An Old Friend’s Plan
Tom and I spent the rest of the early afternoon getting ready to leave. When evening fell, I made a simple dinner, then cleaned up after. Once I finished the dishes, Tom had me sit with him to go over his will, his advanced directive, and all the other paperwork which represented his end-of-life planning.
The dry details which were meant to square-away his death made his passing more real to me than anything had thus far. I hated every word of the discussion, so I tried to put it off. I argued there was plenty of time to talk about arrangements and all the other bullshit. The fact that he wanted to be cremated and scattered instead of buried was a piece of information that could wait until after our trip.
Tom put a quick stop to my objections. “We’re leaving here tonight on the job. There’s a good chance you’ll have to come back alone. I’m sorry, son, but we’ve got to get this squared-away now. I don’t think we’ll get another chance.”
I tried to stop being childish and to participate in the discussion like Tom needed me to. He took the opportunity of my attention to tell me some secrets. “My given name isn’t Tom Collins. I was born as Alfred Nathaniel Edmunds the Fourth. Now I guess I’m the last. Good riddance to the name and all the men who wore it. ‘Tom Collins’ was a name I used in the service. A bunch of us who were members of a special combat team gave ourselves names like that. There was Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Johnnie Walker, Jose Cuervo, and me. Jose Cuervo originally wanted to be Captain Morgan, but he was only a Corporal, so we didn’t let him. I liked the name Collins, and I didn’t like my family, so when I got out of the Corps, I changed my name to match my handle.
“Jose Cuervo was killed in Nam. Johnnie Walker died of cancer five or so years ago. Only three of us are left. Soon, only two. My old friend Jack is who we’re going to see in Detroit. He’s a member of The Organization like me. I’m telling you this because you’ll find it out when I’m gone. The record of my name change is important to my estate. I didn’t want you to think I hid it from you. I never told you because it’s part of my past that I don’t like. You don’t like to talk about the stuff you lived through before we met. I don’t like to talk about my life before I joined the Marines. If we have some time when we’re in Motown, I’ll take you by the old homestead and show you where I grew up.”
I didn’t know what to make of Tom’s story. He’d given me some background information, but no details. I wondered if he would tell me more as we traveled. We were headed to Detroit, his old hometown. It made sense that he would offer more of his story as we immersed ourselves in his original surroundings.
We finished packing and got ready to go. I loaded the car with our luggage and weapons. I also did as Tom instructed and added a .38 Special to a concealed holster on my belt. I didn’t think I’d need it, but I had a habit of always doing as he said.
I backed the Town Car out of the garage and waited while Tom closed and locked the doors. He let me take the first shift at the wheel. We had about 600 miles to travel, and we agreed to swap driving after every fuel stop. He finished securing the garage, then he walked around the car to stand next to the driver’s side door. I put the window down to see what was up.
He lit a cigarette and snapped his lighter closed. “I bought this house in 1978. I’ve lived here almost thirty years. Where does the time go?”
Tom smoked but didn’t move or speak. I got worried something was wrong. “You alright, Dad?”
He ignored my question and asked one of his own. “Do you think you’ll come back here? When all this is over, I mean. Do you think you’d want to live here? It’s a good old house. The neighborhood is turning to shit, but those things have a tendency to come back around. I bet in a few years they’ll have those yuppie coffee shops on every corner. Hell, the whole neighborhood might turn gay. The newbies would all think you were a…what the hell do they call that? An early adopter, that’s it! You could play right along with them. You wouldn’t even have to tell them about me. You could let them think you’re a trend setter.”
He drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke out. He rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his free hand. “Damn wind! It blew the smoke right back in my face. It’s got my eyes watering.”
Just like Tom had never seen me cry, I had never seen him cry either. His broad back was to me, so I still hadn’t really seen him, but I knew what he was doing. I understood why he was sad. He was leaving his home for the last time. He wanted to know if I would come back to it, to dwell in the place that had seen more years of his life than any other. I tried to reassure my father. “Of course, I’ll live here.”
He tried to make light of my promise, like he didn’t want to hold me to it. His breath hitched in his throat as he laid out all the places I could live if I wanted to. “You…uh…you don’t have to…if you don’t want. You could go anywhere. You could get a great, big place over in Jersey, or out in the country. There’s still land available up above Willow Grove. Lots of room up that way. Maybe you could spend a little time here, just to keep an eye on the place. It’s paid for. The taxes aren’t much. There’s plenty of money in my estate to keep them paid, but I guess you can use that for whatever you want. It won’t be any of my affair what you spend it on. It’ll be your money.”
