Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  Bullard hopped down lightly, walked directly to the edge of the dropoff, and looked over into the gully. Most of the bottom was still in dark shadow, and not much of the snow had melted down there. The bodies were half-covered in a white mantle, revealing a random landscape of arms, colorfully dressed torsos and some shattered faces and heads. The bodies had rolled and fallen down the steep slope, and accumulated in heaps at the bottom. There must have been hundreds of them, in a continuous mass that was at least fifteen feet across, running more than thirty yards along the bottom of the gully. The snow had fallen after the massacre, so the scene was still partly masked from direct observation. He imagined that from high altitude, it might appear to be a trash dump.

  Sidney Krantz, the president’s special adviser and liaison for the rural pacification program, had said that Jamal Tambor wanted results, and he wanted them fast. The president wanted Western Tennessee completely pacified or completely empty, one or the other. Mannville was the central node of resistance in Radford County, and with it depopulated, insurgency in the rest of the region would crumble. Well, there was no faster way to depopulate a rural county, Bullard had to admit. The results below him in the ravine spoke for themselves. Striking at the town on market day was the logical way to accomplish the mission.

  He had assumed that Special Agent Zuberovsky was going to have some of the residents forcibly relocated to the FEMA camp in Jackson, Tennessee, and the rest scattered and harassed into leaving the county…but not murdered wholesale. Of course, for obvious reasons, these types of instructions were never put into writing or transmitted electronically, so there was always a risk of miscommunication.

  Raiding the illegal black market had been Martin Zuberovsky’s overt mission, and with it put out of business, the dead-enders in Radford County would have been forced to come to the government relocation centers for food. That had been one of the basic plans that had worked quite well over the last few months, if not quite as quickly as President Tambor desired. Zuberovsky and the Kazaks had clearly taken his order to wipe out resistance in Radford County as rapidly as possible much too literally and had far exceeded his orders. Well, what was done was done. He couldn’t personally control every detail of every operation in every unpacified county in Tennessee. But the bodies remained…hundreds of bodies. They were a problem.

  The Kazak commander stood beside him, a look of disgust on his round Eurasian face.

  “Colonel Burgut, you do understand that your battalion was never instructed to do this…thing we see here.”

  “But General Blair, your liaison officer, it was of his instruction. He said that it was of your order to smash the market and destroy the rebels—”

  “No, that’s wrong! All wrong. He was not given those orders. It was a mistake—his mistake. This is America, dammit—not Chechnya or Kosovo!”

  “But General Blair, you told us we must finish job, and permanently remove all peoples from County of Radford. Permanently. Major Zinovsky said to me that—”

  “But not this way. Not this way!” Bullard gritted his teeth and stared down over the edge. “Well, what’s done is done. It’s finished. It can’t be changed. But Colonel, there is a problem: these bodies. Why haven’t they been covered? The snow is already melting; soon they will be completely visible. I don’t understand why they were not covered. What was your plan for covering them, and why was it not completed?”

  “Before operation, we located earthmover at business near Mannville town. Was big part of plan. Caterpillar; very good machine, number one earthmover. It is already on special lorry—on truck-trailer. We had plan to cover bodies yesterday, but Kazak driver could not start this special truck to bring Caterpillar to here location. Yes, we had very good plan for complete operation. Horses and trucks for Kazak soldiers, two autobus for transport of peoples, Caterpillar earthmover, everything to as needed. A very good logistic. But important parts are removed from truck engine, needed for to bring earthmover to here location. Was impossible to know this problem before operation. Impossible.”

  “Well, you need to get the job finished, and get them covered up. Bury them deep, very deep, and plant grass and trees on top. Move some small pine trees like those over there. This place must disappear.”

  “We are finding necessary parts for engine of big trailer truck. After, we will bring Caterpillar and push earth over this…small valley.” Colonel Burgut extended his arms forward level with his shoulders, and made a smoothing gesture with his hands. “When job is finished, small valley will be flat, and peoples will be many meters under earth.”

