Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  Boone’s parka hood was swept back from his long hair and beard. His headlamp was on an elastic band, stretched around his thick wool hat. His rifle was secured diagonally across his chest, keeping his hands free. He turned and led them out.

  ****

  Carson hoped that he would be able to keep up with the younger rebels. He was older than Boone by two decades, and nearly four times the age of the teenagers. What he had gained in experience he would gladly have exchanged for twenty-year-old legs. His left butt cheek ached where the arrow had split it, and his right knee was already sore. Boone went to a crouch when the cave ceiling dipped, and Carson followed suit. The path wound downward in a snakelike route. Twice Boone took a branch smaller than the one Carson would have chosen if he’d had to guess their way out. After maybe two hundred hunched-over steps, they had to crawl. The stone walls had been dry, but now they glistened in the headlamps’ beams. In some spots, water dripped on the travelers, or pooled beneath them. The light cast by their five headlamps threw bizarre swirling shadows. The barrel of Carson’s M-16 carbine was tied to his left shoulder strap, the collapsed butt stock to his right hip. On his elbows and knees, he struggled to avoid dragging the weapon across the rocky floor when the ceiling pressed down on his backpack.

  After five more minutes and another unknown distance, Boone turned around in a wide area and sat with his pack against the stone wall. He pulled out his camelback tube and sucked down some water. From a pocket, he removed a small baggie containing a stub candle and a box of matches. He lit the candle and set in on a niche in the rock above him. When all five were in the same small space, he said, “We’re close to the final exit to the outside; you can start to feel the draft here. Once we’re out of the cave, we’re going a hundred percent tactical. Turn off your headlamps and put them away; the candlelight will be your transition to night vision. We’ll just let the candle burn down once we’re gone. After this, no white lights and no talking. Hand signals only, or mouth-to-ear whispers. The cave exit is over a creek. There’s one more rally point on the other side, and then we’re splitting up: three of us north, and two south. Just like we briefed, except we’re leaving a few hours earlier. Let me take a look outside—I’ll be right back.”

  Boone was able to walk in a deep crouch, and in a few steps he was gone from their view. Five minutes later, he returned and addressed his little squad, who were sitting back against their packs in a tight circle, feet together. “Okay, we’ve got a slight problem. The creek is way up, and the water is deeper than I expected. The ledge that I can usually walk along on this side of the creek is under water. It’s too narrow to use if you can’t see it, especially since you’ve never done it before. We can’t risk it; somebody will fall in for sure. We’ll have to cross the creek right outside the cave. It’s going to be at least waist deep, so that means you’ll get wet up to your chest—and that’s if you don’t fall down. It’s freezing outside, so if you get your clothes soaked, you’ll get hypothermia. Then if you have to stop and lay up to avoid the enemy, you’ll definitely get hypothermia, and that’ll kill you as dead as any bullet ever will.”

  Zack asked, “Why don’t we go back out the other way?”

  “We can’t. They found the car, so that whole side of the hill is compromised. For all we know, they found the tracks between the car and the cave. They might be halfway to the cave already. By the time we got back there, they might already be at the mouth.”

  Doug had another idea. “We all have a change of clothes; why can’t we change into them on the other side?”

  “You don’t want to start out with your best stuff soaking wet and freezing. Your other clothes are for tomorrow, in daylight. Trust me; I know what I’m doing.”

  “How wide is this creek?” asked Carson.

  “When it’s this deep, maybe twenty or thirty yards across.”

  “What’s the bottom like?”

  “Sand, and smooth rocks. Nothing too sharp.”

  “Any sign of the enemy?” asked Doug.

  “No, and when those guys are around, I usually know it. They use IR spotlights and lasers all the time, and they wear those IR strobes. I didn’t see any with my night vision goggles, and I didn’t hear anything. There’s no way that they know about this cave exit.”

  “But what about security on the crossing?” Carson asked. “Who’s going across first, and how are we going to set up covering fire?”