Tom was rambling. He obviously needed a hug, but I couldn’t get out of the car without banging the door into his back. I flipped the armrests up and slid across the leather seats to get out the passenger side. I ran around the front of the car to stand before my father. I was shocked to see how old he looked. It was like he aged the eighteen years that we’d known each other in an instant. His hair was iron grey, and his full, round face sagged more than it used to. I guess I never noticed before. I always saw him as I did when I was eight. I never realized that as much time had gone by for him as it had for me.
He frowned with his whole, sad face. His mouth quivered as he tried to keep the tears from falling. They streamed from his eyes anyway. My heart broke for the poor old man. Here he was at the end of his life trying to figure out if what he was leaving behind was worth a damn. I did my best to assure him that it was. “I love this house. I’ll absolutely live here. This is my home. I couldn’t live anywhere except here because nowhere else would ever be home.”
Tom grabbed me in a hug so tight, I thought he would squeeze my insides out. “You made it a home. You did that. It was only a house until you came here. You brought love to it. Love makes a home. I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Tom kissed the side of my face and pushed us apart. He sniffed and brushed at the tears he’d left on my shirt. “I’m sorry. I can’t even blame the tumor for that. I’m just a big baby, I guess.” He brushed at a streak which ran almost all the way to my waist. His fingers knocked against my concealed gun, and he drew his hand back like he burned it. Even though his reaction was one of surprise, he praised me for what he found. “That’s good. I’m glad you listened.”
“I always listen to you.”
He grabbed my shoulder and turned me around so we could both look at the back of the house. He pointed into the tiny yard. “You know what would be nice? I always wanted an oak tree, right there. There’s never been any shade here. Plant one for me, would you? Let it grow tall and spread its branches out. The neighbors will hate you for it, what with all the leaves and the acorns the thing will drop, but you’ll love the shade. Would you do that for me?”
“I promise.”
“Good. You’re a good boy.” Tom clapped my shoulder and plodded around to the passenger side of the car. He got in and lit a fresh cigarette.
I got in the driver’s side and started our journey.
* * * *
“Would you look at this shit hole? It’s a sin what they’ve done to this place.” Tom rolled his window down as I drove us into what was left of center city Detroit. The city was a shell, a husk. There was barely enough population left to warrant keeping the lights on and barely enough jobs to pay for the electricity. Detroit had become a city that no one wanted.
I tried to offer some comfort from Tom’s own speech about our neighborhood back in Philly. “It’ll come back. These things always go in cycles. You said so yourself.”
He tossed away a cigarette and lit another. “Nah, not this place. Even back in the fifties when the whole country was booming, Detroit was already on its way down. The giant Packard plant closed in 1958. Just the one closure threw six thousand people out of work. The six grand was just the plant workers. They never tell you how many scores of support jobs are lost. Parts suppliers, upholsterers, paint manufacturers, steel mill jobs, all the way down to the barbers who cut the plant workers’ hair; all those people are impacted, their livelihoods taken away, lives ruined.
“They shut the gates in 1958, and six thousand people lost their jobs. I bet it was at least twice that who suffered; maybe three times. My father was beside himself. He always drove Packards. I remember the pride he had in those cars. ‘Ask the man who owns one,’ he used to say. That was their advertising slogan for years. The worst beating I ever caught in my life was when the ice cream fell off my cone in the back seat of his Caribbean Convertible. That beating was why I never hit you. The old man dislocated my shoulder. He had to have the butler take me to the hospital so they could put it back.”
I glanced over at my father while he alternately ranted about the decline of the city and the physical violence he suffered at the hands of his father. I was surprised to hear about the beating. In all the years I’d been his son, he never said a word about his family. I had no idea he was a victim of child abuse. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know if he wanted to talk about his feelings, or if he was just sounding off. Tom had his own mind and would speak his piece if he wished. I didn’t ask for more information, and he didn’t offer.
He directed my driving to a squat brick building just outside of the city center. The building occupied only one small corner of a vast, paved parking lot. When we got out of the car, I commented on the massive amount of surface parking we’d seen in the city center. “At least the planners made sure you’d never have to blow a tank of gas looking for a place to park.”
Tom squinted his eyes like I had a screw loose. “It’s not planning. It’s decay. All those parking lots used to be buildings. They were empty for so long, the structures got weak. The city got a bunch of money from the feds to demolish the dangerous ones. Now, half the fucking city is gone. Think of that. Think of all the people who used to work in those buildings. Where the hell are they? Where did all the jobs go? People used to be proud to live here. Now there’s barely enough left of the place to even be called a city.”
