"Ask & It Shall Be Given Unto You"
Owl's Nest, Newton NJ 1700 hours 7th of May, 2008 Freedom. It had finally become his. No longer just a concept, something whispered about lest the hope, the dream be blown away by a louder word. No longer something observed from the outside and wished for deep within. It was not even only a possibility if he was good enough, any more, it was the reality for him, for Eric Schweig. For the first time since his youth, no one was watching his every move, threatening dire punishments if he didn't do it right. It seemed even the SIA-Taskforce were going quite easy on him now that he was "in." He had his own house, his own job, his own money, and he could do with them as he pleased. Eric had most, if not all, he could ask for. This was the American dream; this was freedom, was it not? Granted, there had been some fallout from the sniping mission SNAFU (Situation Normal, All Fouled Up.) No sooner had they gotten over Eric's shakes, Cindy's nausia, & Timothy's elated jabbering post mission success when they were jumped by a furious Gray who threatened to send them back out to clean up their own mess! Housecleaning in-deed! The team stood together in defense of each other, and he relented, and his cleaners did a good job removing the evidence. In the end, Rebecca was sufficiently impressed and things appeared hopeful for Eric for the future. It seemed, in-spite of all Eric's efforts to prevent it, their informant had turned double agent and informed on them. Had they done anything to prevent his turning, it would have aroused the target's suspicion anyway. In the end the performance of the Owl's brood was judged to exemplify the professionalism that was to characterize the SIA-Taskforce teams, especially considering the circumstances. Eric took full advantage of his freedom. He explored the area, going on an EASY car camping trip at the campground in Stokes, just to his north. He'd seen far wilder places, and the rangers hardly seemed to care about what they taught. He'd shopped, acquiring a new wardrobe, modest though it was. He tried some stereotypical rawhide and jean jackets, cowboy boots, and the like, but was much more comfortable in BDUs. He had much more fun acquiring the close fitting tiger stripe camo fatigues he'd used in the green beret black operations, than at the mall. He'd thrown some things in the back of the truck, found a freeway heading west, and just driven for a couple of days, seeing the sights. This, he supposed, was what most people would have called a vacation, would have called freedom. Perhaps, but he did have to get back in time for the next appearance at the cover job, and driving the range rover just wasn't like driving a desert fast attack vehicle. He went to an amusement park, took the rides, and concluded that civilians, however hard they tried, could never match the thrills of a real HALO jump. He had to walk out half way through a spy thriller movie, hack into the movie's web site, and post a scathing critique about its lack of credibility and accuracy concerning espianoge tactics and equipment. So it went. He did the things civilians did to amuse themselves, and simply was not amused, finding their promises hollow. Eric Schweig was getting bored. It was a breezy Wednesday afternoon, and Eric had run out of things to do. He'd long since explored his land, thoroughly, getting to know its nuances and setting traps for those who might invade without permission. He'd completed a mission successfully, and done the daily PT he required of himself. He was as established as he could be at the job, still waiting for his first real assignment, and was a day ahead in his general research on them and their prior work. He hadn't heard from the SIA-Taskforce, and found nothing in his search of the top secret government databases in which they might be involved. There was the Samboy Agregates thing, various agencies were investigating them, but that had been in the works for the last two weeks. If they hadn't called him in on it yet, they probably weren't going to. Thus, Eric believed, he was "free" to do nothing of consequence with the next few hours. He determined to leave the weapons behind, though he would take the cell phone and his combat dagger, head down to Newton and just "hang" for a while. He considered taking the SUV, but the 10 mile run would be nice, would expend some pent up energy and tension from sitting so long at his research. Perhaps something interesting would meet him. Newton, NJ 1745 hours The native American in olive drab teeshirt, khaki cargo pants, and red bandana tied around his head completed the last 800 yards into town at a sprint, looking for all the world like an old western warrior who's head could not be shaved in boot camp. Reaching the first business of the place, a seedy bar, he slowed to jog, and continued through town until he felt he was cooled down. He walked around the block and found a bench on which to sit and rest. Eric was, as a person, a creature, a hunter and a reconnaissance operative. It would never leave him, and he paid no mind to the fact that he automatically took mental snapshots of the surroundings and compared them against his pre-existing knowledge of the place. It was as instinctive as breathing. He soon found himself staring across the street, considering the make of the structure there. Solid, it