Rift (28 page)

Crystal looks into my eyes—whether with pity or compassion, I can't tell—but doesn't say anything.

“I don't think anyone understands that,” I continue. “Until you're staring death in the face, I don't know if you can comprehend it at all.”

Silence invades the hotel room as we sit there at an impasse.

“What exactly do you want to do?” she finally asks me.

         

“We all know why we're here,” Clay says through a mouthful of food. In addition to Clay, Crystal, Cameron, Lee, and me, we have added four new members: Scott Warren, David Stone, Randy Temple, and Brandon Richards. The nine of us are scattered about the small motel room, munching on Whataburgers and fries. Well, except for me. I'm just having fries. About three of them so far.

“We're here to expose NeuroStor for what they are: racial separatists. White supremacists. Terrorists who want to divide the United States and make part of it a white-only state.”

According to Crystal, our new members have been fed the white supremacy story that I was originally led to believe, and for the same reason—to hide the truth of Crystal's disagreement with her former employer. As far as my plan to go in alone, I've decided that only Cameron, Crystal, and I need to be involved. So I sit here, privately amused at their elaborate story, knowing as I do that it's now all for nothing. Because they aren't using me anymore, I'm using them.

“Buncha fuckin' cowards,” Randy says. “Fuckin' Nazis.”

“They aren't just neo-Nazis,” Crystal points out. “It's a lot of separatist groups who have finally learned to pool their resources. National Socialists, religious fanatics, neo-Nazis. Other, smaller organizations that the average American has never heard of. Groups that have existed separately for years, with different motivations and platforms but with the same general ideas about the United States: that our government has become too strong and corrupt, that minorities are taking over the country and must be stopped, that the moral fabric of America has become poisoned and must be set right again.”

“Right,” Clay says. “None of us would be here if we didn't want to see these people bear responsibility for their actions. Not just what they've done to Cameron, but also the bombs and murders and hate crimes they've supported for years. Am I right?”

General nodding of heads from our assembled team, a couple of affirmative grunts.

“Good. So let's dispense for now with our own propaganda and start preparing for the strike itself. Crystal and I have decided the best time to storm the building is tomorrow morning at around ten o'clock. This should be right in the middle of the board meeting that is scheduled from eight to noon. Does anyone have a problem with a midmorning broadcast?”

I hate it when people ask questions to which they already know the answer. Guys such as Clay (and Batista, fuck him) like to hear themselves talk, but even more they love it when people agree with them. It affirms their perceived intelligence, their power. We've all worked under a manager at one time or another (Batista) who got a kick out of saying,
Don't you think the best course of action is blah-blah-blah?
because he knew you'd have to agree.

“Good,” he says. “Crystal and I have put together a schedule of events, a time line that includes assignments for everyone here. For those of you who don't know, Brandon and David went through Ranger school in the Army, Scott is a former SWAT team member, and Randy once flew helicopters in the Navy. Our attack team will include me, Crystal, Brandon, and Scott. Later the two Camerons will join us.”

Or so he thinks.

“We'll broadcast from their boardroom on the ninth floor. This evening we'll have blueprints of the building, and that'll allow us to devise the exact route from first floor to ninth. Lee and David will be assigned to the TV van. Then we'll have to find a way to the roof, where Randy and his helicopter will lift us to safety.

“There's a good chance we won't all get out of there. I want everyone here to understand that. Every precaution will be taken—and with the cameras rolling, surely they'll be hesitant to fire on us—but your personal safety cannot be guaranteed.”

No one says anything. Everyone here knows the risks. We're much too far along to pull back now.

“After lunch we'll all drive over to the warehouse, and those of you who need it will be trained to use the weapons. We'll go over some basic tactical maneuvers, and then Scott will demonstrate more advanced entry techniques. We'll practice those. By then we should have the building blueprints, and we'll devise the most advantageous route to the boardroom. We'll look at alternate locations if there is no board meeting. Then, after dark, we'll load everything into the van and drive back here. This is where we'll sleep tonight and start in the morning. After the broadcast, the helicopter will fly from Plano to a farm road just west of Nobility, a small town northeast of the city. Four cars will be waiting for us. The driver of each car will have disguises ready for us.”

“I wanna be Bill Clinton,” Randy says. “Chicks still dig that guy.”

“Congratulations, Temple,” Clay shoots back. “First to smart off gets to be the transvestite.”

Laughter from our military friends. I guess they live for this shit, but somehow I don't share the humor.

“Each car will head toward a different destination. In Car One, me and Crystal will drive to Little Rock. Car Two, Cameron One and Randy will drive to Tulsa. In Car Three, Cameron Two and David will head for Oklahoma City. Brandon, Scott, and Lee will take Car Four and drive to Amarillo. Each car will be fueled and furnished with a detailed map. Any questions so far?”

And of course, everyone's silent.

         

Evening. At the warehouse. Fluorescent lamps cast sickly light upon the eight of us, standing in a circle, watching Clay as he explains the weapons.

“The MP-5 and Sig are so simple a first-grader could operate them.”

“Or some asshole with a first-grade education,” Scott adds.

Clay explains how the safeties and triggers work, we go through a few exercises, and then move on.

“The C4 is easy to detonate. Each of you will be issued several bars, which are wrapped in plastic like cheese. The bars will be prepared so that all you'll have to do is set the timer and run.” He pulls out a bar and shows us how the timer works. The device looks like a video game controller with an LED readout on the side and a button on top. “You can also detonate one or more bars instantly by wrapping them together, flipping the safety switch to ‘off,' and pressing and releasing the top button. This method is primarily a defense mechanism—no one would dare attack you while you held the button down, because anything that disturbed your grip would result in detonation.”

