Freedom Page 22

  The NSA director picked up the phone and started dialing.

  Chapter 24: // Green Desert

  Washington.com/politics

  NSA Director Removed Amid Bribery Scandal—In yet another case of government corruption, Lieutenant General Mark Richards was forced to step down early today amid charges that he accepted lavish gifts and favors in exchange for approving lucrative intelligence contracts—contracts that benefited foreign technology firms. He has so far refused to comment, his lawyer citing the pending criminal case. . . .

  Jon Ross moved through the crowd that had gathered around a soup kitchen. Grim-looking, recently middle-class refugees surged toward the queues. He could see the isolated D-Space call-outs of darknet members keeping order.

  “Form four lines! Four lines, please!”

  Ross stood up on the bumper of an abandoned car and gazed across a vast tent city, accumulated like so much plaque at the confluence of two interstate highways outside of Des Moines, Iowa. It was actually a mixed tent/car/RV city. He estimated several thousand makeshift campsites. There was music, the buzz of voices, dogs barking, and the shouts of children playing in the maze of humanity. The acrid smell of people cooking over magazine-and-newspaper fires filled the air.

  Ross searched for a path through the crowd and noticed a current of people flowing along a makeshift lane. He headed toward it, inching his way through a mass of people. He caught most of a conversation at the end of a soup kitchen line as he edged past. . . .

  “Where were you headed?”

  “We were trying to reach Ohio—my sister’s in Columbus—but the bastards privatized the interstate. The tolls are insane.”

  “We couldn’t afford gas. I’ve been trying to trade my truck for a motorcycle. You know anybody who has one?”

  “No, sorry. . . .”

  Ross reached the pathway and started passing individual camps—recent arrivals to homelessness. People with Infinitis and Lexus sedans. Furniture piled into the backs of expensive, crew-cab pickup trucks. A few people even had living room sets with sofas and matching chairs set up beneath tarps. Others used high-end camping gear meant for a trip to the lake. Still others sat, looking dazed and lost, in well-appointed camping trailers and motor homes. An economic hurricane had passed through these people’s lives, and they were still in shock.

  Ross did see one burgeoning business rising out of the ashes of consumer culture. Several heavily armed men were standing atop a container truck as brokers at the open doorway haggled with refugees. A banner hanging along the side read: WE BUY WATCHES AND JEWELRY. Ross had seen them in every tent city—hustlers repatriating luxury items for sale back to Asian markets, where the real money was. High-value items worth their shipping weight.

  Meanwhile, the bulky stuff—the plasma-screen televisions and furniture—was all winding up in piles, sold cheap to be stripped of metals and fabrics, and wood. Already trash was accumulating into mounds—some of it burning.

  Ross finally reached the edge of a darknet medical clinic. A cluster of call-outs hovered there in D-Space. He did a quick search and suddenly his target flashed—a second-level Horticulturalist named Hank_19.

  In a few moments Ross approached a weathered but hardy-lo oking man in his forties wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a work shirt. He was lowering boxes off the back of a thirty-year-old stake bed truck into the waiting hands of clinic workers.

  Ross waved, and Hank_19 waved back.

  “You still headed to Greeley?”

  “Yeah, just as soon as we drop off these supplies.”

  “I appreciate the ride. Gas shortages have made traveling difficult.” Ross joined the crew off-loading and in a few minutes they had cleared the truck bed. Hank_19 wiped his brow and hopped off the tailgate. “Damn it’s hot.” He extended his calloused hand. “Henry Fossen. Call me Hank.”

  Ross shook his hand. “You don’t go in for darknet handles, I take it.”

  “My father gave me my name, and I intend to use it. I would’ve just selected the handle ‘Hank,’ but eighteen Hanks already beat me to it. You got a real name?”

  “Jon.”

  “All right, Jon no-last-name.” He looked up at Ross’s call-out. “I guess a twelfth-level Rogue’s gotta be secretive. What the hell’s a ‘Rogue’ do on the darknet, anyway?” He slammed the tailgate closed. “I thought rogues were bad guys.”

