Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  Doug said, “At least think about it. Can you at least do that? Think about it?” Then, with the captive officer looking down, he whispered almost inaudibly to Boone, “We’re not murderers.”

  After a full minute of silence, Boone said, “I’ll think about it.”

  ****

  Director Bullard sat behind the driver of his black Chevy Suburban, for the five-minute drive from UAV flight operations back to headquarters in Building 1405. He would take his lunch there today. His assistant, Jeff Sinclair, was on the phone, sitting next to him in the middle seat. The driver and front seat passenger were his top bodyguards. Only on Fort Campbell did he travel in a single vehicle without extra security. Bullard was in his usual khaki. Today the men up front were wearing black tactical pants and bulky black coats concealing their weapons. A pair of MP5 submachine guns were bracketed beneath the dashboard, the heavy stuff was in the back. Jeff Sinclair, the only one in the Suburban who was wearing a jacket and tie, was speaking quietly on the secure phone, mostly listening while making only brief comments and interrogatives.

  The morning trip over to UAV flight ops had produced mixed results. The missing humvee had not been located, but there was at least some good news. The ravine outside Mannville had been bulldozed flat and planted with tiny pine trees. At least Colonel Burgut had taken care of that important job. Bullard had been able to direct the Predator’s camera and briefly scan the area, without bringing attention to it or raising questions, another positive aspect.

  His assistant replaced the secure phone in its cradle. “That was operations. Our investigative team is in Carrolton; they’ve already been to the garage. They also interviewed the morning watch at the Tennessee River bridge. The Legion provides security for both sides of the State Road 214 bridge. There’s a NAL company based there in Carrolton.”

  “I got that already.”

  “Right. Well, one of the guards who was on duty at the bridge remembers a humvee with a Legion colonel in it, crossing the river eastbound. So far, nobody knows what unit this colonel belongs to, if any. A lieutenant was driving. Apparently, all the bridge guard saw of them was their rank devices, and he waved them through. A NAL lieutenant and a humvee are missing from the garrison in Carrolton. Two of the missing lieutenant’s men were killed in the gas station, along with the gas station owner. It’s believed that this lieutenant was driving the humvee under duress when it crossed the bridge. That’s the working theory.”

  “This bridge guard was a Mexican?”

  “Uh, I believe that’s correct.”

  “Typical,” said Bullard. “If they were any dumber, they wouldn’t be able to tie their own shoes. Or boots, or whatever they wear. Was there any video of this humvee?”

  “No, not at the bridge, but we got something at the Lynnville FEMA camp. It’s grainy, but it shows a Legion humvee driving north. State Road 13 goes right through the camp.”

  “I’ve been there. A Wal-Mart and a Home Depot are all fenced in.”

  “That’s the place. The timeline fits the humvee that crossed the bridge. Nobody is claiming that vehicle, so we’re assuming it was the one taken at the gas station in Carrolton. Apparently, on the video the three North American Legion stars are visible on the door, but you can’t make out any numbers. The film was shot on the old Home Depot system, so they were able to access it at headquarters.” Bullard’s assistant didn’t need to mention that digital surveillance video from all of the national chain stores was fed into federal law enforcement channels in real time. This had been the case for years.

  “Home Depot? And that’s it? That’s the only video?”

  “That’s the only video that’s been located so far. If that humvee was the same one that crossed the bridge, it could be the same group that killed the Legion soldiers in Carrolton, and working backwards—”

  “I know. The Nigerians, and the Kazaks in Radford County.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Damn.” Bullard stared out the SUV’s side window as they passed row after row of semi-derelict desert-tan Army trucks, parked behind chain link fences on vast motor pool lots.

  Sinclair said, “This group would appear not to be your average rebel insurgents. These are not just a few Billy Bobs with deer rifles.”

  Bullard grunted, but said nothing beyond “No shit.” He was too busy pondering how these events might eventually be connected to his own personal involvement with the Kazak Battalion. This string of killings went back to Mannville, near the location of Saturday’s massacre. On a map in his mind, Bullard visualized the line of connected dots. And now that line was pointing straight north, toward Fort Campbell. Why?