was, well built, plain and not showy. It wasn't an office building, perhaps a school, though it was somewhat smaller than the public school, and that was in another part of town. His eyes moved upward, and saw the plain wooden cross at the top of the shallowly slanted roof. A church then. It was nice to see the lack of showiness in it, coming from people who probably taught humility. He sat there and considered for a time, things of religion, spirituality. The ancient spirituality of his people, the modern corruptions of the same. The white missionaries and their churches that had destroyed much of that ancient spirituality, that had destroyed much of their culture and way of life. The modern permutations of, those white missionary churches, from what he had heard, were either sell-outs to the broader secular culture, or continuing their missionary activities elsewhere in the world, messing up people's lives wherever they went. It was upsetting, thinking about what the white church had done, was doing, but that building, that cross, simply sat across the street and looked back at him, honest, humble, and unassuming. He could not be upset at that. As he watched a van load of people piled out in the parking lot, some of them Native Americans outfitted in the regalia of the great plains tribes, probably Lakota, and carrying modern and traditional instruments. The clash, or was it a blending, of cultures was obvious. Eric could not see, in his logic, how the two groups could interact on good terms while trying to maintain their own identity. How, then, had he made it? A part of his mind argued back. He hadn't, but had forged his own way, knocking down attacks from both sides, he retorted. Christians, if they were honest, couldn't try to knock down attacks. He found himself curious, though, and hoped, in any case, to learn as he continued to watch. The leader of the group, a middle aged white man, saw Eric, waved and smiled, and He lifted a hand in acknowledgement to be polite, but began looking for something to appear busy at. The leader was probably just putting on an act, and Eric didn't want to get tied up in anything. Eric was a hunter, and as such, had greater patience than most, and a longer attention span. He had nothing better to do, and the music that began to flow from the church was of a high quality, better than the country listened to by his colleagues in the Army. What would the other Section people be listening to, if they lived on the outside now? Probably something hard, reflecting the aggression that characterized their personalities. A number of families and other groups began to show up shortly after the music began, chatting good naturedly with each other, and a couple more waved to him. He hadn't seen this kind of sociability previously in his explorations of his freedom, and was taken somewhat aback by it. The music stopped for a time after most of the people had entered the building, the gravel parking lot being full. Introductions perhaps? He was about to rise and wander, see what other surprises the town had in store, when the music again reached his ears, louder than before, a driving tribal dance rhythem on top of a rock base. Something seemed to be drawing Eric to it, but he was not sure what, could not figure why, and sat solid on his bench. Just then someone ran toward the door, having arrived late, but turned for a moment. He didn't just turn, but as he spoke, he seemed to Eric to change as well, to shrink, grow broader, lose his neck, get larger eyes, and sprout white and black feathers. It would have been ludicrous, the transfiguration, if the new form had not meant so much to him. He blinked, and the image was gone, but the man was there, waving to him, speaking good-naturedly. "Hey Chief, c'mon in! You'll like this!" The two of them had never seen each other before, Kihn was certain, but the man stood there, swaying to the beat, waving him over. It was too late to pretend he'd not noticed, and refusal to comply would appear rude. He had seen the Snowy Owl for the first time in months, seeming to beckon to him. What would be the harm, anyway? Eric arose gracefully and walked across the street to join the waiting parishoner, cargo pants, sweat soaked tee-shirt, long hair and all. They entered together, and the parishoner slipped in front of a pew in the back, joining the others standing there, clapping, stomping their feet. This was not a white church like any other Eric had heard of. He stood, arms folded stoically, against the back wall. There in front, he caught glimpses, were several members of the congregation, bent part way over, arms held in front of them, stomping their feet in a ryhthem more precisely mimicking that being demonstrated on the small stage by the First Nations band leader. The dance was modeled on one of the more popular Suex dances, though the words sang were in English and talking about the white man's god. He'd seen whites trying to act native before, but it wasn't quite like this. Those were usually hippies, wannabees, people who thought they could save their souls by rejecting the materialism of mainstream white society, and those people did not attend conservative white churches and dance in the front row. So these weren't hippies trying to be native, but they were dancing, something he'd thought white Christians did not do. The song wound down