“Tori—do you plan on getting anything done today other than reading another one of those stupid books?”
The nearsighted young woman sat up and adjusted her glasses, flinching as the eyeglass frames met with a purplish-yellow bruise just below her eye. “I-I’m so sorry, sir. Was there something you needed?”
“Can you think of another reason I’d come out here?”
“No-no, sir. I suppose not.”
“Get Bates in here,” Bronson demanded. “Now.”
Tori turned and put her finger on a note on her desk. “Seth? He called in earlier…he’s out sick today, sir.”
“I don’t care if he called in dead,” Bronson spat. “Get his ass the hell in here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bronson went to shut the door, catching it before it closed. “And I’m out of brandy, Tori. Send more. And coffee, too. Strong coffee. Lots of it.”
The brunette nodded. “Right awa—”
Bronson slammed the door shut, cutting her off. He sauntered over to his desk and plopped down into his chair to the sound of whistling air escaping the cushion.
An hour or so later, a knock on Bronson’s door awoke him from a brief snooze. He yawned, stretched, and bellowed to whoever was on the other side to enter. The door opened, and his assistant, Seth Bates, stepped in with a white cotton surgical mask covering his face.
The floral smell of fresh brewing coffee pulled on Bronson’s nose, reviving him in no time. He snorted while rubbing his eyes. “What’s the trouble, Bates?” he asked, his voice garbled. “Halloween isn’t for several more days—have you fallen ill since we last spoke?”
“Bronchitis,” replied Bates, followed by a raspy cough. “The doc says there’s a chance I could still be contagious, so he ordered me to stay home and rest and to wear this mask for a few days.”
“I see. That’s very prudent. We wouldn’t want a pandemic on our hands now, would we?”
“No, sir.” He stepped over to Bronson’s desk and set down the two jugs of Paul Masson peach brandy he had brought with him. “I believe you requested this?”
Bronson let a burp slip through his lips while reaching for one of the bottles to examine it. “Damn right I did. This stuff is getting harder and harder to come by.”
Bates glanced around at the DHS regional commander’s office, taking note of a pillow, several blankets, and what appeared to be a plush down duvet and cover resting on the couch. Piles of clothing, shoes, and even socks and underwear were strewn about in disarray. It appeared as though his boss had been sleeping in his office.
“If you don’t mind me asking, is everything all right, sir?” Bates asked. “I’m guessing you summoned me here for something other than to deliver booze.”
Bronson snorted at the term booze. “No, Bates. No…I’m afraid everything is not all right.” He pointed to his computer, gesturing his head in the same direction. “Have you had a chance to view the latest footage we downloaded from the Pred?”
Bates nodded. “Yes, sir, I have.”
“Splendid. Then I assume you can probably deduce why everything isn’t all right.”
“Sir, last week, you presented me with what you believed to be the most probable outcomes,” Bates began, his voice wheezy. “The latter narrative we discussed, more or less from what I saw, fell into play. Marcel and company marched in and got erased, just like you said might happen—a ‘hunch’, as you called it. And as a result, we no longer have to deal with him anymore. I assumed you would be pleased—at least partially.”
“But I don’t look pleased, do I, Bates?”
“No, sir.” He coughed. “You most definitely do not.”
“And how do I look, Bates?”
Seth Bates shuffled his feet nervously. “Tired, sir.”
“Tired?”
“Yes, sir. And, I’m sorry if this sounds out of line or too bold, but you also look…very drunk.”
Bronson chuckled. “Spot on, Bates. Spot on, on both counts.” He stood up and hobbled carefully to the window. “You are correct—the final outcome was one I had chronicled. Marcel and his ruffians are extinct—and in that regard, I am pleased. But I’m only half-pleased. One problem is done away with, yet several others remain.”
“What problems are those, sir?”
“I don’t get it,” Bronson mused. “I wasn’t aware that bronchitis caused memory loss.”
“No, sir…it doesn’t. Let me rephrase. I suppose I just don’t perceive the other items we spoke of as…problems.”