  Ross laughed. “In the darknet we’re more like scouts. We infiltrate systems and facilities, and we detect threats to the network. Move about unseen, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, reconnaissance.”

  “You could say that.”

  “My boy’s in a recon regiment overseas.”

  “I hope he comes home safe.”

  “So do I. And I hope we get this economic mess sorted out before then.” He glanced up at Ross’s call-out again. “Well, you’ve got a four-and-a-half-star reputation on a three K base—which means you must be doing something right. Hop in.”

  Fossen whistled to two younger men cradling scoped AR-15 rifles. They wore tactical gear and body armor—fourth-level Fighters with Scandinavian-sounding network handles. They had been busy talking to a young nurse at the aid station. They nodded to Fossen and came running, hopping up into the cargo bed.

  Ross got into the cab with Fossen, and they were soon easing the old Ford stake bed through the tent city crowd.

  Ross gestured to the truck. “Biodiesel?”

  “No. Dimethyl ether. They split the water in Greeley with wind turbine electricity and add the hydrogen to something to create hydrocarbons. Makes a pretty good diesel fuel. I still don’t quite understand it. I had no idea half this stuff existed until a few months ago.”

  “So, the guards . . . are you expecting trouble?”

  He shook his head. “No. The town council requires armed escorts down to the city. A lot of desperate folks out here. But there’s a darknet recruiting station to the right. Hopefully it’ll get people sorted out in the next few months.”

  Ross looked over to see a series of motor homes resembling bookmobiles. Dozens of call-outs clustered around them. Lines of civilians were waiting to be interviewed by the automated recruiting bot of the Daemon—what was known as The Voice. Ross had gone through a similar process, just not with such a crowd.

  “This is just the first wave, I think. A lot more people are about to fall out of the old economy.”

  “You think so?” Fossen brought the truck slowly through the crowd, people making way. He nodded to them genially. “I mean, how could we let this happen here in America?”

  “It’s no accident. I’ve seen it before in other countries. It’s all about control. The powerful scaring people into submission.”

  Fossen nodded. “I’ve had some experience with that. Just not on this scale.”

  “This is nothing. The real shock is coming. Believe me.”

  Fossen gestured to the tent city out the window. “This isn’t the real shock?”

  “No. It’ll be much, much worse. They’ll try to psychologically traumatize the public into accepting a new social order.”

  “And you know this because . . . ?”

  “Firsthand experience.”

  Fossen raised his eyebrows. “I can tell you’re going to be a barrel of fun on the way.”

  After a few minutes Fossen finally brought them out of the crowd. As the old Ford picked up speed, the cab got much noisier, especially with the windows open, and they drove for a while without talking.

  Eventually Fossen turned to his passenger, shouting, “So what brings a rogue to Greeley?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “They in trouble?”

  Ross shook his head. “No. I got word a few days ago that an old friend I thought was dead is actually alive.”

  “That’s good news. Does he know you’re coming?”

  “He moves around. He’s hard to get in touch with.”

  “Maybe I’ve heard of him. What’s his name?”
/>
  “The Unnamed One.”

  “That’s his name? ‘Unnamed One’?”

  “You might know him better by his real name: Detective Pete Sebeck.”

  Fossen just frowned. “The Daemon hoax guy? He’s not really dead?”

  “You didn’t see the news feeds on his quest?”

  “I don’t read news feeds much. Not enough time in the day lately. How do you know he’s in Greeley?”

  “I’ve seen feed reports that say he’s in the area.”

  “That’s new to me, but like I said, I don’t read the feeds much.” Fossen seemed to be pondering something. “I’m no expert, but can’t you just search for his coordinates if you know his handle?”

  “He keeps them unlisted—I suspect because of all the press he’s been getting. A lot of people are following his quest.”

  “So he’s on a quest—as in, heroic journey and all that?”

