He pushed through the crowd and shouted to get the other man’s attention. Pete smiled wide, his dissonant eyes blazing like candlelight, and drew Jean-Jacques into a group hug with the white girls.
Jean-Jacques also liked drinking. He also liked the pursuit of sex with large-chested females and he too liked being beloved by the masses. But this was too much. They needed to be getting ready for the Mediterranean; they needed to be getting ready for the wogs. Too much America, he thought. Way too much.
Pete unwrapped himself from his admirers and motioned Jean-Jacques to a corner booth. “Fear not!” he called out behind him, voice slurring. “Promise to return.” Shouts of drunken cheer followed.
They settled into the folds of the booth across from each other. Pete’s eyes churned, one hyper-black and one hyper-green, trying to focus, his face blank as a puddle.
“I like your necklace,” he said, pointing at Jean-Jacques’s turquoise pendant. “Where’d you get it?”
Jean-Jacques ignored him. “You texted that you need help.”
“I did! I do.” The superman force-chuckled and yanked at the headband around his temples, as if surprised to find it there. Jean-Jacques suddenly regretted not checking in more. Soldiers of all kinds could get lost in the homeland. Even this one. “I’m in deep with some shit, Dash. Big government stuff. Politics stuff. They… it’s hard to explain.”
Jean-Jacques asked him to try. Pete shook his head.
“I’m good. When I texted I needed to vent but now I’m good. For real.”
Jean-Jacques asked if it had to do with the Mayday Front.
“Those guys are terrorists. Trash fuckers. But I’m talking, like…” Pete sighed and closed his eyes, raising an arm toward the ceiling. “People up high. I just miss the war. Once we get back there, everything will be fine. For sure. Need to pull the trigger on men who deserve it again.”
All of Pete’s schemes, all his long chats with the three-letter-agency types, all his contacts—it was bound to catch up to him, eventually. Power did crazy things to people. Pouvwa. Anything to get it. Anything to keep it. Should’ve kept to soldiering, Jean-Jacques thought. Should’ve kept to the mission. Though maybe that wasn’t fair. He’d been allowed to keep to soldiering because Pete hadn’t, because Pete wouldn’t. And Jean-Jacques understood all too well what a man wanting to get back to combat was willing to do.
For friendship, for duty, he asked again. Pete yielded more this time.
“Those people up high. They need me a little too much, you know? ’Cause I’m Justice. ’Cause I’m super. ’Cause I’m hero.” He paused again and cleared his throat. “And I’ve been okay with it. It’s fine. For a bigger good. I don’t know. I mean, it is sorta about those trash veterans. Mayday! Whiny bitches. That night in the ballroom? You weren’t there.”
Jean-Jacques nodded to convey he knew about the night in the ballroom.
“Hypothetical. Let’s say it was done on purpose. By both sides. Wouldn’t that be fucked up? They keep using you and using you and using you, holding the Mediterranean over your head like a piece of cheese. So you go along with it. That night, I mean. Play your part. Things go haywire for other reasons but you play your part. That was it, they said. Then you and your boys can deploy again. But now there’s another thing they want. Stand up with them at this damn parade. Help them look good. Which, whatever. It’s small. Easy. ’Course, they said the same thing about the political bash. Small. Fucking easy.”
Jean-Jacques leaned back into the booth, splicing apart what Pete had just said. The Maydays had used the politicos while the politicos had used the Maydays? Yeah, that checked out. A plan involving guns and hostages had gone wrong? That also checked out. The whys and how-comes, Jean-Jacques didn’t care. For power and money, that’s what it always came back to. “They’ll get theirs,” the Chaplain had said in the park about the politicians. Sounded like they deserved to. And Pete was right, in his way. What he described was fucked up. Any more fucked up than going undercover for government cops intent on crushing peacemongers who ran food pantries and built homes for Gold Star families?
Pete was lost here. Lost and pathetic. Jean-Jacques wasn’t, though. He knew the way forward. Time for action, he thought. Time to take the lead.
