Battlefield Pacific

Potential Unrest

George Philips could not believe what was going on in his country. President Gates’ ascendency to the White House had been nothing short of disastrous. He firmly believed that Gates’ disregard for the law, the judicial system, and his fascist tendencies were a threat to the core principles and beliefs enshrined in the Constitution. Even his doctoral professor had said the President was a disgrace to the office and should be resisted at every possible opportunity. Like most progressives, George had a very difficult time accepting the results of the 2016 election. There was just no way someone so crass, unprepared, and lacking in political understanding could possibly win the election. Yet here he was, sitting in the White House, irritating the country like sandpaper on a festering wound.

“Well, he’s not my president!” George thought.

It was now 7:30 in the evening, and a slight drizzle began as George headed to the Grad Center Bar to meet up with some friends who helped him run the local Antifa chapter at Brown. They were planning a large-scale protest to take place during the Memorial Day holiday a little over a month away. He felt that it was an appropriate day for a protest, since the President would be honoring baby killers and war criminals.

George was a third-year PhD student at Brown University, where he studied political science. When he’d first started college as an undergrad, he had wanted to get a job and work as a staffer in Congress to get some experience in the political world. Once he had completed his bachelor’s degree at Georgetown University, that was exactly what he had done. Hailing from Vermont, he easily obtained a staffer position with the independent senator from his home state and got to see how the sausage was made in Washington. After a couple of years working as a staffer, George decided that the best way he could influence future generations wasn’t working in Congress. Instead, he decided that he wanted to influence future young people by becoming a professor.

The Vermont senator had given him a book written by Saul Alinsky, Rules for Radicals: A Practical Primer for Realistic Radicals, which had changed his life and the way he viewed politics. George had already espoused many of the more liberal political positions, but the wry old senator from Vermont had regaled him with stories of just how great America could become if the country would move more rapidly in the direction of socialism, and he found the narrative compelling.

He came to believe that if the government would just take the $700 billion or more it spent annually on defense and spend it on free education and universal healthcare, the country could really improve the lives of everyday people. In his mind, the government squandered so much money on maintaining nuclear weapons and a huge military — for what? Unless they planned on using that military to wage war, it was a waste.

That was four years ago. Now, as a PhD student, he was nearing his goal of finally becoming a professor. Then Gates had won the presidency, and George felt a new calling on his life, to become an activist and lead a new generation of young people to resist the evils of the Gates administration.

As George walked up to the outside of the bar, he saw Jillian pull up in an Uber. Through the window, he could see her putting her phone back in her purse and unfastening her seat belt. As she opened the door, she cheerfully called out, “Thanks for the ride!”

“There you are, Jillian,” George said as he greeted her with an awkward side hug. He couldn’t dare to be accused of sexual harassment.

She smiled. “How are the studies going?” she inquired. She had been a PhD student like him not that long ago. They shared that same academic bond.

George pulled open the door for her. “Eh, you know how it goes. Research, write a bunch of stuff, and then your advisor shreds it and you have to start over,” he replied. They both laughed.

They spotted Daniel Talley, their contact for a British multimedia company, sitting in the corner, and walked over to join him.

Daniel stood. “Thanks for the invitation,” he said as he extended his hand to shake theirs. “I love this place.”

“It is a pretty great hangout,” Jillian agreed. “The drinks are cheap, but I will warn you that they make `em strong here.”

“Did you have a hard time finding it?” asked George.

“I would have, but your directions really helped,” Daniel responded with a chuckle. “I can definitely see why this is more of a university haunt — most tourists would probably get lost on the way here.” He smirked.

“Glad you aren’t the average tourist, Daniel,” said George. The Grad Center Bar was more than just a cool dive bar; it was also the unofficial meeting place for a lot of the Antifa members. George was very careful who he invited there.

“I think we’ve been standing here long enough,” Daniel joked. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll order us some food and drinks?”

“Thanks, Daniel,” Jillian answered. She and George sat down. “I’m always up for free food.”

“So, what’s going on with our brothers across the Pond?” asked George. He was eager to hear what the Antifa groups in Europe were doing. Sometimes their approaches to demonstrating and protesting would also play well in the United States.

