We head down the road for another half mile until the community center comes into view. Orange cones are set up to form a single lane. Young men and women in slacks and polo shirts wait at the entrance to the driveway, greeting people who are coming in. There’s even a guy with a mirror on a pole checking beneath cars.
Looking at the young men, I think of the dead soldier who was sent in before me. I wonder if he began his assignment driving into an event like this.
A young man in a blue polo gestures for Father to lower his window.
“How are you tonight?” he says, overly friendly.
“Very well,” Father says.
“Me, too,” I say, letting excitement cause my voice to rise.
“Invitation?” Polo says.
I take the acceptance letter from my pocket, the one Father received after sending in an application in my name.
“Daniel?” Polo says.
“That’s me,” I say.
“Welcome,” Polo says. “And just so you know, there won’t be any cell reception until after the event is over.”
“Is that right?” Father says.
“There’s a jammer set up in the parking lot. What’s said in the room stays in the room,” Polo says with a smile. “This way there’s no incentive for it to be any other way. We turn off the jamming after the event,.”
“That’s fine,” Father says. “He can call us when it’s all over, and my wife or I will pick him up.”
“You won’t be joining us, sir?” Polo says.
His tone is friendly, but the judgment is obvious on his face.
“I’m afraid not,” Father says.
“Are you sure?” Polo says, pushing a bit. “You’re welcome to stay if you choose. Parents are always welcome. You might find it interesting.”
“Are you questioning my patriotism?” Father says, suddenly turning on him.
Polo stiffens. “Of course not, sir. I was just—”
“I’ve done more for this country in the last six months than you’ve done your entire life,” Father says angrily.
Polo stammers: “I—I have no doubt.”
“You’re damn right,” Father says. “My son will fill me in on the details later.”
“There will be a thorough debriefing,” I say, rolling my eyes like I’m a little embarrassed by my angry father.
Polo nods, obviously nervous. He points to an area set off to the side of the building.
“There’s a drop-off zone over there if you don’t mind pulling forward, sir,” he says. “And I’m sorry again. I didn’t mean—”
“Thank you,” Father says, rolling up his window and putting the truck in gear before Polo can speak again.
I look at him, impressed by what I’ve just seen.
“You’re pretty good in the field,” I say.
“Pretty good?” he says with a grin.
We pass a van parked in the front with several antennas and a satellite dish on top. Father notes me looking at it.
“Signal-jamming tech,” he says. “Just like the kid said.”
I slip out my iPhone, and I see there’s no cellular service available. No connection of any kind.
“I won’t be able to call you,” I say.
“If everything goes right, you won’t need to call me. I’ll see you in an hour at our rendezvous point.”
He looks at me for a long moment.
I slow my breathing, forcing my heart rate down into a zone that will allow my muscles to maintain optimal oxygenation.
“You’re not to go into Camp Liberty. You understand that.”
“Perfectly.”
“You’re ready, then,” Father says. “Do it fast, do it right.”
“See you soon,” I say.
And I get out of the truck.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’M SEARCHED AT THE DOOR BY A YOUNG SECURITY GUARD.
She is efficient and well trained like the rest of the young people I’ve seen here so far.
I make it easy on her because I’m carrying nothing except a wallet and my eyeglass case. She quickly clears me and gives me a ticket for an assigned seat.
When I step inside it’s standing room only, seventy or so young people sitting in folding chairs, some of them with parents next to them. It’s obvious that they’re the candidates, while along the back wall stands a group of young men and women like the ones I saw at security outside, all dressed similarly in khakis and short-sleeved polo shirts. The boys have close-cropped hair or crew cuts, while the women’s hair is pulled back in tight buns. If I didn’t know what this was, I’d think I was at a Friday evening dance at the local military academy.
I find my assigned chair located toward the side of the room where I have a good view of both the front and back. I search the room for faces from my briefing. I note a pretty girl with red hair standing in the front of the room laughing at something someone has said to her.
Miranda Moore. The daughter.
She has a gorgeous face with big, intense eyes surrounded by freckles and framed in wisps of red hair. Unlike the other girls, her hair is down and flowing around her shoulders. Still, there’s something strong in her presence, a no-nonsense quality that is unmistakable.
Near her is a tall, thin boy with an intense expression on his face.
Lee Moore.
He’s nervous as he looks from his sister to the crowd and back.
I do my own scan of the space, matching the actual room to the schematics I went over with Father this afternoon. I note entrances and exits, a door next to the stage, which I’m guessing leads to the anteroom with an exit to the back of the building. I imagine that’s where Moore is now, and where he will be again after the event.
I use my time to adjust the map of the building in my head, working again through the dozen or so escape scenarios I developed this afternoon, rating them in order of preference.
As I complete my prep, the room starts to buzz with excitement. I sense movement back in the anteroom.
Suddenly Eugene Moore strides onto the stage flanked by two young security men. He looks like an older, more forceful version of the man in the pictures. He is tall and well built with the military bearing of an ex-soldier. He has an iPad in his hands that he places on a lectern, and then he begins pacing back and forth in front of it.
He says nothing, only walks the same pattern, the energy building inside him.
Finally he speaks:
“You’ve no doubt heard a lot about me,” he says, “about my beliefs, about Camp Liberty and the things we do there.”
He looks across the crowd, making sure he has our attention.
“Everything you’ve heard is a load of crap,” he says.
Most of the people in the room lean forward, fascinated.
“Forgive my language, but I’m a plain-spoken man. I say it like it is. And what it is, my friends, is a fabrication. They say I’m building robots here, children who can’t think for themselves, who follow authority blindly. Is that why you’re here tonight, to follow blindly?”
“No!” a bunch of kids shout.
“I didn’t think so,” Moore says with a smile. “Let me tell you what it is I really do. I support young people in becoming strong, independent thinkers who are empowered to take action in the world. The powers that be have a problem with that. They don’t want you thinking independently, because what if you disagree with them? And what if you decide to do something about it?”
Half the room applauds, while half are more cautious, sitting back in their seats, listening passively.
“People have accused me of being a radical for starting Camp Liberty. Some have even called me a traitor to our country,” he says.
The applause stops. There’s a hush across the room.
“That’s right. A traitor. But I say if they can’t tell the difference between a traitor and a patriot, I pity them.”