CHAPTER 16: Decision Time
The Cessna touched down at Boeing Field at King County International Airport, five minutes south of downtown Seattle. The pilot, Seamus Boyle, got out of the cockpit—a tall man, well-muscled, with fading red hair cut tight on the sides. He cleared his paperwork and took an Uber to a restaurant where he ordered steak and eggs and the sports section in the Seattle Times while he ate. After he paid the tab, Boyle walked a couple of blocks and around the corner to an alley. He pulled on his gloves, removed a padlock from the double doors of a garage, entered through a side door.
He switched on the light and locked the door behind him. A light coating of dust covered a black Suburban. He wiped the vehicle until it shined, checked the oil, made sure the tags were current, the turn signals and wipers worked. No need to risk being pulled over for something minor.
While Boyle worked, he thought about his job, playing tunes on his iPhone. He sang along with Jimmy Buffet.
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame / But I know it's my own damn fault
He was never told the reasons for the various actions he was instructed to perform, but he assumed they were part of some important plan. His employers had set up everything, from a selection of aliases and vehicles in various cities to postal boxes and bank accounts. All the details were handled in a professional manner and that made him feel confident, secure.
In Seattle, he was Mark Reading, local pilot with an irregular schedule, a regular guy who liked sports and kept a black Suburban in a garage, always paid on time with checks drawn on a local bank.
In Florida, he had another alias, but he hadn’t used it in years, another Suburban parked in a garage gathering dust. There were more in New York and Chicago.
In Los Angeles, his neighbors knew him as Robert “Bob” Patton, a personal pilot for celebrities and executives who liked their privacy. Keeping quiet was the easiest part of the job since good old “Bob” didn’t care to make small talk. When anyone asked questions, he steered the conversation to sports. He loved sports. That part was true. He’d played baseball in college, but a blown out knee derailed that. So he turned to the military, paid off the doctor to disregard the knee injury, cleared his medical, learned to fly.
His employers regularly deposited generous sums in his bank accounts, detailing airtime and chauffeur work he had and hadn’t performed. They reimbursed him for travel expenses he had and hadn’t incurred. His income for a decade had never dipped below $400,000. From that, he paid for the townhouse he rented in Brentwood in Los Angeles, his other expenses. He paid his income taxes on time. His few acquaintances and neighbors believed he gave a lot of his money to veterans’ charities, at least those were the hints he gave. He was a model citizen and a meticulous investor. He was particularly pleased with his Apple stock and his portfolio was impressive.
The money made Boyle feel secure. He could go back to being Seamus Boyle if the assignments disappeared or his relationship with his employers soured. A few more years of working and investing, however, would allow him to disappear and live comfortably for the rest of his life. He dreamed of an idyllic future with friends and beautiful women, a dream of financial freedom while he was still young enough to enjoy it.
He sang:
Wastin' away again in Margaritaville / Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt / Some people claim that there's a woman to blame / But I know it's my own damn fault
Most of the work had been cleaner than what Boyle had done in the military, cleaner than what he’d expected to do for the balance of his life. Except, he thought, for the jobs in Salt Lake and Chiapas. Those jobs required a team of strong and guarded men. No regrets, he thought. Never any regrets. Not time to quit—not yet, anyway, he thought as he put things away.
He backed out the Suburban, locked up the garage and drove around the corner onto the residential street. Its little houses were lined up in a row, multi-colored trash bins parked out front, competing with cars for curb space. At the end of the street, stacks of newspapers were piled next to an overflowing recycling bin.
Trash day, he thought, as he headed uphill to the freeway onramp.
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In Silvercreek, the crowd shuffled in the cold outside the Yellow Ribbon Alliance’s trailer. Ingrid waved Grace over and introduced her other daughter, Marsha, a short redhead. “This is Marsha’s husband Vince and my two beautiful grandsons,” said Ingrid, wiping the two-year-old’s nose. “I lost my G.I. Joe,” whined the four-year-old.
Grace forced a pleasant smile. “The kids are so cute,” she lied.
“You enjoyin’ staying with the Armstrongs?” asked Vince.
“Yes,” she said, nodding.
“Well, I hope your story is better than the usual crap,” he said. “A Russian friend of mine says everyone there knows the papers are full of lies; says here everyone believes it’s all true. Says he doesn’t know which is more dangerous.”
Everyone laughed except Grace.
“You that reporter?” asked an old man. Grace nodded.
He wagged his finger at Marsha and Vince. “Be smart. Don’t tell her nuthin’.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Vince put his arm around Marsha and pulled her close.