Tom drew on the cigarette he’d been smoking and flicked the butt away across the windswept lot. It landed with a burst of sparks and tumbled across the concrete until it came to rest against a clump of weeds that grew from a crack in the pavement. He hadn’t watched the butt like I had. When I looked up, he was already on his way toward the building.
He and I entered a small, glass vestibule and were confronted by a door with a magnetic lock and an intercom. Tom pressed a button under the speaker. A tone sounded, and he spoke his name. “Collins to see Daniels.” The door buzzed and clicked open. We walked inside.
The door opened into a short hallway. A tall, thin, long-legged black man stood at the end of it. He had a fringe of white hair around his high domed bald head. He wore a plain grey suit which had no pretext of being dressy. The man reminded me of Uncle Ben from the boxes of rice at the grocery store. A narrow, black tie hung all the way to the buckle on his belt. The funny thing about the man was the contrast of the cheap suit and the crisp appearance of it. The pleats were perfect and the fabric smooth. Even his narrow tie was knotted with precision. The man was definitely a Marine.
Tom bellowed a greeting and hurried to meet the man. “JACKSON, you old jarhead! What’s it been, like a million fuckin’ years?” Tom wrapped Jack in a bear hug. The look on Jack’s face said he did not appreciate the physical affection.
In spite of his grimace over being manhandled, Jack issued a greeting from inside Tom’s arms. “Welcome, to both of you.”
Jack’s voice was well-modulated and soothing. He spoke like the narrator of a historical documentary, where each syllable of every word was pronounced with crisp precision. His speech stood in stark contrast to Tom’s habit of smearing vowels together and dropping consonants.
Jack clapped Tom on the shoulders and pushed himself out of his friend’s embrace. He offered a manicured hand for me to shake. “Jackson Lewis Whiteman, also known as Jack Daniels. You must be Marvin. I’ve heard a great deal about you over the years. It’s nice to finally meet the boy who was able to turn Thomas into a family man.”
I shook his hand. “Marvin Collins. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Whiteman.”
“Please, call me Jack. Everyone does.”
With the introductions finished, Jack led us into a small conference room with a wall screen and a ceiling-mounted projector that was connected to a computer. Tom put a cigarette in his mouth and snapped his lighter open. The sound of the lighter elicited a sharp reaction from Jack. “Thomas, no smoking in here!”
Tom snapped his lighter closed and returned it to his pocket. He moved near a wastebasket in the corner and made some modifications to his cigarette. He knocked enough tobacco out of either end of the unfiltered cigarette to twist the paper closed. He popped the resulting packet of tobacco into his mouth and pushed it into his cheek with his tongue.
I’d never seen Tom obey anyone who told him not to smoke. I’d also never seen anyone use a cigarette like it was a pouch of dip tobacco. The day seemed like it would be filled with firsts.
Jack perched a pair of half-glasses on his broad nose and sat behind the computer which was connected to the projector. He powered everything on and entered a long password. After some more typing and beeping from the computer, the projector displayed an image on the screen. It was a map of the United States. A keystroke changed the image to an inset of several states from the northwestern quarter of the country. Another keystroke added three clusters of blue dots to the map. Jack explained the significance of what we saw.
“The three groups of dots represent the ground based nuclear arsenal of the United States. These are the Minuteman missile silos, and they are gathered around three air force bases. The bases are Malmstrom in Montana, Minot in North Dakota, and Francis E. Warren which straddles the Wyoming and Nebraska border. The missiles, which number five hundred or so, are capable of delivering two-thousand nuclear warheads to the doorsteps of our global enemies.”
I started to ask a question about how ‘hundreds’ of missiles could deliver ‘thousands’ of warheads, but Jack talked over me. He anticipated my question.
“These numbers will not make sense to you until I explain that each missile contains multiple warheads. The most recent iteration of the Minuteman Missile system, which was put into service in 1970, is known as a MIRVS, or a ’multiple independently-targeted re-entry vehicle system.’ When launched, the entire body of the missile leaves the underground silo and is propelled beyond the atmosphere. Once the missile enters space, it ejects its shroud. The shroud releases multiple warheads which then reenter the atmosphere and follow their individual guidance to their targets.”
Tom took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He had it between his lips and was checking his pockets for his lighter when a scowl from Jack stopped his hands. He heaved a ragged sigh and took the unlit cigarette from his mouth. Tom pointed the fingers with the cigarette between them at the projection screen. “Yeah, missiles, great. So what? What’s that mean for us?”
