Mac Steele: Truth is a Consequence

Chapter 1: The voice gives voice

September 11, 2014. Leesburg, VA.

John "Mac" Steele flipped his laptop open and settled into his recliner after a long day at the office. He clicked on the TV, tuned in the Nationals' pregame show, and cracked open a cold can of Bud Light.

This day had always been difficult for him. His wife of nine years, Jennifer, had perished in the attack on the Pentagon a full 13 years earlier; but it never seemed to get much easier. "Time heals most wounds," he often thought.

In recent years, Mac had shifted his thinking slightly. Only slightly. He had begun to wonder if his wife was indeed the victim of the most heinous attack ever to occur on American soil, or if she had been the victim of something else; something even more unthinkable.

This train of thought generally tended to rear its ugly and destructive head when the Bud Light was especially cold and smooth, and going down easy. Come to think of it, tonight was one of those nights.

Mac flipped through the photos on Jennifer's still-standing facebook page. There she was graduating with honors from the United States Military Academy. There she was behind her desk at her first duty station in the Judge Advocate General's Office at Fort Meade. There she was standing outside of the Pentagon. That fucking Pentagon.

Mac closed her "My Career" album, and sighed heavily as he clicked on an album labeled simply, "Mac and Me."

There she was in those little jean shorts he loved so much, grinning as they hiked the Appalachian Trail. There she was smiling for all she was worth in a blue and white flowered sundress he'd bought her, just so he could see her in it. There she was on their wedding day. There she was at the beach. Mac bowed his head, forcefully trying to jam the tears back into his eyes. There she was. Oh, how he longed for the sound of the front door opening, and "there she is."

As is so often the case in great marriages, Mac and Jennifer were polar opposites. He was the Washington Times reporter, always trying to glean the slightest bit of useful information out of even the lowest level Army officer. She was the young, eager, aggressive captain, who enjoyed nothing more than keeping her current mission a secret. As she often told him, "I could tell you. But if I told you, I'd have to kill you. And I kind of like you."

Mac grinned a little through the streaks on his cheeks as he imagined her saying just that. And though he knew there were things she couldn't -- and shouldn't -- tell him, his thirst for knowledge drove him constantly to yearn for that information.

It never became an issue for them. Jennifer respected Mac's investigative reporting. And she delighted sometimes in telling him just how off base his conclusions were. Other times, she would have to concede that he had figured out something he probably shouldn't know, and understand that she would have damage control to do the next day. There was never a "conflict of interest." The Steeles were deeply interested in each other, and rarely was there conflict.

They had only one baby. Jennifer was far too busy and far too goal-oriented for more. She was the one who picked the name "Jake." Four letters, starting with a "J," a fitting tribute, she thought, to her husband -- given-name, John. Mac thought that was a more-than-suitable name for a good, strong German Shepherd. And it was.

Mac was big on names; more specifically nicknames. Most of his friends had nicknames that they'd be ashamed to say in front of their mothers. And most were given by Mac. In fairness, "Dicknose" really did look like he had a phallus attached to his face that hung just below his eyes. Hung. Mac chuckled a little to himself.

The familiar "click, click, click" of Jake's too-long nails clacked across the hardwood floor, and Mac's most dependable friend took his spot beside the recliner. Jake looked at Mac with his big, expressive brown eyes. Mac swore he could see the hurt in them.

"I know, boy. I know. I miss her too."

He scratched Jake's back firmly, the dog forgetting his heartache for a moment, then lying down on the cold hard floor and nodding off.

Mac always felt a little peace when Jake was near. Jennifer had picked him out of a perfect litter. There wasn't a bad choice among them. But when Jennifer called, "here pup," gently clapping her hands together, it was Jake that beat his brothers and sisters to her loving arms.

Mac would have done anything, literally anything, to include betraying his company, hell, even his country, to feel those loving arms again. Anything.

The beer was flowing swift and easy now as Mac entered "youtube.com" into his address bar. When the page loaded, he typed "9/11 conspiracy" into the search bar. A flood of videos loaded in under a second. Some familiar, some not. One in particular caught his eye. It was titled, "9/11 and the Federal Reserve: What they don't want you to know."

There are very few people walking this earth who want to "know what they don't want you to know" more than Mac Steele; especially where his wife is concerned. He clicked the link, and settled in to watch the 45-minute presentation.

He learned a few things that he didn't know about the Federal Reserve -- that the money they loan the federal government comes with interest, that the bank is foreign owned, and that every dollar they pump into the U.S. economy comes with debt pre-attached.

He learned that virtually every war in U.S. history began with a conspiracy. The president knew about Pearl Harbor in advance. The sinking of the Lusitania. And of course, the Gulf of Tonkin.

He reminded himself of Adolph Hitler's assertion that the best way to cover up a conspiracy was to make it so grand in scale that no citizen dare to ask if their government was capable of something so brutal...so heinous.

He promised himself some future fact checking, but he was certainly intrigued. He was fairly inebriated at this point, and decided to check facebook one last time before dragging himself to bed...alone...again.

He scrolled through his timeline, finding nothing of any particular interest. Sure, there were the usual 9/11 tributes, "Never forget," "God rest the fallen," etc, etc. Mac appreciated the sentiment, but felt that most Americans couldn't understand what he was going through; what he'd gone through for the last 13 years.

*Ding*

It was a message from Mike Beasley, a longtime friend of Mac's, a good man, and one who checked in on him every year on this date.

"Mac, thinking about you bro," the message read. "I hope the beer is cold and things are beginning to get easier. Much love, man."

"I'm OK, Beezer," Mac typed back. "Pissed. Hurt. Missing Jen, but OK. Thanks for caring."

*Ding*

The next message made Mac's heart stop. "Jesus Lord," he gasped. "There's no...there's no fucking way," he stammered out loud.

"John. I'm alive," the message from Beezer read, "This is your Jenniboo. For real, baby. It's me. I know you need proof, as any good reporter does, so here goes."

"JENNIFER!!!" Mac screamed in vain at his laptop screen, never pausing for a moment to think that this could be an elaborate prank.

"Your given name is John Fitzgerald Steele, given to you by your mother in honor of her favorite president. Your nickname 'Mac' was given to you in basic training, by Drill Sergeant Edwards, who said you attacked the confidence course like a Mack truck. (Your fellow trainees couldn't spell.) You fumbled with the buttons on my wedding dress for what seemed like 10 minutes before I told you to just push it up. And I love you. I love you and Jakey so much. I wish I could come home."

Mac screamed and cried and typed as fast as he could.

"WHERE ARE YOU?!?!?!"

"Dude. I'm at home. In Reston. Where the hell are you! lol" Beezer typed back.

"I'm nowhere man. I'm fucking nowhere."