  Besides the obscure black operation sometimes known as the Department of Rural Pacification, what other groups were stationed at Fort Campbell? Along with what remained of the 101st Airborne Division and a shitload of old trucks and helicopters, there were, notably, the Green Berets. He passed the brown brick two-story buildings belonging to the 5th Special Forces Group almost every day. Stationed there were a thousand super-patriotic and gung-ho overgrown Boy Scouts. Eagle Scouts. Eagle Scouts with machine guns and sniper rifles. Scouts who could cut your throat with one hand and sew you back up with the other. He saw them every day in their PT gear, jogging all over Fort Campbell in large and small groups.

  If anybody could hijack a Kazak ASV and wipe out dozens of allied troops in a single killing spree, it was them—the goddamn Green Berets. Bullard didn’t trust them any more than President Tambor did. They were more loyal to quaint but passé notions of “duty, honor, country” than they were to their own government, even during this time of exceptional national emergency. For this reason, they were virtually restricted to Fort Campbell and their other bases, and given no missions inside the United States. The only time the Green Berets left Fort Campbell or Fort Bragg in uniform with weapons was when they were being flown halfway around the globe to third-world shit holes, on diplomatic photo-op tours. They were paid and kept on the government rolls primarily to keep them isolated and out of mischief.

  Bob Bullard didn’t believe in coincidences. That line of dots, punctuated at each stop with bloody corpses, was coming his way. He knew it. He had felt safe and secure, believing that the rural pacification program was effectively hidden deep within a gigantic federal reservation that was strictly off limits to the general public. But with this latest series of events, he felt his cloak of security disappearing like a morning mist under the hot sun.

  “Sir? Sir?” His assistant had to repeat himself several times to get his boss’s attention. “The Legion humvee, should we put out a BOLO alert? Should we have Predators search the area north of the Lynnville FEMA camp?”

  “What? Oh, sure, do all that. And let’s turn around. Let’s go back to flight ops. We can send out for lunch.” At headquarters in Building 1405, he could only listen to reports and wait passively while events unfolded around him. Bullard had little hope that they’d find the humvee or its crew of killers, but flight ops was where he could observe the situation in real time, and make things happen like God Almighty Himself. It might even be time to drop a little something on Colonel Burgut, who still knew far too much, even if he had bulldozed the ravine.

  24

  Their contact arrived in the mid-afternoon. They heard three distinct clangs of metal on metal, a pause, and then two more. The fugitives had changed to their civilian outer garments. Their packs and weapons had been made ready for a swift departure hours before. Boone said, “I have to go outside now. They have to see me first, or they’ll just take off. That’s how this is done here.” He was wearing jeans and his long parka with the commercial hunting camo pattern, concealing his combat vest. He left the trailer and disappeared back through the metal fence around the junkyard. Five minutes later, he returned.

  “Okay, everybody grab your stuff. This is it. Our ride is up by the front of the junkyard in the bus shed. Tony, you’re staying here. This is your lucky day, LT; you’re going to be traded for
some of our own prisoners. Just relax and wait, somebody else will be along to collect you.” The lieutenant’s hands were bound securely to the steel-framed arms of the kitchen chair with clothesline; his knees and ankles were tied to the legs. Boone stuck a wide X of gray duct tape over his mouth and draped a blue pillowcase over his head and shoulders. “Sit tight, LT. Just a little while longer here, and then you’ll be moved to a better safehouse. You’ll stay there until your transfer can be arranged.”

  Boone guided them through the stacked rows of junk vehicles to a barn-sized gray sheet-metal building. The junkyard gave every appearance of having been abandoned. If anybody was around the acres of old cars and trucks, they were staying completely out of sight and were making no sound. Boone told Carson and Doug that their contact was going to move the humvee to a better hiding place, somewhere else around the junkyard. How it would be disposed of after that, he didn’t explain, and they didn’t ask.

