Games of State

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mike Rodgers hadn't intended to visit Billy Squires until seven o'clock. But when he received a call from Melissa just after six, he pulled on his uniform, grabbed the comic books— he wanted to have something, and wouldn't have time to pick up anything else— and rushed over.

"It's nothing life-threatening," Melissa had said over the phone, "but could you come a little early? I want you to see something." Melissa had told him she couldn't elaborate since Billy was in the room. But when Rodgers got there, he'd see and understand.

The General hated mysteries, and during the fortyminute drive he'd tried to imagine everything it could be, from an infestation of ants or bats to something Billy might have done himself.

Nothing he considered even came close.

The Striker base was located at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. The team members were housed in apartments on the base; families had townhouses. Melissa and Billy lived in the largest of these, closest to the swimming pool. Regulations said that they would be allowed to stay in the commander's residence until a permanent new Striker leader was named. As far as Rodgers was concerned, they could live there as long as they liked and the new commander could stay somewhere else. There was no way he'd tear Billy from his friends until Melissa felt he was ready.

Besides, Rodgers thought as he showed his pass to the guard at the gate, the way the search is going it'll be the millennium before we have a new commander. The man he really wanted for the job, Colonel Brett August, had already turned him down twice. And he'd probably turn Rodgers down a third time when he called him again later.

Meanwhile, Major Shooter, on loan from Andrews Air Force Base, was the temporary leader. Everyone liked him, and he was a masterful strategist. But he had no combat experience. There was no reason to assume he'd choke in the field, but no reason to assume he wouldn't. On the kinds of world-in-the-balance missions Striker had drawn in North Korea and Russia, it was a risk they couldn't afford.

Rodgers parked his brand-new, apple-red Blazer in the parking area and jogged toward the front door. Melissa opened it before he arrived. She looked okay, her posture relaxed, and Rodgers slowed down.

But then, the young woman had a habit of looking as if all was right with the world. Even when Charlie was alive, when he got riled up chicken-fighting in the pool or playing hockey in the rink or losing the spot for his seven-letter word in Scrabble, she was the portrait of composure. Now that her husband was gone, she did the picnics and outings with the rest of the Striker families, tried to keep life as normal as possible for her son. Rodgers could just imagine the tears she'd cried in the dark. But the operative word was "imagine." She rarely showed any of her sadness in public.

He hopped up the steps and they embraced warmly.

"Thanks for coming, Mike," she said.

"You smell nice," he smiled. "Apricot shampoo?' She nodded.

"Never smelled that one before." "I decided to change a few things." She looked down.

"You know." Rodgers kissed her on the forehead. "Of course." He stepped past her, still smiling. It was strange coming here in the morning and not smelling the gourmet coffees that Charlie always drank.

"Where's Billy?" Rodgers asked.

"Taking a bath. He burns off energy playing in the tub, so he's calmer in school." Rodgers heard the boy splashing now, upstairs. He looked back at Melissa. "Has he been acting up?" "Only the last few days," Melissa said. "That's why I asked you to come here a little early." Melissa crossed the small living room and motioned with a finger for Rodgers to follow. They entered the playroom, which was decorated with framed prints of warplanes. On top of the TV was a framed photo of Charlie with a black ribbon in the corner. Other photos of the family stood on the fireplace mantel and bookshelves.

Rodgers tried not to look at them as Melissa led him to the computer table. He set the comic books beside the printer as Melissa turned on the computer.

"I thought it would be.a fun distraction to get Billy on the Internet," she said. "There's a gopher." "Sorry?" Rodgers said.

"I take it you're not up on this?" "No," Rodgers said. "You could say I'm a little down on high-tech inactivities, but that's another story." Melissa nodded. "A gopher is a system of menus which allows users relatively easy access to text archives on the Internet." "Like a Dewey Decimal card file," Rodgers said, "in real libraries." "Like that." Melissa smiled. "The point is, there are Web sites— forums— where kids who have lost a parent can talk to one another. It's all faceless and raceless. Billy got online and met some great kids there who had a lot to share with him. Then last night, one of them, a twelve-year-old named Jim Eagle, led Billy on a surfing expedition that took them to a locale called the Message Center." The computer whirred and Melissa leaned over the keyboard. She directed them to the Message Center, and as soon as they logged on Rodgers knew what the "message" was going to be.

The S's in the logo for the Message Center resembled the design of the Nazi SS. Melissa tapped into the FAQ list, the frequently asked questions listing, which was posted as a file for newcomers. Rodgers read it with increasing disgust.

The first question had to do with "Netiquette": the appropriate terms to call blacks, Jews, homosexuals, Mexicans, and other minorities. The second question listed the ten greatest figures in history and offered a short list of their accomplishments. Adolf Hitler was on top of the list, which also included murdered American Nazi leader George Lincoln Rockwell, Martin Luther King assassin James Earl Ray, Confederate cavalry General Nathan Bedford Forrest, and one fictional character: slave overseer Simon Legree from Uncle Tom's Cabin.

"Billy didn't understand what the FAQ list was all about, so he kind of blindly followed Jim Eagle into the conversation," Melissa said. "This kid Jim— if he was a kid, which I doubt— is obviously someone who goes fishing among grieving, lonely kids and tries to hook them into the movement." "By giving them a new father or mother figure," Rodgers said.

"Exactly," Melissa replied as she brought Rodgers into the ongoing discussion.