“We still require justice for our fallen agents,” Bronson growled, almost indistinctly, his words blending. “That in itself is most definitely a problem and will remain such until we do something about it—do you not agree?”
Bates nodded weakly. “I’m sorry, sir. I’d almost forgotten about your brother-in-law, and you’re right. We cannot allow their deaths to go unpunished.”
“No. We most certainly cannot.”
“And I take it you want me to handle it?”
Bronson turned and glared at his subordinate, then moved to lean his back against the wall, crossing his arms. “Handle it? Tell me, Bates—tell me exactly—precisely how would you handle it?”
Bates shrugged. “Well, sir, I guess the answer to that is rather uncomplicated. I’d gather a group of men together, arm them to the teeth, load up the APCs and MRAPs, and drive in as a heavily armed convoy. We could either take them as prisoners or take them down. We have a superior force and superior firepower; they would have no choice but to surrender. Those people got lucky, if you ask me—winning a battle against your biker mercenaries, most of whom were probably so drunk they couldn’t see straight. There’s no way they could match us if we go in with a show of force.”
Bronson frowned, his arms falling lifelessly to his sides. “So let me get this straight. You want to go in there and encounter them head-on, just like Marcel’s morons did. Is that right?”
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry, Bates, you’ll have to forgive me, but I’ve had a lot to drink today, and my mind is kind of fuzzy. Didn’t we just witness an approach, strikingly similar to the one you’re proposing, go awry? That is, completely and utterly fail?”
Seth Bates shrugged and rubbed his nose. “Not exactly.”
“Oh? Not exactly? Then what, exactly, would you call it? They’re all dead…not a single, solitary one of the leather vests made it out of there alive, from what I’ve seen. And they most certainly didn’t go there intent upon dying.” Bronson chuckled. “I don’t know, maybe my vision’s too blurry, but that looked an awful lot like failure to me.” He paused, scratching his head. “You know, if it looks like shit and smells like shit, there’s a damn good chance it’s shit.” Bronson pointed at the floor on the brink of hysterics. “Look out, Bates! You’re about to step in it!”
Bates held out a hand. “Sir, with all due respect—we coerced a group of drunken, enraged hooligans with no military or tactical training to march headfirst into battle against—well, an army of guerrillas, sir. Native combatants—in their home territory. Compared to the men we have in our ranks, Marcel’s people were little more than undisciplined rogues, and they had no training for the type of battle they found themselves in. Using our own men, our own ordnance and tactics, we’d most certainly arrive at a better conclusion.”
Bronson stuck out his lower lip. While blithely considering his assistant’s lecture, he poured himself a cup of coffee for a change of pace, and mixed in several packets of white sugar, opting to forgo the cream. “And you believe, in doing as you say, we would claim victory…”
“Yes,” Bates affirmed, nodding. “Yes, sir, I believe we would.”
“Without incurring further casualties?”
Bates lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that. Of course…there would most likely be casualties…on both sides.”
“Indeed, there would be. There would most definitely be casualties on both sides. And that is why I cannot allow a plan like
the one you are proposing to materialize, Bates. We’ve already lost far too many men—men who cannot be replaced in times such as these. And I’m not going to allow us to lose our priceless assets on a whim. They are no longer expendable. Not anymore.”
“Sir, with all due respect, once again,” Bates began, “How else do you expect to continue our operations here? To move forward and eventually complete our mission? If we are planning to expand westward and fully take control of region three, it’s going to be awfully difficult doing so without a show of force somewhere along the way.”
“We have an elongated list of ultimate goals to achieve. But before we can go any further, we must shred that which stands directly in our way. There are alternative methods of dealing with problems such as these, Bates. Methods that don’t involve direct confrontation. Methods that can pretty much guarantee our side not only wins the day, but does so in grand fashion, without any loss of life.”
“Alternative methods? You’re talking about irregular warfare—attrition and unofficial counterinsurgency matters, correct?”