  “Phil, we can’t do it by the book. We just have to get across as fast as we can. If the eye in the sky is up there, then the quicker we get across, the better. Stringing it out just means more of a chance for a Predator to see us, if they’re flying.”

  Carson said, “So we’re going to bare-ass it?”

  “That was going to be my next suggestion. Carry everything across over our heads, then dry off and dress on the other side. There’s an old fishing cabin across the creek, maybe a hundred yards down. That was our next rally point anyway.”

  “What does ‘bare-ass it’ mean?” asked Jenny. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “It does,” answered Boone. “You’re just as cold either way, but bare-assing it means you’ll have dry clothes on the other side. But don’t worry; I can carry you across on my shoulders. You can stay dressed. Just take off your boots and hang them around your neck, and roll up your pants as high as you can. Okay, boys, just do what I do. Take off your coats, spread them out and make bundles. Put everything inside, and zip them up. If you have drawstrings at the bottom, cinch them off. If you don’t, tie your sleeves around the bottoms: just make bundles that won’t come loose, the best way you can. Tie the bundles and your rifles into the straps of your rucksacks, hoist them up and wade across. Just make sure nothing gets loose.”

  “What about our shorts?” asked Zack

  “Leave your skivvies on if you want to, but if they’re wet they’ll be freezing cold and you’ll have to ditch them on the other side, at least until you get a chance to dry them out. The whole idea is to keep your clothes dry.”

  Nobody joked, nobody objected, nobody balked. To be alive in Western Tennessee a year after the twin earthquakes, and six months after the arrival of the foreign mercenaries, meant that they were already adaptable and hardy survivors. The squeamish, the fainthearted and the weak had either died or run away long before.

  While undressing, Boone said, “The water’s not running very fast, and the bottom isn’t too bad. Make sure of your footing and don’t slip. Keeping your stuff dry is what this evolution’s all about. I’ll take Jenny and the baby across first, so the rest of you can follow me, and then I’ll come back for our packs. When you’re on the other side, Doug will lead you to the cabin. There’s plenty of moonlight, so you don’t need night vision goggles. You can use some light inside the cabin, just be careful. When you’re inside the cabin, use the tops of your socks and the bottom of your pants to dry off, and then get dressed again. I’m sorry, guys, this is guaranteed not to be any fun. It’ll be freezing cold no matter how we do this, but at least we’ll have dry clothes on the other side, and that’s what matters. Okay, Jenny, are you ready? Stick right behind me. When I tell you, you just climb up on my shoulders. If you have to grab my hair, that’s fine. Don’t worry about hurting me—just stay on, and keep that baby dry.”

  Boone was wearing nothing but a set of dark boxer shorts when Jenny crouched down and followed behind him. Carson followed behind her, with his pack, the jacket bundle and rifle clutched to his chest. The candlelight disappeared behind them. A few yards on, moonlight reflecting off the rippling creek made the cave opening visible from inside. Carson watched Boone step down into the water, his back against the cave’s mouth. The creek made an inside turn against a rocky cliff that concealed the cave opening. The water came up to his hips when he leaned back to the cave exit. Jenny reached out, grasped Boone’s head, and swung a leg over each of his shoulders. Boone lurched as he struggled for balance, then he set out across the stream. Carson followed
as soon as his gear was ready. He fastened his bundled clothing inside the shoulder straps of his pack. The rifle was also thrust through the straps, the chest strap tying it all together. His entire kit became one tight mass.

  Carson put the heavy bundle down just outside the cave opening, then turned and clambered into the icy water. It hit his skin like a thousand daggers that were alternately red hot and ice cold. He had almost no sensation of his feet on the bottom of the creek. The water was running strongly. If he cut a foot making this crossing, he wouldn’t be able to hike out, and he’d be finished. He might not even feel the gash or know it until he was on the other side. He turned around toward the rocky ledge, dragged his bundle toward him, and strained to hoist it all over his head. He understood Boone’s rejection of heavy body armor for this exfiltration. The pack, clothes, load bearing vest and rifle weighed at least fifty pounds, and Carson had to somehow balance it all above him. He held the pack’s straps and positioned the middle of this bundle on the top of his bare head. Like a drunken juggler, he struggled to find his balance beneath the unwieldy load.

