Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  “Well, it’s not up to you. The buffer zones are under shared control, so I’m asking you not to do any sweeps into them without consultation.”

  Mirabeau stood up and turned, glaring down at Bullard, who was still sitting at the other end of the stone bench. “Bob, that’s not what our memorandum of understanding says. I’ll take this back to the White House if I have to. The buffer zones are in Mississippi and Alabama, and that’s my bailiwick, not yours. You only have approval for hot pursuit of terrorists and fugitives.”

  Bullard smiled. “General, that’s your interpretation. Let me put it another way. If you shut down those free markets, a lot of folks in southern Tennessee are going to be cold and hungry. If they’re cold and hungry, they might get a mind to just walk right on through the buffer zone and keep going.”

  “You keep threatening me with refugees. We’ve already demonstrated that we know how to stop them—in case you’ve forgotten what happened after the quakes.”

  “General, please. I’m not making threats; I’m just stating the reality of the situation. Provide the food in the tonnage we agreed on, and leave the free markets alone. That is, if you don’t want a few million extra mouths to feed.” Bullard smiled again. “I don’t know why we’re even discussing it. We already agreed on all of this last October in Mobile.”

  Mirabeau took a deep breath and exhaled through flaring nostrils. “Okay, we’ll hold off on the sweeps for now, and we’ll do the best we can with the food shipments. But for my part, I want to be in the loop when you go dropping rockets into the buffer zone. Let me remind you: Mississippi is not Tennessee, and we don’t enforce the curfew with rockets in Mississippi.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “And maybe you should just keep your UAVs out of our air space.”

  “So that terrorists can just wander back and forth? I don’t think so. But I take your point. Let’s beef up the liaison effort, and we’ll get on the horn before we run armed UAV missions on your side of the line. Of course, if we’re in hot pursuit, we’re going to come in. There won’t be any sanctuary states, not while I’m director of rural pacification.” Even with the general looming over him, Bullard affected a posture of nonchalance.

  “Hot pursuit or not, don’t send any of your foreign mercenaries into my states. Not even one foot into the buffer zone. That’s a redline I won’t tolerate being crossed.”

  Bullard stood up and playfully punched the Creole “Savior of the South” on the shoulder. “Aw hell, General,” he joshed. “What have you got against a little multinational outreach? Diversity is our strength, didn’t they teach you that in your Equal Opportunity classes? God only knows I heard it a million times in mine.” Then Bullard quickly walked to the golf cart and slid behind the wheel, gesturing to the open passenger seat. “You coming, Marcus?”

  ****

  “So, how was your weekend, Mr. Doe?” Doctor Foley returned to the quarantine tent at 10:30 Monday morning. The weather had turned cold again and Carson had rolled the tent sides down. Once again, the doctor entered without asking permission.

  Carson was sorting out his meager possessions on his cot, and tried not to appear startled as the canvas door flap was pushed aside. “The dancing girls just left. The maid is due any minute.” They both sat down at the white plastic table.

  “I can imagine. Your forehead is looking a lot better. Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”

  “There are no mirrors in the latrine.”

  “Well, your cut is looking fine, and almost all of the facial edema and bruising are gone.”

  “Thanks for the update. When can I get out of here?”

  “You already know the answer. After two weeks—depending.”

  “Great. Another week of peanut butter sandwiches and Kool-Aid.”

  “Peanut butter is loaded with protein, and the Kool-Aid is fortified with vitamins,” said the doctor. “It’s almost a complete meal.”

  “I’m not really complaining. It’s not so bad here, just boring as hell.”

  “There are worse things than being bored, trust me.”

  “Well, I could use a radio or a newspaper. Even an old magazine.”

  “It’s all just official news and propaganda. Believe me, you’re not missing much.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Doc. You’re not stuck in here.”

  “So, how’s your memory? Do you remember what we talked about on Friday? If you have anything to say, you might want to get right to it, while there’s still time. Once your two weeks are up, there’ll have to be some kind of a review. After that, I won’t be the only one taking an interest in your case. You’ll be out of my hands, out of my small circle of influence. You might be moved from here to some other camp, or you might be assigned to a work brigade. So, if your memory is coming back, tell me now.”

  Carson had made his decision over the weekend. “As a matter of fact, Doctor, it is.”

  “Good. How is your memory about coffee? If you want help from me, you’ll need to offer something in return.”

  “A special fee for your services? I thought that was against the rules.”

  “Don’t give me any crap, John Doe—I’m just about out of patience. If you want to know the truth, I’ve never bought the amnesia act for one minute. So stop acting cute with me. If you have something to offer, lay it out. Otherwise, you’ll be on your own.”

  Phil Carson had spent the entire weekend thinking about this coming confrontation and the subsequent negotiation. “Doctor, it must be your bedside manner, or maybe the diet or the fresh air, but most of my memory has returned.”

  “Yeah, I thought it would. So tell me who you are, and where you came from. You didn’t get that tan or those calluses in an office.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t remember everything. You might say that my memory is kind of…compartmentalized.”

  “I’m sure. So just tell me, John, what’s in the coffee compartment?”

  “What’s in it for me, Doctor?”