Grace sensed it would be another long evening where she would be treated as the outsider she was—until she caught Ingrid rolling her eyes.
Ginnie arrived, dangling the keys to the church across the street. “Let’s all get inside double quick,” she said.
It was almost as cold inside the church as it was outside, so people kept their coats on and slapped their gloved hands together. Grace took a seat in a pew a few rows back from the front and looked around. There were well over two hundred people packed in, most displaying support for all the owls, with striped and spotted ribbons prominently displayed.
At a long table at the back of the room, the industrious were doing a bang-up business in bumper stickers declaring: HEDWIG’S COUSINS!—a reference to Harry Potter’s beloved owl. There was a large selection of T-shirts, caps and flags decorated with spotted and striped owl icons, and rabbit fur owl plush toys with spotted and striped bows at their necks.
Grace recognized faces—Evan and his mom, Quiet Parker, Pat, Big Lou, Mad Max, Mitch, Little Joe, Nate, Dusty the bus driver. Some nodded, some waved, but none came over to say hello.
Jackson slipped into the pew next to her. “How was Seattle?” he asked.
“Good. Busy,” she said. “I met Dr. Richard Smith, chatted for a while. He arranged for a meeting with Dr. Martine.”
“I know them,” said Jackson. “Super smart. Tell it like it is. Dr. Smith took heat a few years ago from the enviros for submitting comments on proposed timber regs. He listed the negative impacts on rural communities, argued green policies were creating conservation refugees, that the American rural middle class, once rooted to the land, is losing community ties. He referenced Ross Clark’s Not Zero and the work of Peter Kareiva, the Nature Conservancy's Chief Scientist, also Mark Dowie and Elizabeth Nickson who wrote on conservation refugees. Know their work?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” said Grace.
“Dr. Smith has very strong opinions,” said Jackson. “Has the chops to back them up.”
“Well, we all have our opinions, don’t we?”
“I don’t recall you ever expressing any,” said Jackson. “You ask a lot of questions, but don’t say what you think.”
“Occupational hazard. I do have them, you know. Opinions.”
“I’d like to hear them sometime.” He laughed. “Lord knows, you’ve heard way too many of mine.”
Ginnie called the crowd to order and everyone stood for the Pledge of Allegiance and the National Anthem. “Marsha?” asked Ginnie. “Can you lead us in a prayer?”
Vince took the two-year-old from his wife and Marsha walked to the front of the church where she turned and bowed her red mop. A sea of heads dropped in response.
“Holy Lord, you once said that where two or more are gathered in your name, there you will be in their midst. We welcome you to our gathering and we pray that by your divine guidance, we will be led to do your bidding. In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, Amen.”
“Amen,” whispered the crowd. Heads bobbed back up and Marsha returned to her seat where the two-year-old popped his thumb in his mouth and leaned blissfully against his mother’s ample chest. Some women, and several of the men, took out baskets of knitting—mostly brightly colored beanies and scarves—and settled in for the evening as Grace flipped on the recording app on her phone.
“Welcome everyone,” said Ginnie. “We’re going to delay our business briefly because we have an honored guest, our elected rep for the 6th District. Please welcome Congresswoman Patricia Spencer.”
The Congresswoman rose to polite applause. Her dark hair with carefully-planned highlights was swept up from her pleasant face. She wore studious glasses, a pale green suit, a neat white bow tied at her throat. She balanced matronly and professional in one carefully constructed image. She assured the audience, “Your concerns are being heard in DC. This administration is firmly committed to a sustainable timber industry. We recognize that a healthy ecosystem and a strong economy can co-exist.”
A man sitting in the front row clapped energetically. “That’s Craig Braverman,” whispered Jackson to Grace. She nodded and wondered if he might be with one of the tribes. “We were best friends growing up,” he said. “It’s dicey now.”
“I understand your frustration with the legislative process,” she said. “I know it appears to have let you down, but, trust me, we are working hard to restore common sense and people to the equation, to achieve environmentally sound resource management.”
Rude laughter rose from the back of the room. Heads turned. A man in his mid-twenties, with a ponytail of long, muddy blonde hair stood.
“Sorry, sorry,” said Carl. “Couldn’t help myself. It’s just that, well, that’s our motto and now you feed it back to us as what we want to hear? I’ve heard that speech so many times, usually just before things get worse.” The crowd laughed uncomfortably as he sat down.
“That’s Carl Larsen,” whispered Jackson. “Married to a Quinault woman. The Quinault lost land to federal treaties during the late 1800s, about the time my ancestors moved in.” He shook his head. “Eventually we all get screwed, right?”