  Just don’t let me drop it, and don’t let me fall in the middle of this creek, Carson prayed. There was sufficient moonlight to see by, reflecting off the water and snow. Ahead of him, Boone was already halfway across, the water rising up his back almost to Jenny’s bottom on his shoulders. Her feet must be submerged where Boone held her ankles. Give me the tropical jungles any day, Carson thought. Behind him, a concave rocky cliff rose at least fifty feet above the water, ancient layers of rock angling upward where it had been undercut by the current. Ahead of him there was a shallow bank of pebbles, and bare tree branches hanging over the stream. Patches of snow covered the ground in streaks. Boone emerged from the water, and once he was standing on the ground, Jenny slid down from his back, then moved into a moon shadow and disappeared from view. Boone was already returning to the water when Carson reached the middle of the stream

  Doug Dolan passed him and was out of the water before Carson. Zack passed him as he struggled up the bank. The younger men were faster, but I’m hanging in there, he thought. The ground was frozen where it was not covered with an inch or two of snow, the air was frosty and revealed their exhalations in the moonlight, but his body was too numb to notice. My goose bumps have goose bumps, Carson thought, shivering uncontrollably. He clutched the entire load of pack, bundle and weapon to his heaving chest and followed Doug. They hustled in their bare feet across an open, easy area along the creek, mostly snow-covered grass, and they quickly came to an abandoned fishing cabin. It was no bigger than a single large room, but it was relatively dry inside and protected from the chill breeze.

  Doug set a small flashlight onto a windowsill, aiming at the floor, so they could see what they were doing. The cold drove them to a furious pace of activity, unstrapping their bundles and finding their clothes. Carson used his hands to rapidly swipe most of the remaining water from his body, then found his socks and use them to dry himself as much as he could, and then dressed in seconds. His feet appeared not to have suffered a gash or puncture, but perhaps they were too numb to bleed or to hurt. Once he was dressed, had replaced his equipment vest and strapped his pack back on, he grabbed his rifle and exited the cabin before either Zack or Doug was ready.

  He was already standing guard when Boone walked into view, clutching both his own pack, bundled gear and clothes and rifle as well as Jenny’s smaller pack. Jenny was in a corner, rewrapping the baby’s blankets and getting herself ready to march. Again Boone merely nodded as he passed, going into the one-room cabin.

  A few minutes later, they were all assembled in the cramped cabin, everyone dressed and ready to move out. Carson stood watch in the open doorway, the short M-16 carbine comfortingly familiar in his hands, an acquaintance since 1968.

  “Zack, where’s your Winchester?” Boone asked in a whisper. Carson perked his ears up and looked over from the doorway.

  “It…it fell off my bag,” he whispered back.

  Boone paused before asking, “Where?”

  “In the creek.”

  “Why didn’t you get it?”

  Zack stuttered, and faltered.

  “Never mind. We can’t backtrack; there’s no time. You’ve got your bow, Jenny’s got her .45…that’s enough. You’d probably have to ditch the rifle anyway before you crossed over into Mississippi. Suck it up, Zack; just try to be more careful.”

  During their patrol briefing in the cave, they had decided that Zack should carry his own Winchester instead of one of Boone’s captured Kalashnikovs. The two youngsters were wearing civilian clothes, in order to pass as refugees if they were trapped at a checkpoint. They might be able to explain the ordinary civilian lever-action rifle, but to be caught with a captured Kalashnikov would mean an instant death sentence.

  So now he’d have to rely on his compound bow and his hunter’s instincts. Plus Jenny had her Springfield XD .45 caliber pistol, with its suppressor. She refused to part with the pistol or the silencer, in spite of Boone’s mentioning that if she was captured with them, they could lead to her execution. It didn’t matter, she didn’t care. She would not part with the gun, but agreed to carry it concealed, beneath the oversized green rain slicker that she had found in the cave’s clothing box. Obviously, she couldn’t pass as a refugee while wearing the Kazak uniform and parka that she had obtained from the dead American traitor.

