Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  “I got it.”

  They were now standing only yards apart, staring at one another. Both men were roughly the same height and build, but the older man held a pistol and the younger man did not. Carson noted the officer’s surname, on the cloth tape over the breast pocket of his parka. “All right, Lieutenant Malverde, let’s walk back out to your humvee and get going. I’ll be right behind you with my pistol aimed at your back. Remember: the penalty’s the same for killing three or four. One more won’t matter one bit.” With his left hand, Carson pulled hard on the chain by the side of the bay door, and it began to roll down behind him with a rumbling clatter as they stepped outside.

  ****

  Boone almost opened fire on the NAL humvee. Fortunately, the vehicle stopped fifty yards from their hiding place behind the derelict restaurant, and blinked its headlights in the agreed-upon manner. Boone turned on his own flashlight to answer the signal, and the hummer rolled up to them. He shined the light through the windshield. Carson was sitting behind the driver, who was a Legion soldier in an ACU uniform, wearing a blue beret. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Carson opened the back door to talk, since the inches-thick windows on this up-armored humvee didn’t roll down. He kept his pistol aimed at the driver. Boone and Doug had also changed into their daytime street clothes since he had left for the garage.

  Boone asked, “What happened? How the hell did you wind up with a hummer?”

  “Your boy Stanley ratted me out. This humvee pulled into the station to gas up, and Fromish ratted me out. I wasted two NAL soldiers in the garage. I had no choice—it was either me or them. Then Lieutenant Malverde here got religion. He agreed to drive us across the bridge, and in return I promised not to shoot him.”

  “Where’s Fromish?”

  “He’s dead too. The three of them are in the grease pit inside his gas station. I closed the place up, but there’s some blood outside. It’s getting light; do you think we’ll be able to drive over the bridge without getting stopped or questioned?”

  “Shit, I don’t know,” replied Boone. “I haven’t been across it in months, and even then I was hidden in the trunk of a car, so I didn’t see anything. I can’t go into Carrolton anymore, so I don’t know what the bridge security is like these days. A military hummer should be good to go just about anywhere. But the bridge guards probably know all of the local troops, and they might wonder who the new guys are.” Boone opened the front door to address their prisoner, still behind the wheel. “Well, Lieutenant, is crossing the bridge going to be a problem?”

  After a hesitation, Malverde said, “No, it shouldn’t be. There’s no reason for them to inspect a Legion humvee. They can see what it is.”

  “If you’re lying, you’re dying,” said Boone.

  “I’m not lying,” answered Malverde.

  Carson said, “Boone, I had an idea coming over here. Colonel Brice just temporarily transferred over to the North American Legion. Here, take your Glock, and keep the lieutenant from getting any funny ideas. Let me change back into my ACUs. You too, Doug. I have the Legion insignias from the guys that I, uh, took out.”

  Standing between the humvee and the ruined restaurant, Doug Dolan and Carson quickly changed back into their Army ACU uniforms. They pressed on the velcro NAL patches, imitating the lieutenant’s uniform. The blue beret Carson had picked up was different. On the front, the blue beret had the three silver stars of the North American Legion. This was what the Legion’s enlisted men wore on their berets. Malverde had a lieutenant’s single black bar on his beret instead of the three stars. For his evolving plan to work, these details were critical. Carson found his black U.S. Army beret, removed the eagle that signified the rank of full colonel, and transferred it to the blue beret. He placed the modified Legion beret on his head, just covering the scar beneath his hairline.

  “What about me?” asked Boone. “I’m too big to hide, and I sure as hell can’t pass for a Mexican.” This was an understatement. Boone Vikersun, “the Viking,” was several inches above six feet tall, with wild dark blond hair and a thick reddish beard.