Jack looked over his glasses. “I see your patience hasn’t increased with your age, Thomas. The point, as you very well know, is the security of the control system, specifically the launch command. Because of the distributed nature of the missile silos, and because of the need to be able to launch them remotely, the signals are sent over a secure channel via the internet. This channel is cloaked by the most advanced security technology the United States Military has available. Unfortunately, the technology has not been enough to guard against the recent hacking attempt. That is why you gentleman are here.”
Tom rubbed the side of his face where the cigarette was in his cheek. He seemed to be trying to coax more nicotine from it. His inability to smoke, even for so short a time, was making him irritable. “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t even own a computer. The boy has a laptop he uses, but I don’t know the first thing about any of that crap. How the fuck do you think we can help?”
Jack blew out a sigh of frustration. He pushed a button on the computer keyboard and the projection screen went dark. He stood from the desk and removed his glasses. He used the folded pair to beckon for Tom and I to follow. We left the interior of the building for the central courtyard where there was a picnic table with a butt can next to it.
Tom spat the cigarette from his cheek into the can and lit a fresh one. The built-up frustration smoothed from his features as he exhaled the first drag into the sky. He thanked his friend for cutting the conference room presentation short. “I appreciate it, Jackson. It’s a filthy fucking habit, but I’m too damn far along to stop now.”
“It will kill you one of these days, Thomas.”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck with the heel of his left hand. He hedged his response. “Yeah, well, let’s talk about that later. Tell me what’s needed. I’m a simple man. I like a simple solution to a problem. Usually, I get a file, then I do a job. I’m not used to getting called into conference over anything.”
“Unfortunately, our current problem is not as easy as all that. At some juncture, I hope we will arrive at the expediency of a solution like the one you mentioned. There is much investigation to be done first. If we were still in the conference room, I would have shown you an image of data centers across the nation. The centers are the internet. You may think of them as large warehouses filled with mainframe computers. They store and transmit the data which is shared and sent over the web.
“The data centers I refer to are very like the sorting centers of the postal service. Whatever information that is to be transmitted originates from a source, like your son’s laptop computer. Each source has its own digital address. The information is sent from the source in fragments called packets. These packets are like letters which must travel through the system to their destination. They are addressed and fully traceable from their origin to their terminus.
“This is how it is possible for the government’s counterterrorism experts to locate hackers. They trace the packets from the terminus, backwards through the system, all the way to the source. Obviously, there are creative ways for a hacker to disguise the routing of their packets, but a good specialist in computer forensics, which I am, can usually follow the footprints they leave no matter how artfully they try to hide them.
“In this case, the footprints have led us back to several data centers, but no further. It’s as if the hack, to use a crude term, originated within the mainframe itself. Obviously, the computer isn’t the source. The source must be a person. We must find that person. You and young Marvin are to guard my team while we travel to these data centers to investigate. Once the source is discovered, you will be on hand to dispatch them.”
Tom raised a point that our discussion had yet to cover. “Do we know what they want? The hackers, I mean. We know they’re trying to access the missiles, but do we know why?”
“We do not. My counterparts at DHS have recorded no enlightening communication amongst the usual groups. At present, it’s impossible for us to know what the goal of the enemy is. Are they merely terrorists, bent on launching the missiles to destroy as much of the world as they can? If they manage to do that, you can be certain that the other nuclear powers the world over will launch as well. If that happens, billions will die and humanity will be thrust back into the dark ages. The responsible group would ruin their own existence as well as everyone else’s. Perhaps that is what they want. There are those who worship death and destruction. They care not whether they die as long as they take a great many with them.
“It is also possible the responsible group has more practical desires. They may wish to hold the missiles hostage for money or for the release of political prisoners. A motivation of that type would make more sense to a rational man such as myself. That said, a truly rational man would not involve themselves with a group which intended to incur the wrath of the United States Government. The government takes a rather jaundiced view of these types of antics. The responsible group, whomever they are, will not live to see their plans come to fruition. To the point of your original question, dear Thomas, we do not know who they are or what their motivation might be. I suspect that no indication of intention has been provided because the hack has yet to succeed.
“We do know that they are widespread. The initiation points of the hack span the entirety of the country. We have recorded points in five data centers so far. These have been located in Chicago, Illinois; Houston, Texas; Mobile, Alabama; Omaha, Nebraska; and Washington DC. We suspect the group is well-funded, but they may not be. They may have been able to attract computer programming experts to their cause with their ideology alone. Those experts may have been able to secure employment at the data centers I mentioned. Anything is possible. At this point, all we have is conjecture. That is why we must travel to these places to investigate, and why I asked you to protect us on our journey.”
