountainous terrain. Their Humvee entered the garage at the side, where they drove until they reached the basement level of the mammoth structure. Filled with hundreds of Humvees and other military vehicles, Benson explained they were in a government facility that manufactured military equipment for the United States. “Hide in plain sight is what I say,” he said with laughter.

“Okay, folks, we have arrived. Grab all of your stuff. It’s time to meet the Wizard. He’s the man who runs the entire operation.”

Franklin, Peter, Camille, and Bailey followed Benson to the back of the garage where he opened the door to a storage room jam-packed with auto parts, cleaning materials, and a wall holding keys to the vehicles in the garage. Placing his keys back on the hook, Benson walked over to the opposite wall and pulled some materials away from the shelf, exposing a small iris scanner. After analyzing Benson’s iris, the wall holding all of the keys slid open revealing a long tunnel. They all followed Benson through the once hidden entrance. Camille turned back as the wall closed behind them. The group walked down the long corridor until they reached a dead end. After the next iris scan was completed, the wall slid open revealing an elevator. They all entered with Benson, and he pushed the elevator button the only direction they could go—down. Camille had been tracking their movements in order to match them to the map she had constructed in her mind. From what she could gather, the tunnel they had just come through led them away from the military manufacturing plant and deep inside the mountain with the elevator carrying them farther down underneath it.

The Wizard, in the strategic command center when the group had arrived at the front gate, wanted to be the first to greet them when they got off the elevator. His nickname, Wizard, was a relatively new one. They had given it to him for his management of the resistance, pulling off the impossible for them. His real name was Cornelius Montgomery. He was a stocky individual with a large mustache that, in his younger days, had been red but now had long been replaced by white.

As Cornelius walked to the elevator, he reflected on all of the events in his life that had brought him to this secret compound. He could have never imagined that going to Vietnam would set forth this path for his life. It seemed so long ago that he and his best friend left for the war, both thinking they were so grown-up back then, but they were nothing more than kids. Not enrolled in college and having no influence to dodge the draft, they were both doomed to the inevitable trip to the other end of the earth. He and his friend, Jimmie O’Toole, were both from the Midwest and accustomed to wide-open spaces, smooth terrain, and the change of seasons. Nothing prepared them for the oppressive humidity, thick jungle conditions, and horrors of Vietnam. The two of them landed in the same unit, and they vowed to get each other home alive, but it was Cornelius’s failure to keep that promise that almost ruined his life.

Cornelius thought back to that fateful evening when the two of them were separated from their platoon—Cornelius with a wounded leg and unable to walk. Jimmie had carried him through the jungle until dawn when they finally reached a road. Settling behind some trees, they waited, hoping an American convoy would pass. After several hours, a young Vietnamese girl around the age of ten came into view. Wearing a tattered dress, she had a bloody face and walked with a limp. Cornelius could see she was injured, lost, and scared. Suggesting they should help her, Jimmie left the safety of their hiding spot and approached the little girl. Scared by his appearance, she stopped dead in her tracks. But by holding out a chocolate candy bar, Jimmie was able to coax her toward him. Although it was soft and melted from the stifling heat, the girl gimped toward him, willingly devouring the chocolate, which was now all over her face and fingers. Jimmie picked her up and walked in the direction of their hiding spot—smiling and happy. The image of the young girl with the chocolate-covered smile was the last moment of Cornelius Montgomery’s life when he felt whole. The next moments unraveled so quickly, paining him to this day. There was the familiar click of a landmine followed by his attempt to leap from his position, only to fall as his injured leg failed to move. Jimmie knew. Eyes locking with Cornelius, saying goodbye, Jimmie threw the girl as far as he could before the explosion blew off his legs. Montgomery, almost immune to the death the war brought, failed to fulfill the pact to protect his friend. He watched his friend lay there bleeding to death, and he could do nothing to save him. Montgomery’s spirit was shattered, and that moment changed his life forever.

When he returned to the States and received his Purple Heart, he wondered if the military actually believed that this medal could replace his broken spirit aching daily from his guilt of sending Jimmie out to help that girl. The accusations from war protesters calling him and his buddies baby killers drove him deeper into the bottle. His friend died saving a little girl. Homeless, drunk, and despondent, he remained in a drunken stupor for years.

Living on the street, losing everything—his friends, family, and hope—he didn’t care anymore. As far as he was concerned, he deserved his fate as punishment for failing to save his friend. No one could reach him—not his family, not his friends. He rejected their help, and they eventually gave up on him. He just hoped he would die.

One winter night, stuck in below freezing temperatures, drunk and unmotivated to find a homeless shelter, he drifted off to sleep, hoping the frigid temperatures would take his life. When he woke up, he thought he was dead. He was in a warm hospital bed, sober, bathed, and shaved. He spared no time in getting ready to leave, but his escape was interrupted by a visitor, a priest.

“Cornelius, I am Father Michael.”

“Yes, Father, thanks for stopping in, but I’m just about to leave.”

“I’m not going to hold you back, but give me a few minutes, and then you can go.”

“Very well, tell me how I’m a sinner, how I need to pray, go to Mass, Confession, blah, blah, blah.” He sat back on the bed, arms folded.