  “That depends on how much coffee there is and how easy it is for me to get it. Get it without attracting attention.”

  “A lot, and very easy.”

  “How much is a lot?”

  Carson paused. “Seven hundred kilos of Brazil’s finest. Packed in two-kilo plastic cans.”

  “Seven…hundred…kilos?” The doctor whistled softly.

  “That’s right. And that’s not all. There’s more.” Carson withdrew a compactly folded sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his blue hospital shirt. “Do you know what this is?”

  Doctor Foley opened the page, spread it out on the plastic table, and peered at it through his glasses. “It’s some kind of a schematic. ‘Kyocera 120 photovoltaic array.’ Where did you get this?”

  “They’re packed in each box with the solar panels, where else? I’ve got a hundred brand new panels. They’re hidden the same place where the coffee is.”

  “A hundred solar panels?”

  “That’s right. Kyoceras. Big suckers. The best there is.”

  “And seven hundred kilos of coffee?”

  “Correct.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it,” said Carson. “That’s everything.”

  “Did you ever have any amnesia at all?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. Were you in the Special Forces?”

  “That part is true. I was.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “I’d rather not say. John Doe is fine.”

  “Have it your way…John. Now, let’s cut to the chase. What do you want for the coffee and the solar panels?”

  “I want to get out of here.”

  “Naturally; who wouldn’t? I can help with that.”

  “Not just out of here, I want to get way out of here. Out of the emergency zone. I want to go to the Northwest. To Idaho, Montana or Wyoming.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “I want an ID badge, and whatever pap
ers and permits it takes for traveling freely. I want a car with extra gas tanks, everything I’ll need to go all the way without stopping. I’ll give you a list.”

  “This is not based in reality, John.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Just what do you think your bargaining position is? Even if I believed your story about the coffee and the solar panels—”

  “Where do you think I got that Kyocera 120 schematic?”

  “Even if you do have the stuff, let’s talk about what’s possible, not your fantasies.”

  “All right, Doctor, tell me what’s possible.”

  “I can’t get you an ID badge and documents. Well, not by myself, not without help. At the very least I’d need to bring in somebody I know at the Personnel Support Detachment, and probably somebody higher. That means at least a two- or three-way split, and more risk. And it’s a big risk: they hang people for black-marketing, and for forging identity cards.”

  Carson smiled. “But it’s a risk you’re willing to take, right, Doctor?”

  “You know, there’s something low and disgusting about people who profit off the misery of others. There’s a good reason they hang profiteers and smugglers.”

  “That’s no way to talk to a business partner. And for what it’s worth, Doc, I never had any intention of coming to Mississippi. Believe me, this is the last place I wanted to wind up. I’m only here because of the hurricane. I was heading to East Texas, where there’s no martial law and no price controls.”

  “East Texas, huh? Now, you might be able to make it to Texas from here, but Montana? Montana might as well be on the moon. I could probably arrange travel papers to Dallas—Dallas is in the so-called Republic of Texas. If you got to Dallas, you’d be on your own after that. From Dallas, you’d be able to travel north into Oklahoma and maybe Kansas at least. After Kansas, I don’t know what you’d need for travel papers.”

  “If I can make it to Texas, I can make it the rest of the way. East Texas is still free. Well, at least compared to here.”

  “Good, I think we can do business then. So, tell me where the coffee and the solar panels are, and we’ll work on getting you to Dallas.”

  Carson smiled. “I don’t think so. My memory is kind of slipping in and out. I’ll tell you where they are later—once I’m in Texas.”

  “No way. I’m not going to put my neck in a noose for a promise.”

  “Nor am I, Doctor. I’ll tell you where they are when I’m in Texas.”

  “Sure you will. Do you take me for a complete fool?” Doctor Foley began to rise from his chair.

  “Sit down, don’t be dramatic. We can work something out, something that works for both of us.”

  The doctor sat down heavily and paused, reflecting. “You really do have seven hundred kilos of coffee and a hundred solar panels?”

  “They’re in a safe place.”

  “In a place where I can get them, secretly?”

  “Yes, for sure.”

  “You have a map or something?”

  Carson touched his right index finger to his temple. “Right in here.”

  “But you could draw a map, a map that would work? Something one hundred percent certain?”

  “Once I’m in Texas I will.”

  “Not Texas, I can’t go that far.”

  “You’re going with me?” asked Carson.

  “Damn right I am. If we’re going to do this, I’m going to protect my investment. I’ll be with you until you give me the map and the directions. How about in Louisiana, on the other side of the Mississippi River? With a vehicle and travel permits, you can make it from there to Dallas easy. Draw me a good map and directions once we’re on the other side of the river. Then we’ll say goodbye.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “No, don’t think about it, you don’t have time! You don’t have anybody else you can deal with. All right? Do we have a deal?”

  Carson hesitated, then said, “For now.”

  “Good. But let me take the Kyocera schematic. I’ll need to convince somebody to help me with the travel papers and the ID. Somebody higher up. The solar panel diagram will help.”

  “Be careful—both of our necks are on the line,” said Carson.

  “You think I don’t know it?”