  “Good. And when will this happen, Colonel?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps next day after. We must locate parts for truck engine, for bringing earthmover.” Colonel Burgut gave a foolish smile and pointed his finger down, indicating the dead below them. “Owner of business of earthmover and special truck, he is perhaps down there now, with other dead peoples. Now he cannot help us in finding important engine parts for earthmover truck. We must have to discover missing engine parts in Jackson, Tennessee, if possible.”

  “Tomorrow is too late, Colonel. I want it all covered by tonight.”

  “I will try, I will—”

  “Colonel Burgut, you will do more than try! You will personally see to it that this job is finished today. I’ll have the parts flown down to fix the truck right away. One way or the other, this ravine—this small valley—it will be covered with dirt today. Covered with dirt, and planted with trees like a forest.”

  “I have factory number of parts from truck motor. If we obtain correct parts, we can repair truck very quickly, and bring earthmover today to here.”

  “That’s good, that’s very important. And no more jobs like this one, all right? Make people leave, frighten them. Shoot a few of them if they don’t obey, burn their houses… Do what you have to do to make them run away. But no more ‘small valleys’ like this one. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand. As soon as Caterpillar can bring here on special truck, valley will be covering with much earth, and many small fir trees.”

  “Notify me as soon as it’s done.”

  “I shall call to you with secure radio. But to be sure, this…this was complete idea of Major Zinovsky.” Colonel Burgut swept his right hand toward the corpse-filled chasm, and let it drop to his side. “From words of Major Zinovsky, we thought operation was also idea from you.”

  “Okay. What’s done is done. And Major Zinovsky is dead in the fire, right?”

  “Yes, very dead. Very dead.” Burgut slumped his shoulders and sighed. “General Blair, I am wanting to finish job in Tennessee. When Kazaks are leaving Tennessee? When we are leaving, to go to Montana and Wyoming, as was said before?”

  “I don’t know. June, I think. When we’re completely finished here in Tennessee.”

  “Good. Good.” Colonel Burgut slowly shook his head. “Kazaks not so much loving Tennessee. Very too many small farms. Very too many small forest. Very too many rifles, very too many snipers. Truth, General Blair. I am not thinking is possible to, as you say, pacify Tennessee to one hundred percent. Only with many small valleys, like here today, can we pacify Tennessee to one hundred percent. If no more small valleys possible, then best if Kazaks are to leaving Tennessee. Montana, I think better is for Kazaks. Big wide country, like Kazakhstan.”

  ****

  Boone was on his knees crouching between frozen bodies, looking in purses, patting for wallets. Even today, with no credit cards or ATM machines, and with paper money damn near useless, people still carried wallets and identification cards. At least the adults did. Between collecting IDs, he snapped pictures with his own digital camera, and with the dead American traitor’s camera for insurance. He snapped wide-angle shots of the entire ravine, as well as close-ups of individual victims. Most had been shot through their torsos, but there were also many limb and head wounds. As a soldier, he was used to seeing the many ways that rifle bullets could destroy a human body. At least
in this cold weather the bodies did not smell, and they had not even begun to bloat or blacken. They were blue-gray against the white snow, but otherwise perfectly preserved. He gently brushed a little snow away when he needed to take a face shot for positive identification.

  The bodies were frozen in place, locked together like a 3-D puzzle. He estimated that they were piled five or six deep at the center of the ravine, with more on the western side, where they had tumbled down the steep bank. The zone of death was perhaps twenty feet wide by a hundred long, running up the length of the gorge. He thought he could climb up the left side of the ravine, to where the shootings had taken place. He could collect spent brass shells for forensic identification, and take some better pictures of the entire scene from a downward angle. He was considering a route up the steep slope of frozen earth and snow when he heard the distant whine of a turbine and the faint beating of rotors. The sound was not that of any military model that he was familiar with, but it was growing in strength, rapidly flying closer.