in a rousing crash of symbols, the music's noise being replaced by the shouting and cheering of the people. Eric assumed they were cheering the band, but the band did not appear to be thanking them, instead lifting their own arms skyward and shouting themselves. The cheering continued, and the congregation, too, seemed to be focusing their attention upward rather than toward the band, until the first few notes of the next song took over. The cheering died down then, replaced by the rhythmic clapping along with the drums in the song. Eric had never been exposed to anything like this, and he determined to learn more about it. Curiosity killed the cat, but this one had at least three lives left. He would find someone he could pull aside to ask about it later. The music lasted for some time, the songs interspersed with the band members telling about themselves, and how they had come to meet their god. Some of their stories sounded uncannily familiar to Eric, as if they were talking about, or at least directly to him, as if they were themselves guided by the Snowy Owl that knew him so well. One story in particular caught his attention. This story was told to me by my grandfather. It took place in the days when the American cavalry was pushing west, fighting the people of the First Nations that had lived in the land for centuries. There was, among the Suex, a young warrior, accomplished, a leader of the warriors in the tribe. This warrior's name was Sitting Bull. It was rumored in that day that a neighboring tribe was moving toward them, meaning to raid their village, take their horses and women, and destroy them. Scouting parties from both sides had sighted each other. A war council was called, and Sitting Bull took the lead in calling the warriors out to battle, saying "Hokaheh! Let us go out to them. Let us go out to battle!" He took a few warriors, and went out to meet the enemies of his people. There he met their leader on a hill top, and his face was so fearsome as he challenged the man to single combat that the enemy stayed back. So Sitting Bull drove his lance into the ground, and lashed one foot to it, staking his claim, so to speak. He made his worst war face, and shouted, "Hokaheh! Let's go! Are you afraid?" His foot was tied to the lance so he could not move about as much, but still his face and cry were too fearsome for the enemy of his people, who turned and fled. You see, the enemy of God threatens His people, can be fearful, but He has given US the power over the enemy. We are called to be warriors, to stake our claims. We are called to lash our foot to the cross, and proclaim the victory. Hokaheh! Who will go with us to battle? Who will challenge the enemy? If you are with me, say it with me, shout it with me at the enemy, Hokaheh! He could not figure why, but Eric found his throat tight, his eyes watery, and turned away. He had, himself, just been challenged to meet this god of theirs, to see if he had what it took to serve Him in battle against a greater enemy than any Eric had yet faced. The fear of the uncertainty, the service to one he did not know, could not trust, was too much. As soon as he cleared the church, he ran for home as if an Afghani warlord and his army were after him. Office, Owl's Nest, Newton NJ 2100 hours Eric Schweig sat rather still two hours later, contemplating a page of just decrypted information on his computer screen. There wasn't much there. He had spent the time since recovering his mental and physical composer after the run to his cabin trying desperately to dig up some dirt on this simple church and the Native Americans that sang and preached there. He had to find something they had done wrong, to discredit them, to give himself an excuse for rejecting them and their teachings so quickly. His hopes had risen when he'd found a speeding ticket against the pastor's teenaged son, but that was the worst of it, and that was not enough to make the church a fraud. He hacked into the D-Bases of various law enforcement agencies, but not simply by sending a request to the proper IP address, setting a program to work on the firewall, and logging in. Such would not be sufficient for his research into more secure sources. To crack databases containing such classified information would require the ability to hide or disguise the source of the request. The pieces had fallen into place with surprising ease several weeks ago. He'd enlisted Timothy's help with it, covertly of course, and the techy, in turn, had hooked up with others but continued to serve as the cut out. Timothy put out a discreet advertisement of special computer security consultations he would offer. Sure enough, an ultra conservative conspiracy theorist with a successful small business, but marginal computer security expertise of his own, had grown suspicious of his old security consultant, threw out his system, and enlisted Timothy to design a new one from the ground up. It required multiple layers of security for different purposes, depending on the sensitivity of the information being communicated. It allowed him to network from his home computers, through a router with its own security, to his office computer. Both computers were connected to the Internet, to his ISP through their respective routers, or communications could be routed directly between the two stations without reaching the