The waiter came, and they paused long enough to place orders for appetizers and drinks. Once he left, Daniel cleared his throat.

“Things in the UK are going well,” he began. “Same with France. As you know, we’re organizing a large EU-wide protest to take place during the May Day celebration. What with the war going on, it seems appropriate that we’d have a demonstration to remind people of what these fascist regimes are doing to our countries…” He paused, looking as if he were about to require a tissue. “The loss of life is just horrific. So many young people being killed, and for what? Corporate greed? Nothing is worth the loss of our generation of young people.” He looked genuinely depressed.

“It really is terrible,” Jillian agreed. “Two of my cousins were just drafted when that tyrant in the White House announced the second draft. George’s little brother is currently serving in the Marines. Has he been sent overseas yet?” she asked.

George sighed. He felt terrible that his little brother had been caught up in the war machine. His brother had just graduated from a trade school and had been hired for his first job as an electrician when he’d received his draft card. George had told him to tear it up and move to Canada until the war ended, but their father had ultimately convinced him that his legal troubles would only continue to follow him after the war, and that he should instead try to find a clerical job and do his best to ride out the war that way.

“Not yet,” George answered. His drink had arrived, and he took a big swig of it. “He was lucky and got selected to be an electrical technician on fighter airplanes. He’ll be in training for the job for a few months before he deploys. Right now, it’s looking like he might be eligible to deploy toward the fall.”

Jillian nodded and put her hand briefly on George’s shoulder to comfort him. “I’m so sorry, George,” she said. “We have to fight this with everything we have. This next protest on Memorial Day has to be huge. People have to know how President Gates engineered a war in Europe and Asia at the request of the military-industrial complex and their Wall Street masters.”

George nodded and smacked the tabletop with his fist. “This war is destroying our country! Almost 170,000 soldiers have been killed, not to mention the horrific devastation that has befallen the San Francisco Bay Area after that nuclear attack. What are we going to do to make this one count?” he asked.

“Short of someone assassinating Gates, I don’t see anything truly slowing the US war machine,” Daniel responded glumly. Then he seemed to have a sudden inspiration. “However, what we can do is cause a work stoppage to protest what is going on. It’s nonviolent, and it will make headline news. Who knows — it might even spread to other countries if we can get it to take root here.”

Jillian beamed. “A work stoppage — just like the Occupy Wall Street days,” she said, seemingly drifting back to fond memories. “People can bring their tents and camp out.”

“Exactly,” Daniel replied, “but in this case, everyone camps out in the parking lots of these companies that are manufacturing war materials and tries to stop people from doing their jobs. The country needs to know that these weapons they’re creating are responsible for tens of thousands of deaths.”

George took another large sip of his drink. “Someone should kill that fascist criminal in the White House,” he responded angrily. “My brother could end up dying in this stupid war.” He downed the rest of his drink.

The meeting went on for some time as they planned the work stoppage. Their time was productive, but at the end of the meeting, George needed a little help to make it back to graduate housing.

Daniel Talley observed his surroundings one last time before entering the flat he had rented for the month — he was sure that no one had followed him. He dropped his bag on the table near the entry way and completed the usual security check of his place. No bugs or signs of disturbance.

“Paranoid habits die hard,” he chuckled to himself.

He changed out the sim card on his cell phone and made a call.

“Vasily,” said the voice on the other end, cheerfully. Vasily smiled at the sound of his real name. “It’s good to hear from you, comrade. How was your meeting?”

“Things are going well,” he responded. “The Antifa movement will be organizing a work stoppage on Memorial Day. They think it is their idea.”

His Russian intelligence handler laughed. “You do have a talent that way,” he responded. “What about the other objective?”

Vasily answered, “Things are progressing better than I expected. I do believe we may have a candidate to attempt an assassination of the President, given enough time and grooming. George is becoming mentally unstable, and he jumped at the suggestion I placed in the conversation.”

“Excellent, Vasily. Call me after your next meeting.” The phone clicked.

Vasily Smirnov smiled. There was still a lot of work to do, but so far, things were going even better than planned.