  “I already figured it out,” said Carson. “You’re our prisoner. When we approach the security point, just put your hands behind your back like you’re handcuffed—but hang on to your pistol. If they just look inside, it’ll fit the story I’m going to tell. We’re transporting a dangerous gringo terrorist. I’m a colonel in the North American Legion, a bilingual commie rat bastard traitor. You said the Legion took American volunteers, right? Well, that’s me. Colonel Brice has gone over to the dark side. Lieutenant Malverde, our cover is we’re taking this big gringo prisoner to Fort Campbell for interrogation. Can you make that story work, if we’re stopped?”

  “Umm…well, I guess I can…if they don’t check your IDs. Usually they don’t, not if you’re in uniform.”

  “Well, they’d better not,” said Carson, “or you’ll be the first one to get it. The ‘prisoner’ will have a .45 aimed at your back, and I’ve got a nine millimeter.”

  “All right, we’ll get across…but then you’ll let me out on the other side? Like you said?”

  “If we make it,” Carson replied.

  “We’ll make it,” said Boone, slinging his pack into the back of the humvee behind the driver. “That’s a good plan, Phil. I think it’ll work.”

  After changing clothes and making sure the details of their uniforms were correct, it took only a few minutes to drive from their last hiding place behind the abandoned restaurant to “downtown” Carrolton. The NAL humvee turned right onto Highway 214, and soon rolled past the service station. The bay doors were still down, and the same single exterior spotlight shone on the pump island. There was a little traffic on the road now, but no customers were waiting in the gas station, which still appeared to be closed for the night. A few blocks on, they drove past the old Ford dealership and the chain drugstore and motel beside it. A few NAL troops were walking between humvees, confiscated pickups, and troop trucks, getting ready for the new day. Other young Hispanic-looking men were leaving the diner next to the motel, some in uniform and some in civvies or tracksuits. These former businesses evidently housed and fed the hundred or so foreign soldiers stationed in Carrolton, assigned to guard the western side of the critical Tennessee River bridge.

  A half mile further on, the two-lane road began its long ascent up the earthen rampart to the concrete and steel bridge. The sky was lightening in the east, and it promised to be a clear day. The last bands of cloud from the passing front turned pink and silver as they were swept away. Concrete Jersey barricades were set up partway across the road, forcing traffic to slow down and snake through them. On the shoulder to their right, three sections of barricade were arranged in a U shape, with sandbags stacked on top of them. A humvee with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on top was parked inside this crude fighting position, protected on the front and sides. The earthen roadway was elevated enough to see the vehicle’s weapon silhouetted against the eastern sky. An ammo box the size of a large Igloo cooler sat on the left side of the gun, connected to it by a flexible feed belt.

  Carson said, “At least nobody’s on the fifty—it’s unmanned.”

  “Nobody’s on it,” replied Doug from behind him, “but it’s not unmanned. It’s a CROWS.”

  “A what?”

  “CROWS—Common Remotely Operated Weapon Station. The operator is sitting inside the hummer, watching us on color television. Or maybe he’s back at their HQ; he could be anywhere. It’s the revenge of the Nintendo nerds. Some little hundred-pound geek in that hummer can blow you away at a thousand yards. When we get closer, you’ll see a couple of big glass lenses under the barrel. Spooky as shit, those robot eyeballs staring at you. They say the gunner can zoom in and read a newspaper across a football field—at night. You can’t hide from that thing; it can see you a mile away.” Doug sighed. “I just wish we had one on this hummer.”

  Then, as if the machine had heard Doug Dolan, the gun system on the humvee’s r
oof traversed until it was oriented in their direction, but the barrel remained elevated well above them. This movement was so disconcerting that Carson had the thought, Maybe it can hear us? The CROWS system was so far-out sci-fi that almost anything seemed possible. Maybe it was hooked up to a directional microphone? He tried to push the paranoid thoughts from his mind.

  Malverde slowed as their humvee entered the serpentine concrete pattern of barricade sections. Boone quietly asked, “What now, Lieutenant? How’s this going to go down?” He was sitting behind the driver, his suppressed Glock pistol gripped behind his back as he pretended to be a shackled prisoner.

  Malverde answered, “If they make us stop, we stop. If not, we keep going, slowly.”