“That hypothetical?” Jean-Jacques rubbed the back of his head and whistled low. Once he got Jonah Gray, he’d free them all from the homeland. He’d free his fellow Volunteers and then he’d free himself. He wouldn’t get caught in this game of extended favors, either. “I’m with you, homie. That is fucked up. Let’s get back over there. Late-night raids, night-vision focus, squeezing that trigger. All of it. We’ll be good, then. We’ll get life back, then.”
“Regret is weak, I know.” Pete began rubbing at his North Star tattoo, sounding like he was talking to himself more than responding. “We signed up. We signed the dotted line. That’s how it works.”
Jean-Jacques thought he understood what his squad leader was getting at now. It wasn’t the hero thing, but the service thing. Smaller, in its way. Much bigger at the same time.
“Naw. We didn’t sign up for everything,” he said. “We volunteered to be soldiers. Not all this other nonsense. That just happened. Way beyond us. Okay to remember that. Okay to live accordingly.”
That made the brave and certain Pete Swenson blink in thought. Something in his face seemed to loosen. Then he cracked his neck and grinned, too. “Yeah. You right. You know, man, these citizens here were asking for a good war story. The real shit, they said. What you think? Should I tell them about the sniper nest in Cyprus? Maybe the torture basement in, fuck, Damascus? Homs? Somewhere. Smelled like guts. A goddamn sewer of guts.”
Jean-Jacques leaned back into the booth and shrugged. He didn’t have the heart to tell his friend it didn’t matter. The people just wanted him to tell anything. Then they could make it something different, something all their own, something they could pretend to have a little claim to but no responsibility for.
FREEDOMBOOK
Your state-approved source for information and factual content
The Liberation of Hanoi was the capture of Hanoi, the capital of North Vietnam, by the International Legion and the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) on or about 27 November 1981. The event marked the formal end of the Vietnam War and the start of a transition period to the formal reunification of Vietnam into an American territory.
According to one of the few American ground advisors present for the Liberation, Vietnamese General Duong Van Minh’s forces blockaded the city in August, aided by U.S. Navy ships in control of the Red River.[1] A protracted siege ensued, resulting in the deaths of tens of thousands of Vietnamese civilians. Legionnaire Commander David Hackworth arrived with his 13th Legion (predominantly Korean and Filipino war veterans) five weeks after. Plans to take the city began in earnest with Hackworth’s arrival.[2]
Some historians dispute the Liberation of Hanoi as an official marker of the war’s end. Much of North Vietnam’s political and military leadership fled the city before the Legion began its entry, and the People’s Army continued to wage guerrilla war from the mountains in the northwestern provinces of Vietnam.[3] The insurgency continues to this day, though related acts of violence have declined steadily since the Accord of Dien Bien in 1993.[4]
CHAPTER 22
THE GREAT CITY of the conquering people held a parade for the Victors every year, though victory as both a concept and construct had been left in the last century. Sebastian thought this was why the parade had become such a sacred affair. It harkened back to a place that wasn’t anymore, that couldn’t be, anymore. A good enemy had kept America true. A known enemy had kept America united. Even casual study of Vietnam showed a long, dirty war, of course, one with manifold cases of human suffering and loss. But it had been necessary to end the communist threat. It had been necessary for democratic ideals to persist. It had been necessary to prove that America was different than those that’d come before. That’s what the V-V Day P
arade honored. That’s what it paid tribute to.
Thirty years later: Praise to the Victors.
It felt right to Sebastian to be attending the parade on its pearl anniversary. The Next Greatest Generation wouldn’t be around forever, after all. Though, with a little prodding, one of its number might still be able to shape the future for the better.
Sebastian had spent days and nights wandering the city, thinking everything through. The hidden truths about Tripoli still bothered him. It was hard for him to know where to go next when he wasn’t sure he knew where he’d been. But he’d still decided Pete and Mia were right. He needed to look forward. He needed to work toward making things better. He needed to help others. More important, he wanted to be the type of person who did things like that. He’d called Pete three nights before and said he was in. He’d do it. He’d be a homeland Volunteer for the people who needed him to be.
Sebastian still held concerns about American Service. But he’d come around to General Collins. At Pete’s suggestion, he’d watched more of her speeches. They suggested she could do for the real America what Bobby Kennedy was doing in a pretend TV one. That mattered, Sebastian thought. It mattered a lot.
