Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  Bullard contained his reaction to the Kazak’s rising anger. “That’s your final answer? You need a few months of rest and recuperation before beginning a new phase of operations?”

  “Yes, that is correct. I have many friends in Washington, very high in Department of State. They have given me explicit guarantee that my battalion will not be overtasked with missions. In fact, the Assistant Secretary of State gave me such as promise in writing on paper before even we came to Tennessee. Would you like to see document? We have already performed above our part of agreement.”

  “The State Department, huh? Well, why didn’t you say so?” Bullard put his hands up in apparent resignation. “Well, I guess I know when I’ve lost an argument. Okay Colonel, you win, have it your way. Keep me informed, and let me know when your battalion is ready. But in the meantime, if I send you some small mission taskings, the occasional ambush or rebel farm liquidation, do you think perhaps you could work them into your training schedule?”

  “Well, of course, General Blair, I am a reasonable man. Are you sure you won’t try cup of fresh kumis?”

  “Maybe next time.” Bullard turned and walked back to his helicopter, still surrounded by his bodyguards. Colonel Jibek hissed an order to his trailing adjutant, and another lackey brought his white stallion up by its reins. Jibek mounted with a flourish, whipped his mount, and tore off at a gallop to where dozens of his men were still tossing the remains of a dead goat from rider to rider.

  ****

  By 2:20, Phil Carson could see a distant sign by the road, and beside it a tent colored desert tan. The sign was a sheet of plywood, horizontal. It read MISSISSIPPI in hand-painted letters. As he walked closer, he could make out a subscript: “No entry without official permission.” Beyond the sign the road doubled in size, from two lanes to four, with a median strip between the eastbound and westbound lands. A handful of figures moved around the tent as he walked onward, and they paused to study him as he drew near. They were soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms, carrying M-16s. They finally reacted when he was a hundred yards away.

  “Hold it right there!” came the shouted command. “No further! Put your hands up and kneel down.”

  The simple checkpoint consisted of a canvas Army tent, with all four sides rolled up, and a porta-john. A green military pickup truck was parked by the tent. This checkpoint was about what Carson had expected. He did as he was ordered, and dropped slowly to his knees.

  A pair of soldiers approached to within twenty yards. Both were clean-shaven Caucasians in their twenties, wearing matching camo patrol caps. These were similar to ball caps but flat on top, with a shorter bill. The taller of the two asked, “What were you doing over there? Couldn’t you read the sign? That’s a prohibited zone.” Both carried their rifles across their chests on slings, but they were not wearing body armor.

  “I think he’s a looter,” suggested the smaller troop, leveling the barrel of his M-16. “Look at that pack—it’s probably just crammed with loot.”

  “What prohibited zone?” asked Carson. “I don’t know anything about a prohibited zone.”

  “Are you blind? Can’t you read? This sign says it’s a prohibited zone—you can’t just go strolling on into Alabama.”

  Carson looked at the crude four-by-eight plywood sign, and back at the soldiers. “I can’t see what it says on your side. I just see Mississippi, and I guess I’m here asking for official permission, like it says. I don’t know what the sign says on the other side.”

  “How’d you get in there, then?” asked the squad leader smugly. “Coastal Alabama’s a prohibited zone. It’s a no-go area. Nobody can cross the state line without a special permit. So how’d you get over there if you didn’t sneak around us?”

  At least they were keeping their distance, Carson was grateful for that. They weren’t making him lie face down on the asphalt. “I don’t know, I was just there, that’s all. I’ve never been here before in my life. I’ve never seen your sign before. At least, I don’t remember any of this.”

  “You don’t remember? What is that bullshit? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m not sure what anything means. I woke up back there somewhere. That’s all I know—I don’t remember anything else.”

  “Where’s your ID badge?” demanded the squad leader.

  “ID badge? I don’t know, am I supposed to have one? I don’t remember anything about ID badges.”

  “Oh, bullshit! What’s your name and social security number, then?”

