The Revolution Business

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The inspectors arrived before dawn.

A convoy of six gray government cars pulling up at the east gate to the complex was the first warning anyone on site was permitted—and the two security police officers in the gate booth took it. “Call Ops,” the older cop grunted, narrowing his eyes as the cars dimmed their headlights and queued up between the concrete barriers for inspection. “Tell them we’ve got visitors.”

“Protesters?” The younger officer straightened up as he reached for the secure handset that tied the booth to the Operations Center. They’d had a problem with the peacenik protesters earlier in the year, some new folks from outside who’d tried to block traffic outside the perimeter, but mostly the protesters stuck to the Peace Farm round the far side of the site.

“Not likely.” He opened the door and stepped out into the twilight. After dark it cooled off—the open-oven-door temperatures of summer in Carson County had subsided to an arid stillness. Five hundred hours was dead time; the other eight officers who worked the entrance during the morning rush would still be signing in and getting their kit. His hand went to his two-way radio. “Sergeant Brady on east gate two, requesting backup. Over.” He walked towards the first car. A silver-gray Continental with a minivan behind it. As he approached, the driver’s door opened. Some instinct tipped him off. He straightened his back: “Let me see your badge, sir!”

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