He sat on a picnic table in a corner of Battle Hymn Park among a leafy canopy, arms draped over his knees. The morning smelled of grilled meat. Loud men with bullhorns directed vague orders through the air. Britt Swenson and Grady Flowers sat next to him, pawing at each other like teenagers about to be separated for a long weekend. Sebastian was trying his best not to gawk. The flashes of skin from the gaps in Britt’s overalls made it difficult. A nearby group of JROTC cadets fidgeting in olive drab uniforms that fit their bodies like papier-mâché held no such qualms.
“You’re gonna give those boys a physical situation,” Flowers said. “Right before they march up Fifth Avenue, too. Whole city’s gonna see their little peckers standing at attention.”
“Stop,” Britt said, in a way that suggested she didn’t care one way or another if he did. She settled into the crook of his shoulder. “I’m just worried about you.”
“Hell, woman! Today ain’t no thing.” The pitch Flowers put into his voice struck a perfect balance between recklessness and confidence. “Now, the time we got stuck in the Alps without resupply, that was worthy of your concern. There we were, no shit, and your damn brother…”
Britt may not have heard about the Dinaric Alps, but Sebastian had. He tuned out the Sniper and instead focused on the surrounding revelry: the massing vets in charcoal-gray blazers under the banner “Vietnam Vets for Liberty”; a man on stilts dressed as Uncle Sam handing out sofa discounts; the tent of young financiers from Lehman Brothers distributing pamphlets about the firm’s warfighters hiring initiative.
Today was to be Sebastian’s first mission as a homeland Volunteer. There’d been threats made on the parade VIPs, threats the Council of Victors deemed serious and legitimate. The Council would never cancel the event, but it had requested the War Department loan out its super-soldiers to help with security. Be a show of force, if nothing else. Pete hadn’t been able to suppress his joy at finally—fucking finally—being utilized.
Sebastian had prayed the night before, really prayed rather than talking to a vague entity in his head, bowing his head and clasping his hands at the foot of his bed and everything. His prayer had been simple, half-ironic, but half-earnest, too, and he figured God understood why.
“Please give me the strength to do what You intend of me. Gracias and Amen.”
Sebastian still didn’t understand why he’d been gifted his power, why he’d been chosen, and why he’d survived when so many others hadn’t. Maybe it was the ancestor gassed in the trenches a century back. Maybe not. He’d developed a rough idea that helping General Collins get elected might allow him to gain access to some answers, full answers, as long as he proved himself worthy to her and her people. Thinking about it all again was making his leg twitch, though, so he took out his one-hitter.
“Curbing the edge,” he told Britt and Flowers, who laughed and called him a crazy hostage, again.
They found Pete striding through the milling crowd, a head-length taller than anyone else, exchanging handshakes and hellos. He was wearing his dress blues, rows of ribbons stacked on his chest like fruit salad, his combat infantry badge shining under the dreary sun. He’d gotten a haircut, trimmed his sideburns, and even shaved; he looked like he did in government commercials, the mask of the great Justice slipped over hard-partying Pete Swenson. People bunched around him in clumps, taking photos and video with their phones. Only the silver-haired veterans in blazers kept their distance. Even on their own day, Victors couldn’t compete with young celebrity.
“Such a dork,” Britt said. The Swenson siblings weren’t fighting at the moment, as far as anyone else could tell. “Pretending to be shy.”
“That’s nothing,” Flowers said. “If I’d gotten dolled up today, I’d have a crowd three times that. Citizens don’t want bashful. They want style! They want flair. Come on, Pete, kiss some babies, flex for the people!” Flowers shook his head and whistled through his teeth. “Man gets to be a superhero and doesn’t even do it right.”
Sebastian did admire Flowers’s ability to live free. He took a deep breath and let the weed steady his being. Be good and do good, he thought. That’s it.
With the help of some Council security guards, Pete eventually made it to their table. He didn’t bother with a greeting. “No Jean-Jacques, then,” he said. Disappointment filled his voice. “Thought he’d be here.”