  He was fifteen feet up into the zone of death, and he had to make a decision. Infrared detection was an ever-present fear. If the helicopter made a direct overflight and it was equipped with an infrared camera, his warm body would glow like a burning torch against the frozen bodies. Perhaps they would think he was a wounded massacre victim, who had been shot but not killed. He stepped as carefully as he could, his feet slipping between bodies and limbs. He was nearly at the bottom edge of the field of corpses when the chopper appeared among the leafless tree branches, scattering crows before its approach. Now visual detection by the aircrew was the greatest danger. Motion would give him away, so he could only drop between bodies and play possum, hoping they were not using infrared at all in the daylight.

  Boone turned on his left side, facing uphill. Most of his body was below the level of two male corpses. He had not recognized them. Their swollen, blackened hands were tied behind their backs. The helo continued on a direct course, came to a hover, and landed just out of sight above him. Snow being blown over the top of the ravine indicated the nearness of the helicopter. The blades wound down as the turbine engine slowed. He didn’t move, trying to blend in among the bodies, feeling conspicuously uncovered by snow. He wondered if his footprints in the slushy snow were obvious.

  The morning temperature was just above freezing, a light drizzle was falling. Once the helicopter had shut down, the ravine and the surrounding country were perfectly quiet. The remaining snow dampened any sound. Boone lay absolutely still, relying on his position between two bodies to conceal him.

  Then he heard the voices, two male voices. He could not make out what was being said, but he could tell that they were speaking English. One voice was plainly American, the other unmistakably foreign. But not Spanish, so he was not from the North American Legion. Perhaps a Kazak, as Jenny McClure had said. Boone slowly raised his head, just enough to observe the top of the western slope with one eye. He was no more than a hundred feet from where two men were talking. His camera was already in his left hand, open and ready. Did he dare to risk it? The wide-angle lens could be pointed in their general direction and it might capture the outlines of the two men, from the shoulders up. The high-resolution camera image could be blown up and cropped, and might even reveal something about these two morning-after visitors. Their uniforms at least, and perhaps some identifying insignia.

  Boone gradually raised his forearm at the elbow, and slowly turned the camera. He depressed the shutter button with his thumb. The camera seemed ridiculously loud as it clicked and readied itself for another picture. He took another photo, and a third. The voices stopped, the men disappeared. After a minute he could hear the helicopter engine spinning, the blades coming up to speed. Then it lifted into the sky, briefly crossing the ravine as it departed. He snapped another picture, hopefully freezing the blue executive helicopter in mid-flight above him.

  He waited ten minutes before moving, and then he very slowly sat up and looked around him. The big ravens had returned. They were now making exploratory flights into the ravine, flapping and hopping among the corpses with wings outstretched. He checked the camera. It was hard to be certain judging by the miniature digital images, but he might have captured usable pictures of the two men, and their helicopter. This was enough; there was no point in continuing his inspection tour of dead bodies. He had collected more than twenty driver’s licenses and other ID cards, and he had an even greater number of photos stored on the two cameras. It was enough to prove that the massacre had taken place. Boone was at the point of preparing to stand and depart, to backtrack down out of the ravine, when he heard voices again, louder this time.

  They sounded foreign, that was certain. They were definitely not speaking English, so they were not Americans. He dropped back into his slot between the two male corpses, in time to see more visitors peering down upon the little valley of death, their heads clearly skylighted. They were loud, boisterous, making no effort at all to be stealthy or tactical. He would have to wait until these gawking troops left before he could continue his exfiltration.

  Then he saw the rope flung out, uncoiling in midair. Green rope, military rope. It came to rest not a hundred feet away up the ravine, hanging down from the lip of the steep western slope. Oh, crap—a rope could mean only one thing: they were coming down! Boone watched the first soldier descend. He wrapped the line around his back and over his shoulder, a field-expedient method for rappelling short distances. From the lip of the ravine to the first bodies was maybe thirty feet, at a fifty- or sixty-degree angle. He had a Kalashnikov rifle slung barrel down across his back, and was wearing the Russian camouflage pattern uniform, brown body armor, and a brown beret. Cossack mercenaries: the worst, just as Jenny McClure had described them. The soldier leaned back over the edge, slid and walked down the icy slope, then unwound the rope from his body and called up to the others.