  Carson feigned a helplessly bewildered look, alternately staring at each of the young soldiers. “You know, I can’t remember that either!”

  “Well, you just can’t remember anything, can you?” stated the shorter soldier.

  The squad leader asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?” He had a strong Southern accent.

  “Where’s here?” asked Carson, seemingly perplexed.

  “Here’s Jackson County, Mississippi, that’s where. So you’re not from Alabama then?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t remember. My head hurts real bad, that’s about all I’m sure of.”

  The shorter soldier spoke to his squad leader. “If he came all the way from Florida, he might be carrying the bird flu or the monkey pox…” Both soldiers backed away.

  “You just stay right where you are,” ordered the squad leader. “I’m going to call higher and get a QV team down here ASAP. I’m not taking any chances. No sir, I’m not.”

  “What’s a QV team?” asked Carson timidly.

  “Huh? QV—Quarantine and Vaccination. If you don’t have an ID and a vaccination card, then you have to go to QV. They’ll sort it out.”

  Both soldiers eased further away from Carson, back toward the rest of the watching squad. The taller of the two spoke into a walkie-talkie. Carson shifted from the painful position on his knees to sitting Indian-style on the asphalt.

  ****

  Bob Bullard instructed the pilot to maintain 4,000 feet of altitude above ground level for the flight from Clark County back to his headquarters at Fort Campbell, on the Tennessee-Kentucky border. This was above effecttive small-arms range, but low enough for him to give the land a good looking over. He had a paper air map unfolded on his lap, and he made notes directly on it with a felt-tip marker as he watched the ground slide beneath. He had already put a giant red X across Colonel Jibek’s confiscated thousand-acre estate. The helicopter flew a straight track above the gently rolling countryside. It was still a beautiful region, in spite of the widespread points of destruction. Clark County was horse country, with many farms dedicated to equestrian pursuits.

  It had been one of the last openly defiant counties between Nashville and Memphis. The roots of the insurrection went back many years, but as in many other areas, it really took off after the semi-automatic rifle ban. The Tennesseans had openly flouted the ban, and the repeal of the Second Amendment had only hardened their defiance. These Southern rednecks were both crazy about their guns and full of hate for the federal government, which was an explosive combination. Before the two earthquakes, internal ATF reports estimated that Tennessee was at less than 50 percent compliance with the new gun laws. This was a disgrace compared to states like Maryland and New Jersey, but what else could be expected? The South was the South, and rebellion was in their blood. Too many of these hillbillies just would not adapt to the new constitution and its socially progressive laws. Washington could pass all the laws it wanted, but increasingly, it could not enforce them in any meaningful way.

  Then, without warning, the New Madrid fault had broken open with a monthlong series of quakes, including two massive ones. The population of Memphis had spilled out into the surrounding countryside, foraging for food and shelter. Across the Mississippi River, St. Louis and Little Rock had not fared much better. A bloodbath resulted when the waves of urban refugees were violently resisted in the countryside. The bloodshed after the quake revealed just how unrealistic the gun law compliance estima
tes had been: the suburban and rural folk were still armed to the teeth.

  After the quakes, the countryside around Memphis was initially pillaged by the starving refugees, until the locals had organized and fought back, killing thousands of purported bandits and looters. Well, as far as Bob Bullard was concerned, every ghetto dweller killed out in the sticks was one less refugee mouth to feed back in Memphis. Even better, every death could be conveniently blamed on the quake aftermath and the white aversion to black refugees.

  ****

  Phil Carson sat on the road, using his pack for a backrest. While he waited, he sipped water from a plastic bottle that had once carried Gatorade. After half an hour, a pickup approached from the west and briefly paused by the tent. The checkpoint soldiers spoke to its driver while standing well away from the vehicle.