The Congresswoman smiled sympathetically. “We’re making good, steady progress,” she said. “We’ve met with the environmental groups, asked them to stop using the courts to hold up timber sales.”
Carl Larsen laughed again. His wife and others joined him. “Sorry, sorry. My apologies,” he said, standing again. “They might promise, but they’ll just get another group to sue. What are you doing to lift the injunctions? Let us do our jobs and log some of these dang trees!” He waited, with an angry look, for her answer.
“We’re working," said the Congresswoman, "to allow the ESA to take economic and social factors under consideration in any recovery plans developed during the listing process for species under its jurisdiction. These steps will allow appropriate levels of timber harvesting so your jobs will be secure, commensurate with protection of important natural resources and species that benefit all Americans. We—.”
“Hell,” said Carl. “Let decent people earn an honest living in peace!”
There was scattered applause. A woman in her 40s stood. “You politicians are the problem,” she yelled, as heads swiveled to see who was talking.
“That’s Diane Pryme,” said Jackson.
“I’ve seen your voting record, Congresswoman,” said Diane loudly. “You vote for every greenie bill that comes along and we get to pay for it. You sold us out long ago!”
Some cheered. “You politicians are peddling communism!” yelled someone in the back.
“Fuck the ESA!” yelled a man standing next to a door posted with a FIRE EXIT sign.
“Screw the bureaucrats!” hollered a man’s voice to cheers.
Graced noticed a group watching with arms crossed. “Who are they?” she asked nodding her head in their direction.
Jackson studied them, searched for the words. “Townhall meetings aren’t for everyone,” he said. “Lots of independent people in a small town.”
“Look,” said Carl loudly, “I told you folks way back when that CITES and all these other treaties would be the death of us, overriding the Constitution, constantly moving the goal post, driving everyone nuts and outta here. It’s trickle down tyranny.”
Someone yelled, “Tyranny by treaty from a galaxy far, far away.” Everyone laughed. The Congresswoman turned to her aide. He shrugged and Googled SITEZE, scrolled, looked up blankly.
Carl caught it, looked exasperated. “C-I-T-E-S!” he yelled. “1970s. There are hundreds of treaties now and Big Biz and the UN have rolled on from animals to viruses, from endangered to invasive, from climate to COVID. It was fascism back then and it’s fascism now!” Heads nodded. “They just dusted it off and overlaid it with a green veneer.”
Another man, older than Carl, stood. “Carl’s right. Biodiversity and climate. Billions going out via the GEF to China, a parasitic, soul-destroying system. Communism and fascism are winning under the guise of saving the planet.”
“Freedom is what we need!” yelled Carl. “We’re losing this great country!”
“Revolution!” yelled a man's voice from the back and the room cheered, breaking into a chant, “I will not comply! I will not comply!” Several rows did the wave. Several rows did the wave. Red and green owl flags fluttered and rabbit fur owls were tossed around the room. The Congresswoman and her aide smiled blandly.
“I understand your concerns completely,” said Congresswoman Spencer. “You can count on me to work for you in DC. Now, I’d love to hear more from each of you, but I have a plane to catch. Feel free to contact my legislative aide Michael Harris anytime.” She paused, he waved.
Harris moved through the crowd, handing out business cards. Behind him, the Congresswoman shook hands, working her way steadily to the back of the room and out the door where the safety of a white town car beckoned. Her driver opened the door and she nimbly climbed in.
“Please send me your concerns,” said Harris as he slid into the back seat across from his boss. The driver closed the door.
“CITES?” the Congresswoman asked, thinking, I need a drink.
“I found it,” said Harris. “Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, came into force in 1975.”
“And this GEF?” asked the Congresswoman studying shabby Silvercreek through the tinted window glass as they drove away. She turned her attention to the small bar and rifled through bottles.
Harris scrolled on his tablet. “Ah! The Global Environmental Facility, ‘a multilateral fund dedicated to confronting biodiversity loss, climate change, pollution, and strains on land and ocean health’. Hmmm,” he said. “Tons of cash moving through this GEF, from developed nations to the developing ones which, oddly, still includes China. Heavy on grants for biodiversity, climate change. The angry old man nailed it.”
“Oh, thank God,” said the Congresswoman. “We have vodka, tonic and ice.”
<><><><>
Back in the church, Carl Larsen stood, proudly defiant. His neighbors slapped him on the back and pumped his hand.
“That was great, Carl,” said Diane Pryme.
“You done good too, girl,” he said.
“Only time we ever see her is when she’s behind in the polls,” said Diane.
Ginnie nodded. “Fishing for votes. We should meet with her opponent. I’ll arrange it. Back to business. Can we get committee reports?”