There were short letters, full of misspellings, expressing hate of individual people and groups. There were others which provided new, hateful lyrics to old songs, and there was even a guide on how to kill and fillet a black woman.

"That's the one Billy saw," Melissa said quietly. She pointed to the printer. "They even sent him the accompanying artwork. I left it there, tried not to make a big deal about it. I didn't want to scare him." Rodgers looked into the printer tray and saw the color printout. It was a photograph of side and overhead views, with arrows and instructions and a body from which the skeleton had been removed. Judging from the surroundings, it was taken in a morgue. Rodgers had been sickened by sights he'd seen on the battlefield, but that was always anonymous. This was personal and sadistic. It made him want to tear the First Amendment into tiny pieces, but he backed off when he realized that that would probably give him something in common with these bastards.

He picked up the paper and folded it into his pants pocket.

"I'll have Op-Center's tech people have a look at this," Rodgers said. "We've got this Samson program we use to bring software down. Maybe we can stop them." "They'll only start up again," Melissa said. "Besides, that's not the worst of it." The young woman leaned over the keyboard again. She went to a different Web site, where a short videogame sequence repeated every fifteen seconds.

The picture showed a man with a noose chasing a black man through the woods. The pursuer had to leap dead bodies and duck the feet of lynched black men in order to catch his quarry. The text above the scrolling artwork said, "WE'VE GOT NOOSE FOR YOU! COMING IN JUST NINE HOURS AND TWENTY MINUTES: WHOA'S DOWNLOADABLE HANGIN' WITH THE CROWD. AND THERE'S MORE TO COME!" Rodgers asked, "You have any idea what WHOA is?" "I do," said a voice from behind them. "Jim told me." Rodgers and Melissa turned and saw Billy standing there. The young boy walked briskly toward them.

"Hey, Billy!" Rodgers said.

He saluted, the boy, who saluted back. Then he bent down and they hugged.

"Good morning, General Rodgers," Billy said. "WHOA stands for Whites Only Association. Jim said they want to stop everyone else. 'Just say WHOA!' " "I see," Rodgers said. He continued to squat in front of the boy. "How do you feel about that?" He rolled a shoulder. "I dunno." "You don't know?" Melissa asked.

"Well," Billy said, "last night, when I saw the photo I thought about my dad being killed. Then I was upset." "You understand," said Rodgers, "that these people are really, really bad. And that most people don't believe the terrible things they believe in." "Jim said that people do but they just don't admit it." "That isn't true," Rodgers said. "Everybody's got 'pet peeves,' little things that really annoy them like barking dogs or car alarms. And some people do hate one or two other people, like a boss or a neighbor or—" "My dad hated people who drank instant coffee," Billy said. "He said they were Phyllis-somebodies." "Philistines," Melissa said. She looked away quickly and rolled her lips together.

Rodgers smiled at the boy. "I'm sure your dad didn't really hate them. We use that word pretty freely when it's not exactly what we mean. The point is, Jim is wrong. I know a lot of folks, and I don't know anyone who hates whole bunches of people. Guys like Jim— it makes them feel good to put other people down. They have to hate, it's like a disease. A mental disease. If they didn't hate immigrants or people who followed a different religion, they'd hate people with different color hair, or people who were shorter, or people who liked hamburgers instead of hot dogs." Billy chuckled.

"What I'm trying to say is, these people are evil and you shouldn't believe what they tell you. I've got books and videotapes about people like Winston Churchill and Frederick Douglass and Mohandas Gandhi." "That's a funny name." "It may sound a little strange to you," Rodgers said, "but his ideas are really good. All of these men have wonderful things to say, and I'll bring some of that stuff next time. We can read and listen to them together." "Okay," Billy said.

Rodgers stood and cocked a thumb toward the printer stand. All of a sudden, a long-haired Superman didn't seem so bad.

"Meantime," Rodgers said, "I brought some comic books for you. Batman. today, Gandhi next time." "Thanks!" Billy said. He stole a look at his mother, who nodded once. Then he bolted over and grabbed the stack of magazines.

"You can read those after school," Melissa told her son as he flipped through them.

"Right," Rodgers said. "And if you finish getting ready, I'll give you a lift to school. We can stop at the diner for Crations and maybe a video game, and you can be the first person to ride shotgun in my brand-new Blazer." "A video game?" Billy said. "They have Blazing Combattle at the diner." "Great," Rodgers said.

Billy threw the General a snappy salute, thanked him again for the comic books, and ran off.

As the boy thumped up the stairs, Melissa gently put her hand around Rodgers's wrist. "I owe you big time," she said. She kissed him on the cheek.

Rodgers was caught off guard and blushed. He looked away and Melissa released his arm. He started after Billy.

"Mike," Melissa said.

He stopped and looked back.

"It's okay," she said. "I feel very close to you too. What we've all been through— you can't help it." The flushing around his collar intensified. He wanted to say something about how he loved them all, including Charlie, but he didn't. At that moment, he wasn't sure what he felt.

"Thanks," he said.

Rodgers smiled but said nothing more. Billy thundered back down the stairs and the General followed him, like straw caught in a whirlwind, as he raced across the living room, backpack in tow, carrying his young man's morning appetite into the parking lot.

"No sugar, General!" Melissa shouted as the screen door slammed behind them. "And don't let him get too excited on the video game!"