Internet. Furthermore, when he used one of his several home computers, information or requests sent would advertise themselves as originating from his business router, the idea being that any back trace would not lead, as soon, to him and the computer on which the information was stored. All was well and good for said conspiracy theorist, as he had one of the most secure systems, hardware and software wise, available to techies, let alone the general public. Granted, Timothy had sustained significant loses after being paid by the man, but the job was worth it for the challenge if nothing else. Then there was the fact that he was really setting it up for Eric's use, as only one significant stage in Eric's home computer security. As for his own financial status, it would take little effort to attain privileged stock information that would quickly allow him to recoup. It was part of his livelihood. Eric grunted as the last search came up empty. Maybe the church had simply been discreet enough in its doings to avoid gaining the attention of the law. Eric, however, watching them, might see something for himself. To do so well he knew he would need specialized equipment, some of which might not be available on the open market. He'd prepared for such work already, for his National Geographic position, and had one device ready to go in particular. He'd solved the problem of gaining the quality photos he desired without the need to learn to use a cumbersome camera by a little re-engineering of the equipment he found in place at the Owl's Nest. He rigged a traditional camera with telephoto lens and high speed shutter into the M203 grenade launcher slung under the M4 Carbine he'd found in the HUMVEE's garage, and added a light magnification, or low light lens that could be easily removed and tucked away. It was child's play to adjust the 10 X sniping scope with low light magnification to show him what the camera would record. A pull of the grenade launcher's trigger would snap a photograph and wind the film, while the carbine would still function as such if he got into trouble, simply by adding the barrel and loading the ammunition, a task consuming all of two seconds if he were slow about it. In the end, he was much more comfortable and effective with the camera-gun than he would have been with a more traditional photo-system, and the quality of the photos more closely matched that of his portfolio. Before leaving on the night's survailence, however, he needed to review the intelligence he'd been able to gather on the target. Having reached the CT's home computer upon it's request for said information from the work computer, the report had been downloaded to Eric's computer via a backdoor Timothy had built in. Eric, as a result, had not sent a request to the Internet from his home computer, but had, rather, pulled information from an individual computer as though on the same local network. Having downloaded the needed report from the CT's hard-drive, a hidden sub-protocol erased the article and all the records it could access of the article's passing through said hard-drive, or of the request being made for it. Were it back traced to the CT's router, after all, the computer it was stored on could not be determined without a prohibitive effort. Even had the culprit computer been identified, determining where the information went thereafter would require cracking another set of firewalls, finding the correct remote hardware router, and the correct line from the hub thereon, before Eric's home computer network security would be encountered. By then, the information, even the software and hardware involved would be fried via a series of built in self destruct mechanisms, each tailored to the severity of the threat. Even Timothy > was not sure he could find and apprehend Eric, were he starting from scratch being unaware of what to look for. A flashing icon at the corner of his screen gained Eric's attention. A new e-mail had been sent to his account on the SIA-Taskforce Intranet, accessible to him via a direct intranet landline between his router and the SIA-Taskforce server's router. That would mean one of the other personnel wished to contact him, but not via the official mission call up protocol. A click and his mailbox opened, showing heading for one new message from Gray. Double click, and it was decoded, his keychain authenticated. "I have reason to believe a clear and present danger exists to the mental health of one of our agents, and have determined that you are uniquely qualified, due to your mutual history, to intervene on her behalf. Please consider at your earliest convenience." The address followed, but no phone number. It wasn't one of Beta squad's, and besides, he had no "mutual history" with any of them. Uniquely qualified would mean that, of all the people with whom he'd had a history, this would be a history unique to the two of them, shared by no others. A process of elimination quickly brought Eric to a conclusion concerning the subject's identity. A conclusion, incontrovertible, exciting, and terrifying, all at once. It had to be her, his be-friended, his betrayed, his prey, the one for whom he had hoped, and thus lived. The church could wait. The world could wait. He was busy hunting, seeking redemption, and another term came unbidden to mind, "the harvest." What did farming have to do with HIS life? Return