Individuals stood, gave information on news stories on timber issues, phone call campaigns to Congress, emails, letters to the editor, petitions.
A woman said, “Email’s great and all, but I don’t think anyone reads ’em.”
Another woman added, “It’s all AI now. Anyway, soon as we make progress, they just pass another law or write another reg.”
“Or litigate. Red tape and lawyers are strangling us, Ginnie,” said Carl.
A short dark man gave a report on the prosecution of loggers for salvage logging a burn site in an act of civil disobedience. After the courts held up the contract for two years, a group of loggers violated the injunction and did unauthorized clean-up work. Legal bills were over $100,000. There was a collective gasp.
“Can we get the state to give us a bus to take us to Aberdeen for the retraining classes? We can’t pay for the gas no more,” said an unemployed logger.
“Is the food bank going to have baby food anytime soon?” asked a woman with an infant on her hip.
A gnarled old man, stooped and gray, stood. The room went quiet.
“That’s Jess Underwood,” whispered Jackson to Grace. “Great logger in his day. His son’s working in South Carolina.”
“Ginnie, honey,” said Jess, “I think we’re beyond letter-writing campaigns and petitions. This war’s over. We should ask for a government buyout, take the money and run. This is a disaster zone.”
“Phony disaster!” someone yelled.
“Phony doesn’t stop it from happening,” Jess yelled, his voice breaking. He turned to Ginnie. “I hate to say it, but the best thing that’s happened in a long time were the Gopher Creek and Hunger Mountain burns. We should pray for more lightning. Forgive me, Lord, but it’s the only way we’re gonna get a paycheck. And now they want us to shoot owls by the thousands! If that doesn’t cut the heart right out of a man, I don’t know what does. We’ve fought the good fight, Ginnie, and we’ve lost. Let’s admit it: this town is dying. We need to salvage whatever we can so the young people can get started someplace else.”
The hall was quiet.
Craig Braverman stood. “You know, logging’s done for,” he said. “We really should look into tourism and mushroom hunting.”
The room growled. “Craig,” said a young woman, “you’re welcome to gather shrooms and do any tourism you want—if you can get the permits.”
“Yeah, good luck with that,” laughed a man two rows behind her. The group joined him.
“Kayak to your heart’s content, Craig,” said Jess, “but if we don’t get these forests cleaned up, your tourists will be crispy critters along with the rest of us.”
Heads nodded in unison. “Livin’ in a tinderbox,” yelled a young man. “Fire will get us, or the Cascadia earthquake—it’s way overdue.”
“Tsunami! Time to leave, people!” yelled his female companion, triggering a lot of chatter in the audience.
“Chris and Josie Franklin,” said Jackson. “They’ve got a point. Seismologists predict a 9.0 within 50 years, with uplift, subsidence, liquefaction and dam failures, followed by a tsunami. Wipe out lower Seattle and more.” He shook his head.
A slim man with a craggy face stood and the room hushed. “Fire Captain Tim Miller,” Jackson whispered to Grace. “Chris and Tim were on Hunger Mountain when…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Taking Erica’s body off that mountain with the REMS team was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” said Tim.
Grace Googled REMS on her phone. RAPID EXTRACTION MODULE SUPPORT.
He shook his head. “I was worried up there that the ESA might interfere with the water drop and they’d leave us stranded, like they did back in 2001 when the Forest Service delayed a drop—feared taking water to save firefighters would hurt the friggin’ endangered bull trout in the Chewuch River. So, yeah, it went through my mind as the flames rolled over us.”
Chris Franklin nodded. “It went through all our minds,” he said as Josie held his hand.
Jess Underwood stood. “Some of you are too young to remember,” he said, “but you need to know. Four young people, Forest Service Hot Shots, died working the Thirty Mile Fire. Lots of issues plus the ESA delayed their water drop. Tom Craven, 30; Devin Weaver, 21; Jessica Johnson, just 19; and Karen Fitzpatrick, only 18 years old. Superheated air killed them in their ‘shake and bakes’. Jason Emhoff, 21, couldn’t take the heat and fled through the fire. He survived but with some gawd awful burns, especially on his hands. July 10, 2001.”
You could hear a pin drop. A girl at the back started crying.
Tim shook his head and said, “Lots of good people—like Erica White on Hunger Mountain—have died fighting forest fires that didn’t need to happen. It’s not right. We shouldn’t be in this position, surrounded by fuel like this…” Tim and Jess sat back down. No one said a word.
