“I don’t plan to get arrested.” He released the slide, then carefully dropped the hammer and slid the weapon into the holster and slipped the holster inside his pants in the small of his back under his sport coat.
“You’re carrying the gun on the plane on you?”
“Uh huh. They might search my luggage and maybe my carry-on, but I’ve yet to be patted down going through customs. After all I’m what? An accountant?”
“Michael David Nesmith. Twenty-eight. CPA from Indianapolis.”
“At least you named me after the smart Monkee.”
Deeds looked at him, a bit pleasantly surprised.
“I grew up around classic rock,” Turnbull said.
“Nesmith’s mother actually got rich inventing Liquid Paper.”
“I have no idea what that is,” Turnbull said. “Anyway, I’ve got the back story memorized.” He took the other two mags and slipped them into the pockets of his tan slacks. “Wife is Darlene, kids Cindy and Kaden. The dog is Tiger.”
“Here’s your iPhone 14,” Deeds said. “There are photos of the family and the mutt. The home number goes to a controller inside the PR – ‘Cindy’ will answer if someone calls. The other numbers are cut-outs except for one special one and Pastor Bellman’s. He’s real. He’s your point of contact. You meet him tonight, six p.m., at his church.”
“The safeword is ‘Utah.’”
“‘Password.’ Please don’t get those terms mixed up, Kelly.”
There were a few dozen apps loaded into the phone. The Justice Air app was right there on the front. Turnbull hit it.
“Your Justice Air app doesn’t work.”
“It’s buggy. I printed you a paper boarding pass. You got the wallet and passport?”
“Yeah. Car keys?” Deeds handed him a ring with a remote and what looked like house keys. All fakes.
“Blue 2015 Chrysler parked in the long term lot, fifth floor. Photos on the phone.”
Turnbull flipped through the pictures. “You could have picked me a hotter wife.”
“That’s my sister, Kelly.” It was unclear if this was a joke.
“No wonder she’s not my type.” He flipped through a few more snaps until he came to a couple photos of a blue sedan in a parking structure next to a pillar with “5-B” painted on it. In the background was a poster: “Report Racism! No Tolerance for Intolerance!”
“The phone has about 100,000 alternating electronic signatures. It won’t sign in to a cell tower the same way twice, so it’s hard to trace. Your password is one-two-three-four.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You’re Army so I kept it simple. Punch in one-two-three-four-five and you wipe the memory, so be careful. Now, the special contact is Peter Dolenz.”
“Really? Or am I just a daydream believer?”
“Come on, your plane boards in ten. Now, under Dolenz’s contact is a phone number. That’s your ‘no shit emergency’ number. It comes to or from us and it means something significant is happening. The email address is to a Canadian account. We’ll get it. The phone will auto encrypt, but remember – those bastards got most of Silicon Valley in the divorce and don’t think they can’t intercept and trace you.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a believer.”
“Just stop. The carry-on has a laptop we’ve loaded with accounting stuff. No password; they can dig through it all day and all they’ll get is bored. We gave you a paperback suitable for your cover’s background as an accountant so you can read on the plane. Your suitcase is already in the baggage system. It’s full of business clothes in your size, all from the PR. There are no work clothes, just some jeans, so on your way stop at the surplus store on the outskirts of Bloomington and get yourself some boots and other gear. The address is in your phone. You were here in Dallas on business for a week, so the clothes are all dirty. That should discourage the customs folks from poking around. Which is good, since there’s $25,000 in real dollars in the liner.”
Turnbull said nothing.
“What?” asked Deeds.
“I was just trying to think of another Monkees song and I can’t.”
“Come on, before you miss the last plane to Clarksville.”
Deeds walked him out of the customs office, the US customs officers all wise enough to ignore the pair. Turnbull carried a doofy vinyl computer bag as his carry-on. His tan sport coat was too big, but it hid the .45 nicely. At the door into the passenger terminal, well beyond the security gates, Turnbull paused.
“Any last guidance?”
“Try not to start a war.”
“Okay. I promise not to start one,” Turnbull said, then opened the door and slipped into the stream of passengers.
Turnbull entered the terminal alone – Deeds did not do public appearances. It was crowded, with travelers pulling their carry-ons and kids crying and running rampant. The Justice Air gates were at the end of the terminal; the People’s Republic’s new “public option” airline was one of the government competitors it had established in many industries to balance out the capitalists. The PR had little choice but to create a government airline – soon after the Split, all the major carriers moved their headquarters to the red. Though many flew into the PR, for now at least, the new government aggressively regulated them. Slowly but surely, they were pulling out – and the political tension that was ratcheting up did not help.
The flights out were crowded – this one was full, and the passengers looking to fly into Indianapolis were backed up out of the gate area and spilling into the terminal hallway. A 737 in Justice Air livery was unloading passengers from Chicago, but they were diverted downstairs into customs. You could travel freely between the two countries, at least for now, but this was a vivid reminder that they were now, in fact, two separate countries.
A bitter looking woman at the counter picked up the hand mic. “This flight is delayed an hour,” she said over the loudspeaker, adding, “It’s not Justice Air’s fault.”
Turnbull frowned. It was almost certainly Justice Air’s fault.
He kept to himself as he waited, looking over his fellow passengers for any PR security types who he should avoid. There were not any. The PR would never admit it, but it could rely on the US’s strict security measures and aggressive border controls – the same ones it regularly labeled racist, sexist, and Islamophobic.
Fox News was playing on the video monitors. There were a couple jabbering talking heads, one a perky blonde and one a salty looking dude, and the chyron read “Travel Ban Threatened As Tensions With PR Increase.”
A man nearby mumbled to his wife, “We might be getting out just in time.”
“I hate this place and these racists,” hissed the wife. She seemed angry; her face might be moderately attractive if it wasn’t twisted with bitterness. Turnbull assessed that this guy’s marriage was a never-ending delight.
The flight finally boarded 90 minutes late. The first to load were a pack of well-dressed people. There was no announcement or fanfare – they just went first. As the last one disappeared down the jetway, the woman at the counter picked up the mic again. “Justice Air does not believe in privilege and there are no boarding groups. Please demonstrate your commitment to cooperation and consensus as you board.”
It was, of course, chaos. The crowd swelled and bunched around the entrance to the jetway, shoving and pushing. Turnbull hung back, not wanting someone in the scrum to rub up against his piece. When the throbbing mass thinned a bit, he darted in. Stepping onto the plane, he passed the first class area, except it wasn’t called “First Class” anymore. It was simply not acknowledged, and the travelers passing in the aisle instinctively avoided making eye contact with their pampered betters.