Then Wally broke the ice, “So I assume we aren’t doing this over the phone because you have decided to join us.”
“Let’s just say I am interested,” Carly replied as neutrally as she could.
“Okay, let’s cut to the chase; your salary will be $120, 000 a year. You will have total editorial control over any piece you initiate. If you are assigned to a story, however, then the producer and the editor of that story have final say.”
The $38,000 a year print reporter was stunned. All her objections evaporated right before her eyes. Having to say something, all she could muster was, “Can I stay with SciAm?”
“I’d insist. It gives you more credibility for your beat.”
That’s $158,000 a year. “What’s my beat?”
“Science. I got a feeling this Hiccock guy is on a fast track with all this terrorist stuff and I can’t make the guy out. You seem to have a way with him.”
Carly was mildly amazed at this comment. Do I have a way with him? “So let me get this straight. I get paid and have control if I deliver Hiccock to MSNBC.”
“For now, yes. That’s the deal. You scoop every other cable network in town and you get to renegotiate for millions in a year or two. This is a good deal, Carly.”
Was he willing to go higher? It was worth a shot. “Is that all you are prepared to offer me?”
Wally smiled, paused for effect, and then said in a low voice. “Carly, let’s make believe I offered you the standard 60,000 starting salary and you countered with 180 and we spent weeks to get to 120,000. Now let’s make believe you feel good about beating me for 60 Gs and can get to work.”
“Fair enough. When can I see the contract?” Carly inquired.
“Give me your lawyer’s name and we’ll stay out the nitty-gritty; from this point forward we have to work together. Let our business affairs department and your lawyer hash it out.”
Carly smiled. I don’t have a fucking lawyer.
Wally smiled as they shook hands.
The long abandoned Bufford farm was off the interstate and down a road that only deer and, before he died, Bufford would normally ever travel on. But tonight was an exception. Seven trucks and three cars went down this deserted road, noticed only by a doe and her fawn. Inside the barn, the dank smell of straw, sawdust, and animal droppings attacked the olfactory senses. The rotting timbers, with their deeply etched, distorted grain gave the wood plank walls and cross members the gnarled look of the twisted souls from Dante’s Inferno. Bernard and the others listened to a report by RedBarron348. Everyone in the group used their chat room handles, never any real names. Bernard set this up as a security precaution; if captured, no one could divulge the identity of the others. His nom-de-web was Sabot. He thought it was a little obvious, but it would be looked upon as a bold and brash snub to the authorities when the time came to write his memoirs or, better yet, have them written by an adoring, thankful public.
World movements usually happened in synchronicity, as if the collective consciousness of mankind arrived at a single notion at the same time. America had already sustained and repelled attacks by fundamentalist zealots who made their statements on religious or political grounds. But now, for the first time, the high-tech mongers and “industrial rapists of humanity” were being attacked. Bernard acknowledged it as a signal that the great struggle was nearing. If they didn’t stop the advancement of technology taking over human life now, it would soon be too late.
In its seven-year history, the Supreme Council of the Sabot Society normally met twice a year. Tonight’s meeting, however, was special. Called last week, the cell leaders from across America converged on the farm to ascertain their position in the new movement that had exploded across America. Bernard opened the meeting to a room full of grinning faces. He reviewed the agenda he held in his hand. First, he would ask if anyone was responsible for any of the seemingly anti-technology “statements” that literally blasted their way onto the front pages. Then he would poll the group to see where they stood on showing further support and solidarity with the cause. He would follow with a suggested list of targets to “supplement” the already-initiated campaign, after which he would conclude with a report from the treasurer.
Looking up from his pad, he thought he knew the reason for the smiles around the room. The attacks escalated their struggle to national prominence. In a way, that legitimized this group’s existence. It also assured the communication of its message to the other warriors out there — those who realized the true depth of this impending crisis and could take demonstrable action and rally the fight. As soon as he had everyone’s eye, he began.
“I’d like to call to order this meeting of the Sabot Society. It is an exciting time …”
“Sabot, excuse me,” DuneMist interrupted.
“Yes,” Bernard responded, caught off guard.
“We have all decided to commend you on your recent initiative.” The room erupted into applause. Sabot was stunned, but his confusion was not apparent to the attendees. DuneMist continued, “Last meeting, when you singled out Intellichip and Mason Chemical as the advanced guard of the forces of enslavement, we thought you were asking us for recommendations on how to address them. Now we see that you have struck mightily and struck deep into their very hearts. We know our bylaws forbid each cell from knowing the activities or identity of the others, but all of us who were not involved in the operations applaud those of us who were. And Sabot, to you, a special note of appreciation for advancing the cause.” Once more, the room convulsed with applause.
Bernard just stood there, his mind racing. They were thanking him. They figured out that he masterminded the acts of insurgency being perpetrated on American high-tech companies. They were cheering him on. That never happened to Bernard in his whole life. Nobody ever gave him credit for anything. They were giving him their vote of confidence, and there was only one thing to do.
Bernard raised his hands and the ovation stuttered to a halt. He took his time, looked at them with a serious stare, and made a show of having just made a decision. “I will allow this one breach of security, and simply say thank you to those of you — you know who you are — for your contribution, and ask for a moment of silence for those who gave the supreme sacrifice in the Ultimate Battle.” Everyone in the room was moved by his words. Bernard’s head swam as he decided he liked the adulation.
“I have prepared a list of other targets. I will discuss these with each and every one of you independently. Some of your tasks may not be as grand or as risky as those that have been achieved thus far, but I want each of you to know that no matter the size or status, every mission will be just as vital to our goal.”
Through the extremely small, highly placed window, one could see the guards patrol the catwalks around the compound. Hiccock figured the window’s diminutive size and location — about six feet from the floor — were to deter the prisoners from using it to escape from Leavenworth Penitentiary. A heavy metal sound clanked, a buzzer sounded, and a female federal corrections officer escorted the bound and shackled seventy-seven-year-old Martha Krummel, aka “The Gardening Grandma Terrorist,” to a desk in the visiting room. Hiccock and Janice took their seats across from her.
“Are those necessary?” Hiccock asked the guard, pointing to the chains.
“She’s on suicide watch,” the guard said plainly.
“Hello, Martha,” Hiccock said to the gentle-looking woman. “I’m William Hiccock and this is Janice Tyler.”