“I’m not going to tell you any of that. Listen, I’m not even going to try to pretend I know your circumstances or what you are going through. All I can say is I was in the war too. Saw stuff that to this day haunts me. Lost some good people. I run a group at the Church for Vietnam Vets. You are welcome to come anytime.” The priest was writing the information down on a piece of paper as he spoke. Handing it to Cornelius, he said, “If you don’t come, that’s fine, but you are always welcome. I want you to do two things for me, though. Be selfish and give of yourself.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense—you can’t do both.”

“Ah, the response I get all the time. Yes, it sounds like a contradiction, but it’s not. You see, Cornelius,” he said as he sat on the edge of his bed, “you cannot give unless you are selfish.” Cornelius appeared skeptical, so Father Michael asked, “What does it mean to be selfish?”

Cornelius, in deep thought, replied, “To be self-centered—to not care for anyone else.”

“That’s what most people think—that selfish is bad. It isn’t. Selfish just means you take care of yourself first. Feed your mind, body, and soul. If you are not whole, how can you give of yourself?”

“That’s a bunch of philosophical crap.”

“Think of it this way. Pretend you are a garden, and as a garden, you are responsible for feeding a family at the end of the growing season.”

“Okay, I’ll play along, Father Michael.”

“So, in order to grow the fruits and vegetables for your family, you need water, fertilizer, and sunshine. The garden must be tended to. If the garden is selfish, taking care of itself, receiving all the things it needs to grow, it produces a bountiful harvest. Now, let’s look at your garden. You feed it alcohol and waste your days filling your body with nothing but junk. You don’t expand your mind or soul with anything, therefore you have nothing to give. Right now, you are empty. Incapable of giving. Be selfish, Cornelius. Take care of
you
. Start out by drinking less and smiling more. For all you know, your smile may be just what someone needs to keep them from despair. Hope to see you at the Church.”

Cornelius had nothing to say as the priest left. He had listened, and over time, took his advice, went to the group, and slowly turned his life around. That visit initiated a fundamental transformation of his life.

Montgomery smiled as he continued down the corridor to the elevator to meet his guests. It amazed him how a simple visit from a priest, who preached selfishness, had led him to an underground bunker in the Appalachian Mountain Range. From that day to this very moment, he could never have predicted the twists and turns that were to take place in his life.

The lowest point in his life, since he almost froze to death, was his imprisonment in the government’s terrorist/extremist detention camps for teaching his college history classes about the constitutional abuses of the United States government. When they took him into custody, he knew federal law was stacked against him. He knew they could hold him indefinitely. And so it was, after five years of remaining in a cell without a trial and with no access to current events, reading or writing materials, he thought he would die.

His crime? Hitting home with his students the fact that nothing they used was private. Their social media, phone conversations, emails—everything was monitored by the government. They, of course, did not believe the government would be interested in them. He had them do funny projects to test the waters. In order to show them they were being watched, he texted to his class: “Sub is perfect for the meeting. In fact, it’s the bomb! Let’s meet after class to talk about the revolution!” He, in fact, was talking about a sandwich sub and how delicious it was. He wanted them to meet after class to talk about the American Revolution—the course he was teaching. The Feds arrested him on the spot for terroristic threats, and his class, as well as his college, was outraged by the absurdity of it all. He did make his point, but it took him on a one-way trip to a federal holding facility.

His class started a social media campaign for his freedom. They finally understood their professor’s rants about big government, but they were unsuccessful in gaining his freedom. It became clear to them the media was not on their side. Their only recourse was through the internet and pro-bono lawyers to help gain his freedom.

His students expected an outcry from the American people, but there was none. The silence was deafening, and they realized Americans were afraid to speak out. Their desire to help him was crushed when some of them were taken into custody as well. His cohesive group of students disbanded, and Professor Montgomery was alone.

As a college professor, he knew it was his teachings of small government that landed him in prison, but he felt his students were innocent bystanders in the entire process. He was upset when he got word that they had also been detained.

Montgomery thought for sure he would rot in that cell, but one day Franklin and Benson visited him as part of their investigation for the Vice President. They questioned him for hours upon hours about his life, activities, interpretation of the founding documents of our country, and belief in God. They even gave him the opportunity to walk from the facility that day if he renounced his beliefs. He refused. When they pushed him hard, he reminded them of the last few lines of the Declaration of Independence.

“To break from the world’s superpower of the time took courage, bravery, and faith. Read the last lines of the Declaration of Independence sometime and educate yourselves on those concepts,” he said, disgusted with the federal agents. “Since I’m sure you’ve never read it, I’ll give you a synopsis. They basically said they relied on the protection of God, yes, I said God, and they pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor. Could you do that today? How very few of us are left who have principles and virtue.”

Montgomery sat there staring at the two CIA agents. He told them to get lost.

Franklin challenged him. “From the looks of it, you’re not in any position to tell us what to do.” He and Benson looked at each other, mocking him.

Montgomery stared at them, saying, “Look, I’m not going to renounce my religion, my support of liberty, or whatever else you want me to do for my personal freedom. Sorry, you’re talking to the wrong guy. You can go back with your elite in Washington. I would rather sit here and die for my beliefs.”

Little did Montgomery know, their interrogation was really an interview to be the leader of the resistance. Not long after their first meeting, Franklin returned to transport him to another facility, but the massive fiery car wreck that “killed” both of them became the perfect cover for them to create their resistance group.

Montgomery brought his mind back to the present as he waited at the elevator. Within seconds, the door opened, and he was met by a happy golden retriever who jumped on him, licking his long mustache. Montgomery bent over to pet the dog. “So you are the brave Bailey who saved Peter’s life.”