  “Okay, LT,” said Boone. “Just keep going, nice and easy.”

  A medium-sized flatbed truck, loaded with scrap metal and used appliances, was stopped ahead of them. A pair of arc lights on tall stands illuminated both sides of the cab of the truck. A NAL soldier was speaking to the driver through the side window and inspecting documents, his frosty breath visible in the bright artificial light. Another soldier walked around the back of the truck, peering into its heaped metal junk with a powerful flashlight. Both men wore ACU uniforms matching Lieutenant Malverde’s, including blue berets. It was almost light enough outside that the vehicle inspector didn’t need the flashlight. After a minute, the truck’s gears engaged, and it pulled forward and ascended the bridge.

  Boone said quietly, “Go ahead, Lieutenant, it’s our turn. Do it right.”

  When their humvee was even with the guard post, between the two arc light towers, Lieutenant Malverde stopped, but he left the transmission in drive, his hands locked on the wheel. The NAL soldiers approached, one on each side. Both men had M-4 carbines slung over their shoulders, and holstered pistols. Phil Carson, in the front passenger seat, glanced to his right at the robot machine gun on top of the guard post humvee. Beneath the yard-long gun barrel, a pair of shiny lenses the size of CDs reflected the arc lights back at him, and he looked away. It was an unearthly, creepy feeling, to be stared at by a robot wielding a “Ma Deuce”—an M2 .50 caliber, the exact same machine gun invented by John Moses Browning fully a century before. Now it was married to computers, robots and video sights, and did not need a human hand to aim or fire it. Just some technoid geek who was staring at a screen, while manipulating a Playstation control.

  The thick square armored side windows of their old humvee were scratched and dirty, and reflected back the glare of the arc lights. The soldier on the passenger side appeared disinterested in the common military vehicle, and walked past them to a boxy delivery van just pulling up behind. The soldier on the driver’s side squinted and peered through the vertical front windshield into the humvee. Carson stared straight ahead, hands folded on his lap. The black eagle rank insignia of a full colonel was clearly visible on the front of his camouflage parka and on his beret. The cloth tape above his left breast pocket now read N.A.L. instead of U.S. Army. Suddenly noticing the two officers in the front seats of the humvee, the North American Legion soldier pulled himself up to a rigid position of attention, eyes riveted straight ahead, staring at nothing. He saluted smartly, his right hand snapping up to his blue beret, and he held the pose like a statue.

  Carson said, “Vamos, Teniente Malverde. Buen trabajo. Good job.” In a moment, they were driving above the tops of the trees growing along the west bank of the Tennessee River, and then up over the high arching bridge itself. The remaining river channel was only about 500 yards wide here. Below them, a vast marina complex on the near side had been left high and dry. The river level here had dropped over twenty feet when the Kentucky Dam collapsed during the earthquake, and at least a hundred boats lay stranded in the dirt, trapped between wooden pilings. The humvee’s wheels vibrated on the temporary steel grating as they crested the high two-lane bridge. Middle Tennessee was spread before them to the eastern horizon, an orange glint of sun just edging above distant hills.

  “So far so good, Lieutenant,” said Boone Vikersun, the suppressor-equipped Glock pistol now held in front across his lap. “So far so good.”

  ****

  The secure line had an obnoxious buzzing tone. It didn’t stop until Bob Bullard dragged himself to the side of his bed and pulled it from the side table. The entire red telephone crashed onto the floor with a cascade of bangs. He felt around for the receiver and eventually pulled it up to his face, while hanging off the bed. It was Mitchell Brookfield, his deputy director. Bullard managed to choke out, “Mitch, do you have any idea what time it is?” It was still dark in the room. His head ached, the result of a late Sunday night drinking session that had extended into the wee hours. His deputy was under orders never to call him before seven, unless the entire world was blowing up. He should just stop sleeping, he thought. Bad news usually came when he was sleeping off a bad one. Mondays were the worst, and he was usually hung over and dragging ass at the 0900 staff meeting.