  Their next ride was parked inside a metal shed big enough to hold several trucks or buses. Most of the building was taken up with shelves and tables loaded with alternators, car batteries, tires and other resalable items. In the open space in the middle was a medium-sized flatbed stake-side truck, loaded with old household appliances and workshop machinery. The truck looked to be at least thirty years old; the cab had once been painted olive drab. Military surplus. A man entered the shed through a back door about ten minutes later. Their nameless driver was a scrappy-looking fifty-something wearing green thermal coveralls. He had thick curly black hair running to gray, and a few days of gray stubble beard. The man was thick through the middle but solid, like a retired prizefighter. He was a few inches shorter than Carson and Dolan, but in every other way he was an imposing physical figure. No names or greetings were exchanged between any of the four men. On the faded green doors of the truck, “Dewey O. Liebermann, Tool and Salvage LLC” was hand-stenciled in white letters. Their driver seemed to size up the three fugitives presented before him.

  “Well, at least two of you aren’t frikkin’ giants. My hidden compartment can only fit two regular-size people, if your gear and weapons are going in with you.” He pointed to Phil Carson and Doug Dolan. “That’ll be you two.”

  “We could hide inside your load,” suggested Doug. “I could fit in that freezer, if there’s an air hole. Or if I keep the door cracked open.”

  “Not a good idea, son. Soldiers and police almost always spot-check the cargo. It makes them feel like they’re doing their job. It’s the obvious place, so I never, ever hide anything there. No, you’re going to have to squeeze into a little space under the cargo deck. You can’t even see it from the outside; it’s sort of an optical illusion. From the sides, it looks like there’s only five inches of steel support frames under the bed, but it widens out to eight in the middle. The wooden cargo deck over it is fake too. It’s carved out in the middle, and that gives almost another three inches. You have to shimmy in from underneath, and you’ll have to unload some of your packs to flatten them out.”

  The driver looked Boone up and down. He said, “But that still leaves you with nowhere to hide. Hey, I’ve got it: you can be my idiot nephew today, the one that I bring along for heavy lifting. They might accept that you’ve got no papers if you’re retarded. Hey, big fella, you ever do any acting? Think you can make out like you’re a moron? Maybe deaf and dumb?”

  Boone stared straight ahead, as if he had not heard.

  “That’s perfect; you’ll ride up front with me. Okay, you two, in you go. Get under there, climb up over the drive shaft and slide in on your bellies like reptiles. Shove your packs and weapons in first. You can’t turn over once you’re inside, so decide now if you like it on your back or your stomach. You’ve got six feet by six feet by ten inches high in the middle. It’ll work. That’s it, put your stuff in first, and then climb up there and get comfy. Damn, that reminds me—did I ever get that exhaust leak fixed? Oh well, I guess I’ll know when it’s time to let you out.”

  After a few minutes of effort, Carson and Dolan were finally sealed into the smuggling compartment with the weapons and gear. Boone and the driver climbed up into the cab through both doors, grinned at one another, and shook hands warmly.

  “Sergeant Gersham! Damn, it’s good to see a familiar face!”

  “Stick with Dewey. Get used to using my cover name, in case we’re stopped and questioned. On the way up, we’ll go over my legend, but hopefully you won’t be expected to say anything at the checkpoints. Just act like the big lumbering retard that you are, and you’ll do fine. Your hair is perfect—right out of Deliverance. Your cousins in Georgia would be so proud. Just be yourself. In other words, act normal.”

  “I should be able to manage that. So, what’s up with the ‘Dewey O. Liebermann’? I mean, aren’t you taking a chance with that? You were always a wise-ass, but come on, D.O.L.?” Boone was referring to the initials of the Special Forces motto, “De Oppresso Liber,” to liberate from oppression.

  The driver laughed and said, “Hey, you need a sense of humor in this business.” He didn’t specify whether he was referring to the tool and salvage business, or the espionage and guerrilla warfare business. “Do you remember when I left active duty for a couple of years in the nineties? Well, I didn’t really leave the service. That was Agency business the whole time. Anything else you heard was a lie, part of my cover for leaving the Army. They needed somebody with my languages and my, ah…other unique skills at The Agency.”

  “Christians In Action.”

