Free America Rising by Tom Paine Page A

hadn’t seen since he dropped me off at the dock in front of my house after scattering Carolyn’s ashes.
     
    Robert Ford was sitting at the end of the bar at Pilot House marina when I walked in after going through my first hurricane in the Keys. It was something of a tradition after a storm had passed for locals to wander into their favorite watering hole and mock the standups of TV storm “reporters,” who’d stood in half an inch of water and acted like it was the second coming of Noah. And for the beer.
     
    The only seat at the bar was next to the trim but muscular man in faded shorts and t-shirt with close-cut salt-and-pepper hair and a few days worth of grizzle. I sat and ordered a draft and by the third glass knew that Robert Ford ran a small security company specializing in “high net worth” individuals from his house just a few doors down from mine, that he loved fishing and flying his private plane, that he had no use for politics or politicians, and that his favorite beer was Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask, but his deceptively quick, precise movements and air of calm self-assurance suggested ex-military, and eyes that took in every detail of a room without ever leaving yours suggested a background in something more.
     
    Over time we became good friends, going fishing and snorkeling and grilling grouper or lobster on my backyard barbecue when Carolyn was up to it, inviting me out for a beer or taking me on long, quiet cruises on the bay when she wasn’t. Carolyn liked him a lot, and when she died he was the only person I could let inside that tight ball of grief on her last boat ride. A pile of palm fronds in Robert’s driveway announced that he was home. When I walked around to the back of the house he dropped another armload and pulled me into a brief, sweaty hug.
     
    “How you doing, Josh?” he said, trying not to show his concern.
     
    I didn’t want to dwell on it. “Okay, I guess. As good as can be expected. Listen, I need your help with something. . .” I told him about my lecherous legislators and what I had in mind. He listened intently as he always did, gave a mirthless chuckle and said, “Assholes.” Then, “If you have time now, give me a minute to clean up and we’ll do some recon.”
     
    A half-hour later we were at Tavernaero Park Airport, where Robert kept a Cessna Corvalis TT, a fast little number he used for in-state trips and the occasional sight-seeing flight above the Keys. Our destination was Rock Island, one of hundreds of small and not-so-small islands dotting the waters around the Keys. The vast majority were nothing more than coral rock dots covered with scrub and mangroves, but a few had been purchased by wealthy individuals and corporations and turned into posh retreats for the well-heeled and reclusive.
     
    Rock Island was a four-and-a-half-acre atoll a short boat ride from the town of Marathon, itself halfway between Key Largo and Key West. It got its name not from its coral rock composition but from its purchase in the 1980s by the lead singer of some fleetingly successful metal band, who blew through his fortune buying coke and exotic cars and constructing a large, two-story Key West-style home on the island, which he had landscaped with everything from an Olympic-size infinity pool and small white-sand beach to a putting green and driving range where he and his buddies could launch golf balls into the ocean. When he went broke, one of the legion of real estate developers who specialized in cramming zero lot-line houses onto every inch of Florida open space took it over, spruced it up and used it for his own infrequent getaways and those of the politicians and bureaucrats whose approvals he needed for his various projects.
     
    I’d gotten a tip about the orgy week from a reporter who’d been covering the hugely corrupt state legislature for longer than any human being should have to. Apparently the politicos had been at it for