Tom chain lit another cigarette from the first. He crushed the first out on the end of one of the wood slats of the picnic table and tossed the butt into the butt can. The accuracy of Tom’s careless-looking tosses always impressed me. I’d never seen him miss when he aimed at something. Even if there was a breeze, his discarded cigarette always landed where he wanted it to.
He drew on his fresh cigarette and sighed the smoke out. It drifted toward Jack and wreathed his head. Jack grimaced and waved the smoke away with an angry hand. Tom paid no attention to his friend’s discomfort. “I’m not in love with the idea of being a bodyguard. Killing and guarding are very different disciplines. I’ve done some guarding, but it’s been years…decades, really. Marvin hasn’t done any. What’s the threat level? How many people are we protecting? Where are we going? How are we getting there? I brought hardware, but I would have brought different equipment for guard duty.”
Jack tried to placate Tom’s concerns. “The threat level is very low. No one knows who I really am or who my employer is. According to my identification, I am a bland functionary of one of the countless companies who are stakeholders in these data centers. I have credentials from Google, AOL, Microsoft, Amazon, Apple, Comcast, etcetera. I am merely going to do a routine inspection of the facilities. In fact, my visits are already scheduled with the managing personnel at the various centers. Everything about my arrival, inspection, and departure will be innocuous. I plan to raise no flags until we find the source of the hack. I’ve said you will be our guard, but for all practical purposes you will merely be our chaperone.”
Tom wasn’t placated. He remained unhappy about the job. “Like a fuckin’ field trip.”
Jack was unperturbed by Tom’s discontented growling and swearing. He parroted Tom’s foul language to make that point. “Yes, Thomas, like a fucking field trip. And why not, may I ask? We have all the right players to act in all the right roles. You will be our surly boss, a figurehead who doesn’t understand what we do, but who has been appointed by management to maintain order and efficiency. I am the expert, the man with the credentials who manages the team. I have two young people who will go with us. Both are recent college graduates. They are on the very ragged edge of advancing technology. Marvin, who so far strikes be as a taciturn youth, can easily blend in with them. All will be correct and proper and quite bland. If everything goes well, the only excitement shall be at the end, and even then, it should be quite brief.”
Tom stubbed his second cigarette out and grumbled a sarcastic complaint. “When do we all stick our hands in and say, ‘yay team?’”
Jack grimaced at Tom’s continued objections and offered some sarcasm in answer to them. “If you’re of the mind to do so, we can ‘huddle up,’ as they say in the area of team sports, and perform the ritual you describe when the rest of the team is present. We shall gather here prior to our departure tomorrow morning.”
Tom’s scowl finally broke into an amused grin in reaction to Jack’s biting sarcasm. “You’re still a wiseass, aren’t you, Jackson?”
Jack’s grimace remained. “I am a great many things, Thomas, including an Episcopal priest. I have never been and never will be a wiseass to use your crass term. I merely responded to you in the same manner in which you have spoken to me.”
Tom stared at Jack. “You’re a priest?”
“I am, for ten years now. I don’t have a congregation, but I serve as a supply priest for the diocese. You may think of me as a substitute teacher. I serve when one of the others is unavailable due to vacation or illness. I also assist with large events, though in our city of depleted population, there are sadly few of those.”
Tom used the heel of his left hand to rub the back of his neck. He looked uncomfortable, but the reason wasn’t obvious. “May I talk to you? May I confide in the version of you that wears the collar?”
“You may. I must caution you that Episcopalian priests do not hear confession like those of the Catholic faith. We believe that when a person has sinned, they should repent those sins directly to the Lord. We do not believe in the need for an intermediary between the sinner and God.”
“I’m not asking for you to hear my confession. For me to confess something, I would have to be ready to repent for it. I can’t say there’s much I’ve done that I care to repent. You’re a friend and you’re a man of God. There are things that I need to say to both.”
Jack consented to hearing what Tom had to say. He turned a cautious pair of eyes toward me. “What shall we do with young Marvin?”
I saw the need for the two men to have some privacy. I stood from the table and took the car keys from my pocket. “I’ll go get the car washed. It’s filthy from all the driving. Maybe I’ll take a little look around the city. I’ve got my phone, so you can let me know when it’s time to come back.”
Tom muttered his gratitude around another cigarette he was in the middle of lighting. Jack waved to me from his spot at the table. “Good to meet you, young man. Enjoy your tour of the city but be careful. Do not attempt to examine any of our abandoned structures too closely. You may find that they are not as abandoned as they appear. There is an old saying which observes that a wounded animal is a dangerous thing indeed. The city of Detroit is grievously wounded.”
I promised to be careful and left the friends to their chat.
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