It seemed out of character for Dash not to show when it mattered, but Sebastian didn’t pry. It’s not like he minded. He knew how poorly the Haitian man thought of him.
Pete turned his attention to Flowers, frowning. “Jeans and sneakers.” Sebastian wore similar but he had the excuse of needing lightweight clothes to turn invisible. “We’re on a job.”
Flowers shrugged. “You said business casual, brother.” Britt laughed, which only deepened her brother’s scowl.
In oblique language, Pete briefed the day’s mission. They were augmentee security: Flowers and Britt held front-row seats on the steps of the library, where the parade’s dignitaries would gather and the general would deliver the keynote.
“You see a bright blue light flash onstage, or you see something wrong, anything, you grab the nearest VIPs and ’port out of there,” Pete said. “Grab and go.”
Sebastian had been tasked a rover. “Do what you do best,” Pete said. “Go hidden, check out the reaches of the crowd. Go up to rooftops and the upper floors of surrounding buildings. See anything off, anything odd, find security.”
Sebastian said he understood. He didn’t know how long he could stay unseen, but he was ready to push through the headaches to find out. He felt through his pocket to make sure the one-hitter was still there.
“Anyone specific we looking for?” Flowers asked. “Or just mystery bad guys?”
“Be alert for anything. There’s a rumor the Mayday leader’s gonna show. Jonah Gray. So careful attention to any vet with troubles. You know the look—camo jacket, old boots, maven-addict stare.”
“Scraggly. Beaten up by the world.”
Pete nodded. He went on to explain that he’d be onstage with the general, bodying her wherever she stepped. “Hence the monkey outfit.”
“Will play great on TV, too.” Britt tried to ice her words with a smile, but even Flowers winced. “Oh, come on. Like you don’t know. You’re a big deal to people, Peter. They’ll see you up there and take it as open support. Won’t the War Department be upset? Something about keeping the military away from politics?”
“Screw them,” Flowers said. “They been playing politics with us since the day we joined up.”
A thin wind blew through the park, and the four young people clung to the moment before going their separate ways.
“Thanks for being brave,” Britt finally said. “Really. I love all of you for it.”
Pete win
ked his coral eye through the daylight. He patted Sebastian’s shoulder, then lightly tapped at Flowers’s cheek. He put his arm around his sister and squeezed her close. Sebastian thought the big, famous leader of men was going to say something about the Volunteers, or the Rangers, or maybe something about America. Instead he said something much better.
“We’re pretty fucking awesome, aren’t we?”
* * *
The invisible man moved through the city like haze, watching, searching. He eased himself into his power; three minutes on, six minutes off, then doubling that ratio. Then he cleared eight minutes, taking off thirty for good measure. He still had two hours until the general’s speech; he saw no need to burn out before it.
Thousands had begun to line the avenue sidewalks. Bankers and clerks and tourists and digital communications associates, all gathering for their warfighters, for their Victors. Sebastian pushed out and probed deeper, to the edges.
He found strange people and strange groups along those edges. A small number of gray-haired black men had assembled under the Flatiron Building, wearing mesh caps and long-sleeve navy shirts bearing the words LITTLE HAITI VICTORS. He walked up to one of the men, sixty or so, short and ropy, with deep folds like trenches along his face. Through the man’s mirrored sunglasses, Sebastian saw absolutely nothing. He coughed. The man looked up, bushy eyebrows turning to question marks.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
Sebastian walked away, smiling to himself, leaving the man to ask if anyone else had heard what he had.
Sebastian blinked into visibility, he blinked out of visibility. He ambled north and then west, taking a break with his one-hitter and a bottled water. He paused across the crossed pistols gate arching over Broadway, built in remembrance of those who fell seizing Beirut. It remained under reconstruction. The Mayday Front had blown apart one of the pistol’s barrels, and scaffolding enveloped that side of the monument like wood lace. Up the block, a woman with wavy honey hair and shiny north-star skin talked to a man in a charcoal-gray blazer on a raised platform. They were facing a knob of television cameras. Sebastian stopped to listen, recognizing Jamie Gellhorn first, then her guest.
Empire City Page 30
