Dangerous Times

It is a crisp autumn day, the air smells refreshing. The sun rose in the east on the wings of a Pegasus and all is right on this first Monday in October. I hop on my 7:18 a.m. Metro train into the Capital, hook my bike into the standup guide, messenger bag secure on my shoulder. Best thing, no sweat accumulation in the cool fall air this morning.

My commute is about an hour. I made a rule when I moved to the Maryland suburbs that I would use my travel time to read--no work, no newsfeeds, no social media--good old-fashioned reading. I nestle down into a seat next to the bike garage and grab my Kindle out of my messenger bag. A blaring alarm that everyone knows from the emergency broadcast system that airs each month on television and radio stations, begins its test sequence. I, like everyone on the Metro, ignore the alarm, and continue reading. Although, niggling at the back of my mind I think it is strange, as I have never heard the EBS on the Metro before. Never. After the screeching alarm ends the following announcement is made:

"This is not at test. Repeat. This is not a test," a pause ensues as I turn my attention to the speaker inside the Metro car and observe most of my fellow passengers also turning their heads toward the speaker mounted in the ceiling pulling out headphones from their ears.

Some passengers remain engrossed in their cell phones--which may be conveying the same message. I grab my iPhone and open the home screen, which does indeed have the EBS alert.

"Martial Law has been declared in the nation’s Capital. All citizens living or working in the District of Columbia are hereby advised to follow all lawful orders and commands as given by any law enforcement officer--to include police, national guard or other uniformed LEOs. In conjunction with the deployment of the military, a curfew of daylight hours is initiated. No citizen may be on the streets prior to sunrise or after sunset."

Rumblings of discontent, to put it mildly, arise among the passengers. Like most of the other riders, I am stunned. What does it mean? I try to call Jake, my hubby, although my phone has four bars, my call will not go through.

"Where do you work?" a grey-haired distinguished looking gentleman in the seat across the aisle from me asks.

"Me?"

"Yes," he replies, adding, "Sorry, I'm Larry," he says as he offers his hand. "I take this train every day and see you often. Before the days of cell phones, commuters used to chat to each other."

I notice a wistful look in his steel blue eyes. "Yeah, I guess life is a lot more insular now," I say, and think about how and if I should answer his question. "I'm Frankie--Francine, but everyone calls me Frankie," I offer a warm smile. "That announcement was a bit of a shock," I cautiously say being aware that politics is so volatile these days.

"Yes," he replies and takes a pause, looking me in the eye, "Dangerous times."

Not knowing what to add, I decide to turn the tables and ask about his employer. If I had to guess, I would peg him as a government man--a cog in the shrinking bureaucratic behemoth of yester years and offer a vague truth about where I work. "I'm a librarian--to answer your earlier question. What about you?" I look closely at his face to pick up his micro-expressions and gauge his internal reaction.

"Oh, yes. What a glorious occupation," he muses in an admiring tone. "I am a G-man," he replies with a twinkle in his eye accompanied by a slight upturn in his mouth, his grey mustache twitches and he moves his hand up to give it a quick rub.

"G-man," I repeat, "Meaning government?"

"You got it. I'm trying to hold out for another two years--but I'm not sure I'll make it two more. This new President and all."

He doesn't expand further on what he means by "and all" nor does he expand on his true occupation as a G-man. In the past G-man was reserved for FBI agents. "What do you think that ominous notice means?"

"I'm not sure. I think it might be a busy day at work though."

"Capitol South Station," comes over the loudspeaker.

"This is my station. It was nice to meet you, Larry." I move toward the bike rack to retrieve my bike for the short ride to Independence Avenue.

"Wait a second," Larry calls from behind me. "This is my stop too."

I don't believe that for a minute. I think I would have noticed Larry if he did indeed ride the same train as me during the week, and especially if he got off at my same stop each day. My spidey sense is on full alert. If he's an FBI agent, like I suspect, he'd get off at the Federal Triangle station--that's two more stops. Getting off here adds a 40-minute walk to get to the FBI D.C. field office.

I mount my bike, deciding to ignore Larry's call, I pull on my bike helmet and struggle to get the chin strap clicked together. I move the right pedal up to the three o'clock position and push down with my right leg through my foot to the pedal. I do not move forward. I turn my torso to the right and see Larry firmly holding onto my rear rack. He's deceptively strong.

"What are you doing?" I yell, trying fiercely to put all my weight into my right leg and get my bike moving forward. Larry has my rear rack lifted off the ground as I push through a pedal stroke my wheel spins under no resistance.

"Put my bike down."

"Calm down Frankie," he says in a friendly, calm voice.

He is acting like his manhandling of my bike is normal. I look around for assistance, a passerby who could help or a police officer. The Metro has already moved on, and the other passengers have all scurried away. No one seems to be witnessing this assault. That's right, I feel like I am under assault. My mind goes blank, what should I do? Larry never really said he is an FBI agent; I just assumed that. He didn’t show me a badge. This is not right.

"Larry," I say calmly, "You need to release my bike now."

He removes his right hand from my bike rack but does not place my wheel back on the ground. Larry pulls his FBI credentials from his right pocket, flips it open and informs me he is SSA Larry Lane.

"Agent Lane, please hand me your credentials, I would like a closer look," deciding to use honey instead of vinegar I politely ask to get a much better look at what he quickly flashed. I am no expert though, a good fake that looks like what they show on television would fool me. But I have to do something.

"Certainly," he replies, as he proffers the black pouch to me.

Inspecting the FBI medallion on the front I am underwhelmed. Flipping the wallet open, I see a gold badge, similar to a police badge and an FBI identification card with Larry's picture and name. "Well, this looks legit, but how do I know you didn't just print this up in your basement?"

"Print it up in my basement," Larry laughs, "You can get out your cell phone and call the D.C. Field Office. I assure you I am legit."

"I am going to take you up on that," I reply, adding, "I am reaching into the front pocket of my bag just to get my phone." I internally debate if I should call 911 or look up the FBI Field Office number. I decide I'd rather clear Larry myself than get DC police involved.

"Good morning, DC Field Office, how may I direct your call?" a cheery female voice answers.

"Can you confirm the identity of Mr. Larry Lane, who claims to be an agent assigned to your office."

"I certainly can," she quickly replies, like she was expecting my call, "SSA Lawrence Lane works for our office." The line goes dead as we are disconnected.

"Satisfied?" Larry asks.

"Not really," I reply, letting him hear the frustration in my voice. "What's going on?"

"You heard the EBS announcement," Larry says, "this has been in the works for a bit. You have been selected for a special assignment. Keep an eye on your texts, I'll be in contact."

With that cryptic message, Larry releases my bike, places his hand on the back of my messenger bag and gives me a little push to be on my way. As my bicycle glides forward I frown and think I wish the maniacal villain wasn’t President; why didn’t we learn the first time.

###

"Sunday. 10 a.m. Foggy Bottom tunnel." The Free Citizens Fight encrypted text beeps into my phone.