Later, Clay turns center stage over to Brandon, who introduces basic maneuvers, and then to Scott, who explains entry techniques. We're going in dressed as firefighters, wearing heavy vests underneath. He blabbers on about tactical distractions and how proper planning is critical for raid success. He speaks in the trite, robotic tone of a drill instructor. I absorb the information I need and ignore the rest.

Then, for nearly an hour, sweating like pigs in the hot warehouse, we run through what seems like an endless parade of drills. How to run with the weapon, how to dive with the weapon, how to use the weapon in close-quarter battle. Failure drills and backup weapon transitions. What to do if a team member goes down.

The building blueprints arrive just before his hour-long lesson ends. I'm about to ask for a fifteen-minute recess when Clay offers us a break. Everyone heads for the office, looking for water and air-conditioning, and I find a quick minute alone with Cameron.

“What do you think about all this?” I ask him. “Think they can pull it off?”

“I have my doubts. I understand why he doesn't want us to go in with the first assault—if one of us gets killed, obviously, their proof could be lost—but I don't know if separating the group is any better.”

“What if I told you I had other ideas?”

“What do you mean?” he asks me.

“Crystal and I bought some equipment of our own earlier today. A computer and a digital camcorder. I think I'd like to try this a different way.”

“Different how?”

“I want to go in by myself.”

“What? We don't know how to mount an assault like this.”

“I think we can do plenty of damage to NeuroStor without stepping foot on their property. You and I are really all the proof anyone would need to believe what's going on.”

“But you said you wanted to go in on your own.”

“I do. Once we've documented our situation—my existence as your clone—then any extra proof I can get will only help build our case. And I've got a personal score to settle, if you know what I mean.”

Now the door opens again, and Crystal steps out. She sees us and walks on over.

“Don't be too obvious,” she says. “Clay doesn't miss much.”

Cameron looks at Crystal, then back at me. “I hope you know what you're doing,” he says.

Cameron,
I think.
You know I don't.

         

“There are two enclosed stairwells designated as fire escapes, encased by walls designed to hold off fire for three hours, and two other stairwells that carry no such designation. The fire-safe stairwells end in exit doors that open at ground level. We'll be entering the building at one of these exits.”

Clay clears his throat and continues.

“The primary exit for most buildings like this is out the nearest door, preferably something high volume. Our fire will be set to help direct employees to the front doors. Many people will even use the elevators. The less traffic we encounter on the way up the stairwell, the quicker we'll make it to the top. In any case, since all the door locks in the building are operated electronically, our contact inside will make sure the board members don't go anywhere at first. But there is no way to predict how long it will take someone to break down the door or go through a window. We shouldn't count on much extra time. The success of this operation will depend largely on surprise. We must move quickly.”

“How will you get the boardroom door open if your contact has locked it electronically?” I ask.

“There are closed-circuit video cameras all over the building,” Clay answers. “Including one that points right at the boardroom doors. When we arrive, he'll unlock them for us.”

“Oh.”

Clay continues. “Our suits have been outfitted with a special pocket to conceal our automatic weapons, but keep your hand on the MP-5 at all times. The nearest fire station is a little over three miles away. Someone will realize soon enough that our response time was a little too quick. The faster we move, though, the more likely we'll be near the top floor before encountering resistance.”

“Camerons, you will remain in the fire exits.” He points to a small room on the first-level floor plan. “We'll hide you in this utility closet until we've secured the boardroom. You'll wait exactly five minutes for someone to retrieve you. If no one comes by then, get the hell out of the building and run away from it as fast as you can.”

For the next forty or so minutes we go over the designated route, as well as two backup plans if the first fails. The soldiers choose their attack formation. And then we discuss the actual broadcast itself.

“A miniature hidden camera is mounted into each helmet. It will be wired to a digital video recorder and an FM transmitter. We'll send our signals to the van and Lee will transmit the best shots to the satellite. Once the boardroom is secure, we'll switch to a professional-style camera. This will assure the best possible picture for the money shot.”

Now Clay makes a dramatic body turn and faces Cameron and myself.

“Then the spotlight will turn on you two men. We need strong emotions, stuff that will play well for a television audience. I know you guys must have mixed feelings about all this, but we need the public to know how outraged you both are. And you”—he looks directly at me now—“it will be your job to describe the horror of being a scrambled version of your former self. I don't mean to sound insensitive, but you'll have to really play it up for television. On the small screen, we need big. Lots of emotion. And know what you're going to say.”

I picture myself standing in front of Batista, my machine gun trained on his head. Or maybe his cock—the one he stuck into Crystal. I imagine him quivering before me, begging for his slimy, useless life, exhorting me not to kill him, explaining to me in his patronizing, conceited way that there is no call for violence, no reason why there can't be a solution agreeable to—

“In fact,” Clay says to Crystal, “we should have scripted his dialogue.”

“It wouldn't sound real if we did that,” she replies.

“We could have given him an outline or something.”

“It's too late now. And we really should get everything over to the motel soon. This team needs to be well rested.”

It's shocking how they talk about my ruined life with such detached indifference. I'd like to strap Clay into a transmission portal and see what he thinks when his twin comes out on the other side. He probably wouldn't care. After all, it wouldn't be
him
. Just a clone.

Of course, I can't tell I'm a clone. I feel as real as any other person would. But do others see me that way? Is my life any less important than the original Cameron's?

To surviving friends and loved ones, what is death, exactly? An empty place in your heart once filled by the deceased, perhaps. But what happens when there is no void?

Without that void, what is death?

         

Clay decides to heed Crystal's advice. We pack the weapons and fire suits into the van and then head back to the motel. By now it's nearly nine o'clock, and a few dim stars have poked through the light-polluted firmament that passes for the Dallas–Fort Worth nighttime sky. I look out the window and try to remember what it was like to live in a world where none of this had happened.