Ginnie stood silently at the front of the room. She started to speak, then stopped. She tried a second time. “I was about to give you a speech about how we can’t give up,” she said. “About how we have to keep fighting, how we can’t let the preservationists and authoritarians win. But I feel as down as you folks. Maybe I shouldn’t be leading this meeting.”
There were tears in her eyes as she sat down in the front row next to Craig Braverman. He rubbed her back and whispered in her ear.
Eyes turned to Jess. “Hell, no,” he said, shaking his gray head. “I’m way too old to lead anyone anywhere.” He searched the room. “Jackson, where are you?” he asked. “You here?”
Grace felt Jackson sit up straighter next to her. “Here,” he said.
“You do it, you’ve got a lot at stake,” said Jess, taking his seat.
Jackson stood up wearily. “Is there hope?” he asked. “’Til we’re dead ’n’ buried, there’s hope.” He paused. “But we do need to face reality. We’ve got families with no income, houses they can’t sell with mortgages they can’t pay. We’re losing stores right and left and the town is broke. What do we do?”
He looked around the room. “Any ideas, speak up because I tell you, I honestly don’t have any. I don’t know any other way through this mess than to work ’til my heart gives out.” He shook his head. “Even if we up and leave, this madness is in Montana and Idaho, and all over the country. I wish I could paint a brighter picture, but I don’t see any way out. You folks each have to decide when enough is enough. I can’t do that for you.” He sat down.
People whispered.
Jess stood and said, “If anyone has anything to add, they should say it.”
A woman in a dirty ski jacket stood. “Well, I’m leaving,” she said. “Bank took our house last summer—we have nothin’ left. There’s no hope here. Jess is right. It’s over. We fought the good fight and lost big time.” She walked out. Her husband and three crying kids followed.
A young man sitting next to Carl Larsen stood. “I don’t want it to end. We can’t let it end. They can’t win just because they’ve got more money. We’re right and we’re just so close to turnin’ this around. Last time we went to DC to lobby we joined people from all over. Farmers, ranchers, fishermen, miners. We resource people are in this together. We have to keep fightin’, stay together no matter what. That climate change campaign is making our side bigger. People all over the world are wakin’ up. COVID woke ’em up. City people, hospitality, restaurants, tourism. Some are finally organizing to fight the UN WHO treaty for health, climate and biodiversity. That’s the whole fuckin’ enchilada, right?”
People cheered. “Told ya so,” said Carl, sitting with his arms crossed.
The young man continued, “Closures, mandates, a taste of what it’s like livin’—safe ’n’ risk free! —under the boot of the precautionary approach, zero risk authoritarians who are now intent on killing off invasive species! Hell, humans are invasive!”
“Friggin’ A,” muttered his friends, cheering and patting him on the back.
Jackson stood again. “I agree that the disenfranchised are getting bigger. Hell, they’re wiping out the middle class. I wish we had leaders in DC and Olympia who did something, not just say, ‘We feel your pain.’ I wish for leaders who’ve lived real lives.” He shook his head. “Bottom line? I think some of us should leave. Anyone with relatives making a decent living should go live with them, get back on your feet. You can continue this fight from anywhere, but it’s important to feed your families.”
He paused as if he’d seen the light. “Invasives!” he said and laughed. “Ideas are invasive! Take a lesson from the barred owl and scatter to the wind, expand our range! Instead of one Congresswoman and two Senators, we can convince hundreds, we can convince the world!” He asked “Ginnie, could you fight back better with soldiers all over the US of A?”
Someone at the back of the room yelled, “Fight back better!” and a chant began: “Fight back better! Fight back better!” Flags fluttered and toy owls flew.
Ginnie laughed. “You’re all going to have to master Zoom!”
People laughed. There were tears and cries of support. “We’ll help, Ginnie! We’ll move to my parents’ in Florida, but we’ll spread the word, send $20 a month!”
“There are jobs in Brazil. I’ll carry the cause south of the border! Viva la Raza!” Everyone laughed.
“Hey, Ginnie, can I get your husband’s number in Romania? Tell him I need a job!”
“We’ll go to my brother’s in upstate New York. Chase the hedge fund guys!”
Everyone cheered and committees formed to handle the functions of the newly named “International Yellow Ribbon Alliance.” A reinvigorated Ginnie promised to do her best. No one doubted her.
The meeting broke up, Grace interviewed Ginnie who blessed her with a few choice quotes, including: “Think local, act global,” and “Fight back better.”
Grace asked, “May I interview the men who logged the restricted area?”
“Sure,” said Ginnie. “I’ll set it up.”
“Ready to go?” asked Jackson.
“I am,” said Grace.
She and Jackson said their goodbyes and headed out the door into the dark, wet night.