  Finally, the truck rolled slowly up toward Carson and stopped. The vehicle had been painted in day-glo safety orange. The letters QV were written in yard-high black letters on both doors. A gray box occupied all of the truck bed except for a little space at its front. It reminded Carson of a portable dog kennel, only bigger. It was made of gray metal, with a window on each side covered with heavy wire mesh.

  The driver and a passenger stepped out onto the road, and Carson stood up to meet them. The driver was a Caucasian whose face was horribly scarred. The other soldier was a black man with a smooth complexion and alert, intelligent-looking eyes.

  He had seen these facial scars before—on monkey pox survivors. It was like pitting from the very worst teenage acne, twice over. In many of the islands and ports he’d passed through, people with the scars were prohibited entry, banned like modern-day lepers. Carson knew this was merely foolish superstition: monkey pox survivors didn’t carry the germs in an active form, and couldn’t catch or spread the disease. The only dangerous period was the week after infection, until after the skin boils erupted and scabbed over. Still, victims were often made pariahs, as living reminders of the horror that was monkey pox, with its 20 percent mortality rate and hideous survivor scars.

  The pock-faced driver pulled on a surgical mask as he approached, and stopped a few yards from Carson. Three chevrons on a square rank badge on the front of their shirts meant both were buck sergeants. Both wore holstered pistols on web belts. On the opposite side of the passenger’s belt was a small green gear pack with a medical caduceus on it. Instead of patrol caps, these two soldiers wore black berets.

  The driver said, “So, let me see if I got this right: you’ve got no ID badge and no vaccine shot card. You just appeared out of nowhere, and you don’t even know who you are.” His Southern-accented voice was slightly muffled by the filter. He had bright blue eyes above the mask.

  “That’s about right.”

  “Empty your pockets and dump out your pack on the ground,” the driver instructed without emotion. He seemed to be in no hurry to approach more closely.

  Carson did as he was ordered, crouching down and emptying the pack. He spread out its innocuous contents: water bottles, a green poncho, and other very basic gear.

  “Any weapons?” asked the medic.

  “Just a pocket knife,” answered Carson, pulling a small folder from the rear pocket of his pants. He had judged that having no weapon at all would not have been believable, and he was prepared to sacrifice the cheap knife, hoping this might save him from a closer inspection.

  The driver eyed the short blade and said, “No weapons in the QVC. Sorry, that’s the rule. Leave it on the ground and load the rest back up. You might get it back later, you might not.”

  Carson repacked the bag while kneeling on the asphalt, moving slowly, as they would expect an old man to do. When he was finished, he struggled up as if he had a bad back. It wasn’t a difficult act: after two weeks at sea, the day of hiking over broken ground had worn him out.

  The truck’s square cage stopped short two feet from the cab. “Put your pack in the truck there,” the driver ordered, indicating the open space.

  Carson did as he was told, walking close by the scarred man and dropping the pack over the side. The medic backed away from him, maintaining more than a yard of separation.

  “Now pull up your shirtsleeves, all the way to the shoulder.” Carson did so, revealing on the left side a barely visible smallpox vaccination scar, more than six decades old. Beneath the vaccination was a faded blue two-inch-wide tattoo of an open parachute with a pair of wings curling up on either side.

  The driver studied the vaccination mark and the tattoo, then looked again at Carson’s face. “That old smallpox vaccination might have saved you. We almost never saw Cameroon fever in people your age. But you’ll still need to get the complete battery of new shots.” He dropped the tailgate and swung open a chain link door at the back of the cage. “Okay, get in. Don’t worry; this is just routine. Anybody who’s going to the QV center rides back there.”

  “Am I under arrest or something?” asked Carson.

  “No, it’s just SOP. Standard operating procedure. Consider yourself lucky: last year we were running busloads. You’ll probably be out as soon as you’re medically cleared. It’s just unusual these days to see somebody with no ID badge and no vaccine card, that’s all. Okay, go ahead and climb in.”