  “Yep, you got it, goyim. South of the border, they call it La Cia.”

  “What do you speak, Arabic and Hebrew?”

  “And Greek, and Turkish. And Farsi, also known as ‘Arabic for complete idiots.’ Oh, and French, Spanish and Italian, but they hardly count. Plus I can fake a few more.”

  “Weren’t you raised over there somewhere?”

  The driver backed the truck out of the shed, turned in a small parking area, and pulled onto State Road 13 heading north. Carson glanced at the rear view mirror extending out from his side of the cab: someone unseen was already closing the big doors to the metal building.

  “My father worked for a shipping agency, and I mostly grew up between Athens and Alexandria. Then he worked for APL, the American President Line. I was a regular Mediterranean shipping line brat. I spent most of my early years on the docks and on ships. Languages became one of my hobbies. I collected them like postage stamps. I’ve got the knack; I can’t explain it. They say I’m a savant, a human sponge for languages.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, with that kind of background, why didn’t you go to college and become an officer?”

  “Same reason as you, asshole. It just wasn’t me. I was born to be a shooter, not a pencil-whipper. And who says I didn’t go to college?”

  “But what about the D.O.L. on the truck?” asked Boone. “There must be thousands of people around Fort Campbell that’ll look at that name and wonder about the initials.”

  “You caught that right away, huh? I guess you’re smarter than you look. Well, Dewey Liebermann wouldn’t be my first choice if I were choosing a new alias now, that’s for sure, but I’m kind of stuck with it. Here’s how it happened. While I was working for the Agency, they sent me to some, ah, interesting schools. One course covered creating identities from scratch. ‘Working legends,’ they call them. I made a few on the side, just for the hell of it. Outside class, on my own, using what I learned. One of them was Dewey Liebermann. I thought it was kind of funny at the time. It was the only one of my homemade legends that I kept up over the years. I always figured I might wind up on the run someday, and a new ID would be a good thing to have on the shelf. Anyway, Dewey Liebermann had the best backstops and paper trail.”

  “But who needs to know Dewey Liebermann’s middle initial? You could at least drop the ‘O’ on the truck.”

  “Now, what fun would that be?” said the driver. “Anyway, the people who ‘get it,’ I don’t have t
o worry about. And the people I worry about won’t get it in a million years.”

  “Sergeant—” Boone pronounced the rank the Army way, without the ‘g.’ “Sar’nt.”

  “Stick with ‘Dewey.’ Get used to saying it, in case we’re stopped and your deaf-and-dumb act doesn’t hold up. I’ve been out for seven years, and you probably outrank me by now anyway.”

  “Okay, ‘Dewey.’ What happened to our prisoner, back in the trailer? The Legion lieutenant. After we left.”

  The driver sighed, grimaced and slowly shook his head. “I was afraid you were going to ask. I won’t bullshit you, Boone. Yeah, I shot him. Well, what did you expect, leaving him like that? He was too hot, he was radioactive as hell. He might have led to my whole network being rolled up and wiped out. It’s shaky enough as it is, without taking chances. People’s lives are at stake, and they depend on me. Anyway, I’ve got nobody in this area who could have looked after him, and I sure couldn’t just let him go. Don’t worry, there won’t be any blowback. Your hummer and the lieutenant are both going to disappear. I do have somebody who can at least take care of that for me. By tonight, that hummer and the lieutenant will be gone from the planet. Poof—erased. There won’t be a screw or a fingernail left. Guaranteed.”

  The road had almost no traffic as it wound up and down gentle rural hills. On a straight section, the driver pulled an unlabeled pint bottle of clear liquid from the map pocket in his door. “I pass these out to guards at checkpoints. The Mexican troops understand la mordida. You know, friendly little bribes. Being a loveable drunk is part of my schtick. How can a friendly drunk have evil intentions? They could give a shit less about my drinking and driving—hell, that’s a Mexican tradition. It’s just an act anyway…sort of. Yeah, they’re always glad to see Dewey Liebermann’s truck coming—the bottles are small enough to slip into the leg pockets of their uniforms. And that’s no accident.”