“Among others…” Bronson murmured, trailing off. He stepped lively back to his desk, coffee cradled safely in hand, and reached for the report he had been reading and sniffing earlier. “Tell me something, Bates—are you familiar with CCO Beatrice Carter?”
“Yes, sir. She’s the head of women’s detention,” Bates replied, followed by a short coughing spell. “She was installed there after the former head was charged with conspiracy, along with aiding and abetting, I believe.”
Bronson nodded. “And do you have any idea why Ms. Carter would deliver this report directly to me? Without giving it to you first? Thereby circumventing the pecking order?”
“I have no idea.”
Bronson nodded again with pursed lips. “Well, I do, Bates. I very much do—especially after having read the contents of Ms. Carter’s report.”
Bates looked worried. He stirred, but said nothing.
“It’s rather difficult for me to say this, particularly after all the years of loyalty you’ve given me. But I’m getting the feeling you’re not doing your job, Bates.”
“In response, sir, it’s rather difficult to hear you say it,” said Bates. “I don’t think I understand…is the report in some way about me?”
“Hardly,” Bronson said, taking his seat. “Look, Bates. Your job is to be my right-hand man—my eyes and ears—and even my voice inside Camp Bravo’s fences. Something has been looming inside those fences, I’ve recently been made aware of. Not by you, though, mind you. Not by anyone in the adjoining links of my chain of command, either. But by a chief correctional officer. A woman. Someone far outside the upper echelon, no less.”
“Sir, I’m sorry. But I really, truly don’t feel well,” Bates said, the sickness evident in his voice and body language. “Would it be possible for us to continue this conversation some other time?”
“There is no other time, Bates.” Bronson blew into his mug and took a sip of the hot liquid, withdrawing at the point of burning his tongue. “I’m sorry for being so blunt with you right now…but all this added complication as of late is really starting to piss me off. An uprising is developing as we speak. A rebellion has begun. Can you believe that? Here. In my camp, under my watch.” Bronson nearly choked after going in for another sip of coffee. “It’s preposterous!”
Bates sneezed and blew his nose into a handkerchief. “Sir, I sincerely apologize. But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about any uprising.”
Bronson pointed at him angrily. “And therein lies the problem. The fact you’re oblivious to all this is astounding—and quite frankly, with regards to your position, I find it inexcusable.” He paused, thumbing through the pages of the report, his nostrils flaring. “Here it is, though. All laid out and documented, every detail, in chronological order with specific notes concerning each daily occurrence in question. How could you have overlooked a group of three hundred or more gathering together several times a week? How could you also not notice that this group had even chosen a leader, one they follow around and cater to like she’s some goddess? Were you waiting for them to start laying palm fronds on the ground for her to walk on, or something?”
Bates hung his head and sniffled. “I don’t know what else to say, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Bronson tossed the report across his desk in repugnance. He spanned his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Apparently, these folks are now facetiously referring to themselves as her disciples…as if she were some female incarnate of Jesus Christ. I suppose they find it funny or something, but I’m sorry, I am not amused. In fact, I prefer to subscribe to an entirely different punchline. The small chapel thing wasn’t a problem at first, it was a means of assistance—helping the evacuees and refugees pass the time and find incentive to live and work here. It kept the peace, eliminated problems, but it also acted as a means to obtain inside information, you see? Parishioners of houses of worship, regardless of denomination, have always believed their conversations with clergy had some sort of attorney-client privilege. I’ve known Hal Wigfield for years—he’s always been a team player and has never so much as uttered a transgression in the government’s direction.”
Bronson’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, reaching for his coffee. “But now enters the stage this Faith character. This savior, this…Saint Joan of fucking Arc. Ever since she’s gotten involved, the chronology has changed. And not for the better, either. The things she’s doing—and saying—are ushering in hope. And that is something we cannot afford. It must stop.”
“Sir—”
Bronson held up a hand, silencing his former right-hand man. “The most peculiar thing to me is this whole scenario involves the same individual that Ms. Carter’s predecessor was found guilty of consorting with—the very reason she sits in purgatory, awaiting her death to this very day. Yet this Faith walks.”