  Snow and ice covered the ravine’s sides in patches and streaks. The second soldier used just his gloved hands, without wrapping the rope behind his back. This one wore a fur hat like Jenny’s instead of a beret. He quickly scrambled down the cliff, and then both men called up to the third Cossack soldier. Boone couldn’t understand what they were saying, but the two soldiers at the bottom seemed to be challenging the last man to hurry down into the ravine. The third man also wore a brown fur cap, the flaps tied up on the sides and front. This soldier descended hesitantly. He had wrapped the rope around his body incorrectly, and halfway down the line became twisted. This clumsy rappeller attempted to unbind himself, but he fell against the slope and then spun upside down, the rope between his legs. Then without warning, he came free and slid the last ten feet to the bottom headfirst. The waiting soldiers laughed, shouted, and threw snow on their comrade, who had landed in a heap among the corpses at their feet. Boone thought that it would have been funny, except for the fact that they were standing upon the bodies of murdered Americans.

  The last man righted himself and stood up, brushing snow and mud off his uniform and rearranging the rifle slung on his back. The soldier wearing the beret pulled a clear bottle out of an ammo magazine pouch and took a long drink. His grimace and cough indicated that it was full of some kind of high-octane liquor, probably local moonshine. He passed the pint-sized flask to his buddies, and the three took turns slugging it down until it was empty. The soldier wearing the beret then threw the bottle up the side of the ravine at a tree, causing a pair of crows to take wing, protesting with loud caws. Most Kazaks were nominally Muslim, thought Boone. When it suited them. At other times, liquor suited them even better. God love Tennessee: in good times or bad, there was never a shortage of fine corn whisky. Maybe these were Russianized Cossacks, who had been raised outside the Islamic faith. Not that it mattered, not when they were taking part in the foreign occupation of his state.

  The three soldiers continued to laugh and push one another, but shortly they quieted down and went to work. The snow was rapidly melting; the temperature was already wel
l above freezing and getting warmer. They turned and rolled bodies, twisting limbs to gain leverage, looking for wallets and purses, extracting paper money and dropping the rest. Watches and bracelets went into the pockets of their parkas and trousers. Peering over the shoulder of a frozen man’s dead body, it was obvious to Boone that the three soldiers knew exactly what they would find in the ravine. They were not here by happenstance; they were here because they knew. And they knew—because they were the killers.

  The soldier wearing the beret pulled a long fighting knife from a sheath on his belt, crouched in the snow, and lifted a woman’s bare arm, her long fingers extending skyward. Boone clenched his teeth as the soldier grasped her frozen hand and prepared to remove several rings in the most grisly manner possible. Boone’s right hand slowly pulled aside the bottom of his parka, and went to his holster. With his left hand, he extracted the pistol’s suppressor from its compartment on his combat vest, after gently peeling back the velcro flap. He moved as quickly as he dared, afraid to attract the attention of the three-man looting party, who were busy only fifty feet upslope from his partially concealed position.

  One fur-hatted soldier vomited loudly, and his mates yelled abuse at him. They began arguing, then pushing and shoving, and one of them fell down. The disgusting job was proving to be a stressful ordeal even for this crew of ghouls. At least the frozen bodies had no odor, Boone thought. Come back in a few days, it won’t be so pleasant… The three soldiers continued to search bodies, not going much deeper than the first layer. They hastily removed rings, watches, silver coins and paper money, occasionally kneeling or even lying prone to reach deeper into the mass of corpses. Sometimes they slipped among the thawing jumble of intertwined torsos and limbs, and fell down between them.