  “I’ll need papers, travel permits, a real ID badge, and a good car with extra gas. Enough gas to make it to Dallas nonstop. The right clothes, and winter gear for up north—I’ll give you a list. You get all of that and get me across the Mississippi River, and you have my word of honor: you’ll get the coffee and the solar panels. Can you do all of that?”

  Phil Carson extended his hand across the plastic table toward Doctor Foley, and they shook on the agreement while maintaining eye contact.

  “It’s a deal, then,” said the doctor. “I can arrange all of that. But it’ll take a little time.”

  “When?”

  “A few days, maybe more. I’ll send somebody with a razor and soap: keep yourself clean-shaven. You’ll need to look presentable to pull this off. We might need some more pictures too, for the IDs.”

  “Okay, Doc, I’ll be right here.”

  “The man who brings you the razor, give him your shopping list.”

  Carson stroked his stubbly beard, suppressing a smile. “You’ll be a very rich man, Doctor.”

  “Rich…yes, I suppose so. And you’ll be free, free to go. Either that, or we’ll both be very dead—and swinging from the same gallows.”

  5

  Bob Bullard dropped the personnel file on his desk and leaned back in his black leather executive chair. Christmas Eve was just another working day as far as he was concerned, and it gratified him that the new man had reported to Fort Campbell as scheduled, without any whining about the holidays. His new recruit, dressed in coat and tie, stood uneasily across the desk from him. “I’ve looked over your résumé, Agent Zuberovsky. It’s damn good. Only four years out of the Army and you made the CAGE Unit—Chicago Anti-Gun Enforcement. Great arrest stats. Picked up your college degree on your own time, just like I did. Then three years with the ATF, before coming over to Homeland Security. That’s all fine, top notch. Between the military and your law enforcement background, you’re more than qualified. But there’s one more thing I have to know, and don’t bullshit me: can you really ride?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Based solely on his professional background, which had been flagged by a computer search, Martin Zuberovsky had been sent from Chicago down to Fort Campbell. Bullard was giving him the once-over before sending him out into the field. Zuberovsky was thirty-seven, a good two decades younger than Bullard, but in many ways he reminded Bullard of himself in his younger days. Zuberovsky had gotten his undergraduate degree via internet correspondence courses while still in the Army and later while working full time as a cop. The degree was required to become a federal agent, but why waste time going to college with a bunch of commies and faggots?

  Martin Zuberovsky was no pansy—that was obvious. The new man was only average height, but had a powerful physique that couldn’t be concealed under his jacket. His build, along with his intense black eyes and black hair combed straight back, gave him the presence of a larger man. Mid-afternoon and Zuberovsky already had a five o’clock shadow on his square jaw. A real no-nonsense hard-ass like Bullard was. He’d have to be, for what he was getting into.

  “This file says you spent a year with the Chicago Mounted Police before you went to the CAGE unit. So does that mean you can walk an old police department nag down a parade route—or can you really ride? You know: gallop, jump fences and all that shit.”

  “I don’t understand what—”

  “If you’re going to be my liaison with the Kazak Battalion, you have to ride. Really ride. The Kazaks practically live on their horses. Kazak is where the word Cossack comes from. Kazaks, as in Cossacks. They don’t respect anybody who can’t ride horses. They’d rather screw a mare than a woman any day. If you’re going to
go out with them on operations, you’ll have to be a damned good horse rider. Are you?”

  “Sir, I was raised on a farm in downstate Illinois. Yes, I can ride. Gallop, jump fences and all that shit.”

  “Well, if you can’t…I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Here’s the deal. You’re going to be my new liaison to the Kazak Battalion. The Kazaks are a royal pain in the ass, very hard to work with. Central Asian prima donnas. They all think they’re Genghis Khan. But for RPP ops they can’t be beat. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, Agent Zuberovsky: the rural pacification program can get ugly. And the Kazak mercenaries do ugly better than just about anybody I’ve ever seen.”

  “Sir, I haven’t actually been briefed on the program. I’ve heard some back-channel talk, but I haven’t seen anything in writing. I couldn’t find an ops manual. In fact, I couldn’t find any formal references for the RPP.”

  Bullard leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “And why do you think that is, Agent Zuberovsky?”

  “I really wouldn’t want to guess…”

  “Go ahead, guess.”

  “Well, I suppose some of the methods that are employed in the RPP are a bit on the…ah…ugly side, as you mentioned.”

  “Ugly is an understatement, Agent Zuberovsky. But Tennessee is very, very ugly these days. Western Tennessee is the worst of all, because it was cut off by the rivers after the quake. That’s where you’re going. Most of the locals in the unpacified counties are beyond redemption. They’re still holding onto the old days and the old ways. They’re dead-enders. They totally reject the new constitution and the emergency laws. We went in to try to help them, and they shot at us. Shot at us! So be it. We’re not bargaining, and we’re not negotiating. We’re way beyond all that. Either they obey the emergency laws, straight up, or they’re pacified the hard way. We have a zero tolerance policy for assholes down there. The president has made this clear: we don’t have any more time to screw around in Kentucky and Tennessee. He wants it done. Over. Finished. And that’s where the Kazak Battalion comes in.”