“Sir, please,” Bates pleaded. “What would you have me do?”
Bronson sniffed his coffee, took a long sip, and smiled. “You know, Bates, Marcel is dead now, but he was like a real-life impersonation of that Tasmanian Devil cartoon character when he was still alive and kicking. While he mercilessly pillaged the towns in this valley, he left behind the equivalent of a tornado’s damage path in his wake. So, once you’re well, I’ll be tasking you to lead the cleanup detail.” Bronson carefully stood and approached Bates, putting a hand on his shoulder. “But get well, first. I don’t want you fighting ailments or being immersed in any other distractions when your full concentration should be on work.”
The door creaked open, and Bronson’s receptionist stepped in after a knock. “Mr. Bronson, an August Carter is outside. He’s asked to speak with you. He doesn’t have an appointment. He says it’s rather urgent.”
“Show him in, Tori,” Bronson said. He patted Bates on the shoulder again and sent him on his way.
Returning to his seat, he reached for his coffee and brought it to his lips. “Please, have a seat,” Bronson said, gesturing to the broad-shouldered agent, then to the chair located in front of his desk, offering him a seat. “I believe you said it was urgent.”
Chapter 4
Bronson twiddled his thumbs and scratched his balding head while waiting patiently for the stalwart uniformed DHS agent standing in front of his desk to respond. Even though he had been offered a seat several times, the agent remained on his feet, standing at attention.
“Mr. Bronson, I want to thank you, sir. For seeing me on such short notice.”
“Yes, yes. It’s fine…just tell me what this is about, in as brief a manner as humanly possible, Mr.…”
“Carter, sir. August Carter.”
“Right. Carter.” Bronson’s leisurely sobering mind began recognizing a pattern. He glanced down at the agent’s left hand, spotting a wedding band. “What is this about?”
“Sir, normally I wouldn’t be in such a hurry, but under the circumstances, I’d like to…respectfully
, request a transfer,” the agent said.
“A transfer?”
“Yes, sir,” August said rather nervously.
Bronson sighed. “Let’s start small, shall we, Mr. Carter? What is your assignment at present? The one you wish to be transferred…from?”
“Sorry, sir. I assumed you’d know—”
“I have many men and women under my command, Mr. Carter. It would be quite an undertaking to know what each person’s duties are, day in and day out.”
August nodded his understanding. “Okay, well, currently, I’m the SAIC—special agent in charge—for the Southern Annex.”
“Oh, I see,” Bronson said. He leaned forward, placing his forearms on his desk. “That’s quite an…exotic position you have there. One of rather crucial importance. One not easily conducted by most men. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Fully, sir.”
“And you wish to bow out? Relinquish it, just like that? Is that right?”
August nodded. “It’s not that I want to relinquish it, sir. It’s that I need to relinquish it.”
“Ah, wants and needs—economics one-o-one,” Bronson moaned, the onset of sobriety causing his head to throb. “I take it you have, at the very least, a reasonably profound justification for this need?”
“I feel that I do, sir.”
Bronson held his hands outward on the desk, palms upward. “Well, go on, then. Speak up.”
August stepped several feet closer, sliding his bulky hands into his pockets. “It’s the nightmares, sir.”
“Nightmares?”
“Yes, sir. I can’t deal with them anymore.”
Bronson’s face contorted. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Can you provide me with some particulars?”
The agent nodded. “I used to get them once or twice a month since being here. But now it’s become a nightly thing. I barely get any sleep anymore because of them. I went to the infirmary, and they gave me a prescription for Ambien, but that stuff turned me into a zombie, so I stopped taking it, and ever since, I’ve just been staying up all night, napping periodically during the day. It was working at first, but it’s wearing on me, and it’s just not a solution. It’s really becoming a bother to my wife as well.”
We Won't Go Quietly: A Family's Struggle to Survive in a World Devolved (Book Three of the What's Left of My World Series) Page 8