  “It’s 0645, but I think you need to hear about this.”

  “Okay, what the hell is it?” Bullard hacked and struggled to work some saliva into his dry mouth. Just speaking took an effort.

  “We have a big flap going on between the Nigerians and the Kazaks. They’re at each other’s throats. They’re literally ready to go to war down in Southwest Tennessee. There’s a lot of dead, according to the Nigerians.”

  “What?!” Bullard twisted over and sat bolt upright in bed, in the process getting a painful Charlie horse muscle cramp in his left calf.

  “We’re still putting reports together, but apparently there was some kind of a hot-pursuit situation, and the Kazaks rolled into Lexington County with a couple of armored vehicles. It appears that they shot up a Nigerian border outpost by mistake. Neither side’s story makes any sense. The Nigerian CO is on the way up here, and he’s out for blood. The Kazaks killed and wounded a bunch of Nigerians, and they lost two armored security vehicles in the process. The Kazaks say they were ambushed and fired on by the Nigerians. Nobody really knows what the hell is going on yet, but the Nigerians are redeploying both NPF battalions along a river facing the Kazaks.”

  “Aw, you have got to be shitting me. Okay, I’ll be over in ten minutes. No—fifteen. The conference room. Round everybody up; we’ll start when I arrive.” Bullard dropped the phone and grabbed his calf; it felt as if somebody had chopped into the muscle with an axe. Mondays should be outlawed, he thought.

  ****

  Phil Carson, riding shotgun in the front seat, studied the screen on the handheld military GPS. After descending from the temporary steel grates of the Tennessee River bridge, State Road 214 widened to four lanes. It was nearly daylight. He said, “This thing shows a road that cuts north around Lynnville.”

  Boone, sitting behind their captured driver, didn’t need to consult the electronic map. “Maybe, but we can’t use it. A big stretch of it was ruined by the earthquakes. We have to go through Lynnville. That’s where we’ll pick up 13 heading north, and then we’ll be home free.” State Road 13 ran parallel to the Tennessee River, a few miles to its east.

  “Lynnville looks pretty substantial on the GPS map,” said Carson. “I don’t like the idea of driving straight through a town that size. The alarm is going to go out any minute. Somebody is going to find those—find out what happened at the garage. Then they’re going to freak out, big-time. They’re going to go totally ape shit.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. The radio is still quiet. It’s only about five miles to Lynnville. We’ll be through it and out in no time. It’s better to rack up the road miles while we can. Get some distance from Carrolton. And I’m still feeling lucky.” The radio had been left on its working channel. Spanish-speaking voices were occasionally heard, but there was no sound of panic or warning.

  “I still don’t like it,” said Carson. “Why can’t we dump this hummer and get picked up on this side of town?”

  “I don’t know why not; I just know we have to get north of Lynnv
ille on 13. That’s where the escape ratline starts.”

  In a few minutes, they approached the outskirts of the town. It was set in a natural cleft in the low hills that ran parallel to the Tennessee River. After a half mile of widely spaced businesses, they reached the intersection with the two-lane State Road 13. The traffic signal was flashing a four-way red.

  Doug Dolan said, “Lynnville has electricity. That’s always a good sign.”

  “That’s an improvement since the last time I was over here,” said Boone. “The last time I was here was a few months ago, and it was still blacked out then. Okay Lieutenant Malverde, come to a complete stop and take a nice easy left turn at the light. Don’t make a big mistake and try to attract attention with a traffic violation. If we’re stopped...you know what’ll happen.”

  State Road 13 climbed uphill through the old downtown, which consisted of two- and three-story businesses fronting on the main street. It almost resembled a small town in a Western movie, with the storefronts coming up to the sidewalks on either side. Lynnville was the county seat. At the top of the hill, there was a brick courthouse on one corner, and a Baptist church on another. The road descended and the businesses began to be set further back from the road and were spread apart on more property. A few miles north, on a flat stretch of ground ahead of them, they could see two large warehouse-like buildings. One was trimmed with blue, and the other, orange.