  Carson looked at the open cage, the driver with his pistol, the other checkpoint soldiers with their rifles. It was too late to change his mind about his plan. At this point running was not an option, and fighting would be worse than useless. He could only do as he was ordered. Now, at the actual moment of being detained, he felt that he’d been a damn fool just to walk into Mississippi. From this point on, what happened to him would be beyond his control.

  The floor was of the same gray metal as the rest of the cage. He could see now that the entire box could be lifted out of the truck, prisoners and all, by a metal ring bolted on top. He swallowed hard and climbed up and inside the cage. The driver swung the two back doors closed and then raised the tailgate, locking him in. He imagined the box, carrying infected human cargo, being lifted out of the pickup by a hoist. The people inside the box could be put through a decontamination station…or the box could be lowered into a river or pond, drowning the hapless human debris locked within like unwanted stray cats or dogs.

  He could see out of the wire-screened side windows of the box. According to the miniature compass on his watchband, they drove southwest until they entered the town of Pascagoula, and then turned right, heading north. Surrounded by so much metal, the little compass spun erratically, but after many ocean voyages Carson was comforted by its north-seeking needle. Road signs said they were on State Road 63. There was very little traffic, and almost no private cars passed the pickup in either direction. Infrequent buses and trucks made up most of the motor vehicles on the road. Stake-side farm trucks carried dozens of standing men crammed into their backs. A surprising number of people walked or rode bicycles on the shoulders of the road. Some were riding horses or used horse-drawn wagons.

  The truck ascended a high concrete bridge over a wide river. Carson could see rusty commercial fishing boats tied up to piers below him. Back down on land, the road continued running straight north, two lanes on each side of a wide median. More people lined the road. It looked like a permanent flea market or swap meet, spread out on both sides.

  Everybody the QV truck passed had a card-size plastic badge clipped to a collar, shirt pocket, or belt. The people stopped and stared blankly at the bright orange quarantine truck. A black child scowled, then hurled a rock that bounced off the side of the cage as the truck passed. Soon the truck left the heavily populated coastal zone. Half of the countryside was forested with oaks and pines, and half was in farmland. Businesses and homes were spread out a few to a mile, clustered mostly around infrequent crossroads. The truck drove swiftly northward. Rusty cranes, bulldozers and backhoes were stranded by the roadsides at random intervals, covered with creeper vines and sprouting bushes like ruins reclaimed by the jungle.

  At an intersection outsi
de a small town, Carson stared at a man’s body hanging from a telephone pole by a thin rope. There was a dark mask over his head, and his hands were bound behind his back. He was dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt, with a sandal on one foot. The man was black, or perhaps his corpse had turned black after his death. A single word was printed on a cardboard placard fixed to his shirt: COUNTERFEITER. Carson moved from the side window to watch the surreal scene through the chain-link rear doors, until the man disappeared in the distance behind them.

  Roadside billboards, instead of carrying commercial advertisements, were devoted to government announcements. The messages alternated between boasts of public services restored and stern warnings to potential lawbreakers. A billboard featured a cheerful multiracial group all giving the thumbs-up sign. The text above them gave thanks that electric service had been restored to 82 percent of Mississippi. Other signs featured portraits of a military officer, a stern-faced but rather handsome Creole-looking man. Beneath his portraits were slogans such as “Together we will finish what we have begun!” and “We will rise together, or fall apart!”

  A half hour into the drive, the QV truck made several detours through residential areas consisting of badly dilapidated mobile homes and shacks. Many nicer homes were in ruins, roofless and open to the elements, with tattered blue plastic tarps lifting above them in the breeze. Almost every inhabited dwelling had some type of makeshift fence surrounding it, made of rusty chain link, wood slats, or simple iron rebar posts woven with barbed wire. Simple wooden crosses marked graves in many yards.

  People holding an assortment of water containers lined up at a communal spigot. Barefoot children played in the dirt while around them pigs, chickens and goats competed for what fodder they could find. Mississippi seemed to have regressed to Third World standards. All except the smallest children wore the black-and-white ID badges clipped to their shirts.