  “They say he’s searching for something called the Cloud Gate. A portal that may unlock a higher level of the darknet.”

  “Well, best of luck to him.”

  “Apparently he’s also been appearing in places where paramilitary units have been operating—helping to develop a smart mob-alert system.”

  “Well, we haven’t had any of that stuff occur near us. It’s been in Nebraska and Kansas mostly.”

  Ross looked at the landscape and rows of abandoned houses with FOR SALE signs in suburban subdivisions. “They’re still foreclosing on houses out here?”

  “No. I think people are just abandoning them. Off to find work or public relief facilities. Driving is no longer an option for most people, and there’s nothing to live on out here.”

  “Is anyone swallowing the ‘illegals gone wild’ story?”

  “I don’t know. I think people would have noticed armed gangs if they really existed.”

  “Oh, they exist. They’re just not what the media claims.”

  “Then what are they?”

  “Paramilitary units. Terror squads.”

  Fossen just gave him a look. “I think we would have noticed that, too.”

  “Not if they move at night by helicopter.”

  “Helicopter?”

  Ross nodded. “They fly in low and fast. Drop in teams, advance on foot, then ex-fil by chopper. They’ve hung people. Burned houses. On television the next day you usually hear how gang violence is behind it. Senators calling for martial law. And checkpoints.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I’ve been tracking their movements for the last several months.”

  Fossen just gave Ross a sideways look. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  Ross pointed to Fossen’s call-out. “You joined the darknet recently.”

  “Yeah. My daughter convinced me. She’s really something.”

  “You have a farm?”

  “Fifth generation—a ‘horticulturalist’ now, I guess. My daughter has made a lot of positive changes to our operation. You should come by and see it.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Jenna’s rising fast in the Greeley holon. She’s leading two projects now—a biodiversity initiative and an education program.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “I’m proud of both my kids. Life is starting to make sense again for us. I just hope we can get other folks on the new economy in time.”

  Fossen turned the old truck onto a county road and soon they were heading out into a veritable ocean of green corn plants stretching unbroken to the horizon. This road was even louder in the old truck, so Ross just watched the landscape roll by.

  They occasionally passed through small, downscale towns. Ross was able to spot them at a distance not by their church steeples but by the local grain elevators—invariably a row of concrete tubes a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet tall looming like missile silos at the end of Main Street.

  Between the towns they passed several abandoned farmhouses, crumbling in the prairie. The clapboard ruins were choked with bushes and collapsing in on themselves.

  Ross shouted over the engine. “That doesn’t look recent. Why all the empty houses?”

  Fossen leaned close. “Been happening for decades. Farms had to get big or go out of business. Market forces. The population of this county has dropped about a third in the last fifteen years or so. It’s coming back now, though.”

  He slowed the truck down, and they turned this time onto a gravel road that was ramrod straight. They were traveling slower now, and it was much easier to talk.

  “The fields look healthy.”

  Fossen waved him off. “Those plants have as much to do with agriculture as a weight lifter on steroids has to do with physical fitness. See that?” He pointed out tiny plastic signs spaced ten yards apart running along the edges of the fields near the road. The signs stretched into the distance and all bore the image of a green leaf with a single dewdrop dripping from the tip. The text HALPERIN ORGANIX—MITROVEN 336 was written in a bold sans serif font beneath the logo. The signs looked cheerful, healthy, and inviting. “They’re all clones designed to maximize kernel production. In fact, ninety-eight percent of the crops grown in this country a century ago are now extinct.

  “This is just a big green desert. You’d starve to death out here. This corn is inedible—it’s just starch; it needs to be processed in an industrial stomach, with acids and chemicals, to break it down into processed food additives. We’re up to our eyeballs in corn here in Iowa and we can’t even feed ourselves.”

  “I gather that’s the plan.”