  Boone whispered to Zack and Jenny, too quietly for Carson to hear his words. The three huddled over a partially unfolded road map held between them, and a pocket compass Boone had provided the teenagers. Zack’s tiny red LED light illuminated Boone’s finger as it traced their route down into Mississippi. Finished with their final route brief, Zack shook hands with each of them in the cabin as they all whispered good luck. Zack had removed the compact bow from where it was tied to his pack, and nocked an arrow. Jenny followed him out of the cabin, and they headed upstream along the bank. The creek ran northward here, and the teenagers were hiking the other way, down toward the Mississippi state line.

  After a quick look around the tiny cabin for anything dropped or left behind, the three remaining men set out directly into the woods, away from the stream. The first part of their journey led to the east, toward the Tennessee River just a few miles away. A hidden Jon-boat with an electric trolling motor would take them across the river to the relative safety of Middle Tennessee. At least, that was the plan Boone had laid out in his patrol order.

  ****

  Boone walked point. Carson followed, and Doug Dolan was rear security. Boone would have felt better with Carson watching their backs, but Doug was more familiar with night vision goggles. At any rate, there were only three of them, and with the moonlight filtering through the clouds night vision was a bonus, not a strict necessity. During their frequent stops, Boone tipped his goggles up, giving himself a wider angle of view in the ambient light. It was always a tradeoff with night vision: the enhanced brightness came with a restricted field of vision, almost a keyhole view. Years of practice had taught him how to balance natural and amplified night vision. He found his path; it took them mostly through woods for the first half mile, past a few isolated farmhouses now abandoned. The hidden boat was located on another side creek two miles north; he had made this trip enough times to know the way with or without night vision. The side creek then spilled into the Tennessee River, in a stretch where it was less than a half-mile wide.

  They moved slowly, but smoothly. Haste would lead to mistakes, to noise, and possibly to their discovery. “Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast” went the old saying. In night patrolling, stealth was everything. Those who were detected first often died. Those who did the detecting could hide in order to allow a superior force to pass by, or they could set up an ambush if the tactical situation permitted. Tonight the risk of discovery was very real. The foreign enemies had found their hidden automobile, and that meant they would soon find the cave. Unseen UAVs circling high above could already be preparing
to drop missiles upon them, or the distant UAV pilots could be calling the Kazaks to report the location of the insurgents. It was hard to gauge the cloud cover: was it low enough to keep the drones grounded? Boone only hoped that the C-4 bomb in the Subaru had killed some of the foreign mercenaries, that it had not been discovered and detonated in a controlled explosion. That would have been a waste of valuable C-4, and an insult to his expertise as a demo man.

  Little snow was left on the forest floor. Enough moonlight filtered through the clouds and the mostly bare branches above them to create vivid green daylight in his NVGs. The wet ground reflected the moonlight like silver filigree. Even Carson, a few paces behind him with bare eyeballs, had not expressed any difficulty in keeping up. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. Tortoise and hare. Boone always kept Carson’s lack of night vision in mind, and avoided trip hazards. When this was impossible, he allowed Carson to catch up to touching distance, and by hand-pointing and a few careful whispers he guided the old man across to easy footing. This part of Tennessee was a crazy-quilt patchwork of fields and woods, attached at the odd corners and stitched together by hedgerows and tree lines. When the paramount object was always to stay in the best cover available, the closest route was never a straight line, but an apparently random succession of zigs and zags. Like capillaries flowing into arteries, a fractal system of streams and creeks spread between the low hills and eventually found the Tennessee River. You could not walk a straight mile in any direction without crossing at least one ankle-deep stream, flowing subtly downhill to join another and another until they all met the Tennessee, then the Ohio, and finally the Mississippi for the last run to salt water in the Gulf.