  Fossen nodded. “Damned right. Big business was screwing over farmers in the 1890s, too, and my grandfather’s father didn’t put up with it back then, either. There was an uprising. You might not think it, but it was always the farmers who raised hell in this country. They worked for themselves, were self-reliant, and weren’t about to take shit from anybody. But then some clever bastard figured out how to make crops inedible. My family’s been doing industrial farming for forty years and all it produces is debt, pollution, and water shortages. It ruins the land and the people on it.”

  Ross nodded to the uniform fields out the window. “You think these other farmers will change?”

  “They’ll have no choice. Gas is, what—eighteen bucks a gallon now? Industrial farming and the global supply chain gobble up fossil fuel.” He peeled off each item with his fingers. “Natural gas in the fertilizers, petroleum-based pesticides, fuel for the tractors, more fuel for transport to food processors, fuel to process the raw crops into food additives, then to manufacture them into products, and then to transport the products across the country or world to be consumed—thirteen hundred miles on average.”

  “What made you finally change?”

  Fossen stopped for a moment then laughed. “When I started educating myself on why farming no longer made sense. We basically used oil and aquifer water to temporarily boost the carrying capacity of the land, all for economic growth demanded by Wall Street investors. It’s a crazy system that only makes sense when you foist all the costs onto taxpayers in the form of crop subsidies that benefit agribusiness, and defense spending to secure fossil fuels. We’re basically paying for corporations to seize control of the food supply and dictate to us the terms under which we live.”

  They continued down the gravel road, sending up a cloud of white dust behind them. The road curved up toward a slight rise on the horizon. They came over it, and a dramatic shift in the scenery occurred.

  Now, in the fields on either side was a patchwork of crops and fences, along with rows of saplings, the occasional chicken coop, and a few cows grazing in a meadow. It was, in fact, the first sizeable area of prairie grass Ross had seen in many miles.

  Before long Hank slowed the truck and came to a halt at the intersection with a paved road. He pointed to their right. “Greeley’s down that way about a quarter mile.”

  Ross could see a wooden sign alongside the road. It read WELCOME TO GREELEY with Rotary Club and Kiwa
nis Club badges bolted just below. Above that, floating in D-Space, glowed a virtual sign that read: Iowa’s first darknet community. Ross knew it meant that all of the town’s civic functions and officials were darknet-based. Judging from the widespread construction going on in the countryside, they might have been the most advanced, too.

  “Our place is up ahead a few miles. You interested in a tour, or should I take you straight into Greeley?”

  Ross nodded across the road. “I’d love to get a tour.”

  Hank nodded and brought them across the road and down the gravel lane beyond. After a few minutes Ross saw barns, outbuildings, a traditional farmhouse, and a new-looking prefab house among some trees up ahead. There were also a couple of shipping containers and a few modern turbines turning in the breeze a ways off.

  Fossen nodded to the view. “This is ours.”

  Fossen turned into the farm’s long gravel driveway. There was an ornate D-Space 3-D object in the shape of a cornucopia bursting with vegetables and fruits hanging above the entrance. It was labeled Fossen Farm.

  Dogs with D-Space call-outs above them ran out, barking to greet the truck. Two of them were black Labs named Blackjack and Licorice, and the third was a Golden Retriever named Hurley.

  Ross smiled. “That’s clever.”

  “Well, they’re always getting into trouble. This way we know where they are.” He stopped the truck near the barn, and the Fighters in back quickly hopped out.

  Ross looked around just as a woman called from the porch of the white clapboard farmhouse. She was a stout-looking woman in her forties or fifties in work clothes and a garden hat. She had no call-out or HUD glasses. “Everything go okay at the clinic?”

  Hank nodded. “The crowd’s getting bigger.” He took off his own hat and gestured to Ross. “Lynn, this is Jon. Jon, this is my wife, Lynn.”

  “Oh.” She extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jon.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I’m giving Jon a ride into Greeley, but I thought I’d give him the tour.”

  “Well, don’t bore him to death. You know how you get. Let us know if you need anything, Jon.”