Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  “I can’t now Mom, but I will as soon as I can, I promise.”

  “Douglas, they won’t even let me use the upstairs bathroom, so I have to wash in the sink in the first-floor bathroom. Oh, and the kitchen is ruined, just ruined! I don’t even know what the second floor looks like; they won’t let me come upstairs, but water is dripping through the ceiling and the plaster is falling down. They drink beer and yell and play their music so loud all night that I can’t sleep. They park their cars on the lawn, and the grass all died, it’s just dirt now. The men even pee outside! When I say anything, they just laugh in my face and call me ‘la brooha blanca,’ I think that means the white witch. They laugh at me and say, ‘su casa es mi casa.’ They curse at me and throw things at me, in my own house!” Mrs. Dolan began to sob.

  “Mom, you should go to the police, this isn’t right!”

  “But I did go to the authorities, Douglas, I did! I had a lawyer file complaints. But Doug, the world is upside down now! They got a free court-appointed lawyer, and they sued me for ‘harassment and ethnic discrimination’! The state was going to charge me with hate crimes, and I almost lost the house completely! Then I had to apologize to them, in court! I was never so humiliated in my entire life! The judge said I was lucky that I had boarders, since I couldn’t pay the vacant room tax. Lucky, he said I was! I even had to go to a ‘cultural sensitivity’ class, to get rehabilitated! Rehabilitated! Oh Doug, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?” His mother began sobbing again.

  “I don’t know, Mom, I don’t know. But I’ll come home as soon as I can. I’ve got some problems with the Army, so it might not be for a while, but I’ll try at least to visit in a couple of weeks. Hang in there, Mom! I’ll help you the best that I can, as soon as I can get there.”

  Doug heard a man’s loud voice in the background, and then his mother said quietly, “I’ve got to hang up. Mr. Sanchorios needs to use the phone now, so I have to go. Goodbye, Douglas. I love you, and I’m so happy to know that you’re alive! Goodbye, Douglas…”

  25

  Charlie Donelson lived with his Filipina wife, Bibi, in a middle-class subdivision near Clarksville. Eight close friends and colleagues had been invited over on an undisclosed matter of grave importance. Half had already arrived. Each had been given a different ten-minute arrival window in order for the meeting to keep a low profile. They had electrical power in the house tonight, but without working streetlights, the only outside illumination came from the moon. One man was out front as security, wearing night vision goggles while sitting in a parked car with tinted windows. The guests parked randomly on different streets, several blocks apart. As they approached on foot, the security man called the house on a low-powered encrypted radio, using innocuous brevity codes. The guests walked around to the fenced backyard of the house and entered from the rear, to avoid a constant spectacle at the front door that might have been noticed by a neighbor.

  While they waited for the rest of the invitees to arrive, Sergeant Major Donelson, Chief Warrant Officer 4 Rogan and the others sat in the den, chatting and reminiscing. Bibi had carried in plates of red rice and pork for those who had not eaten, but otherwise she stayed out of sight. Rogan had brought over a wooden crate holding twenty oversized bottles of his home-brewed beer. A fire crackled in the stone hearth of the wood-paneled den. The television was on in the background, but with the sound off. Donelson occasionally flipped through the news channels, looking for any mention of events in West Tennessee—in particular, around Radford County or the town of Mannville. The massacre had occurred on Saturday, he had seen the Predator video on Sunday, and still there had not been a hint of anything going wrong in the state.

  Then an outline map of Tennessee appeared on CBA News, with concentric circles like a bull’s-eye drawn over the southwestern part of the state. The graphic had been frequently used since the earthquakes, when they had conveyed the epicenters and zones of damage. “Shut up, everybody! I want to hear this,” said Donelson, unmuting the sound. They were ten minutes into the national news when the anchor said that they were going to “preview a story from the Tennessee recovery effort that will warm your hearts and fill you with hope.” He explained that an expanded version of the new story was going to be replayed at nine o’clock, as part of an update to their award-winning documentary, “American Shame.”

  Hugh Rogan said, “It’s just CBA News, why bother? They couldn’t tell the truth to save their lives. They wouldn’t even know how. The news hasn’t been worth a damn since FOX lost its broadcasting license, and they got rid of talk radio.” Rogan’s voice was always recognizable because of his lingering New York accent.

  “I know, but look, it’s about Tennessee. We should still pay attention.”

  “Charlie, they’ve run that ‘American Shame’ documentary at least ten times. They’re just whipping up the hatred against white conservatives. I’ve had enough of that already. I don’t need to hear it again. I already know what they’ll say. ‘Evil white men raped the planet, stomp on kittens and hate their mothers’.”

  “This part is new—shut up already!”

  ****

  The half-dozen men sitting and standing in the den turned toward the television in the corner. A very pretty brunette reporter was standing in a medical office interviewing a handsome man with a thick mustache and gold-rimmed glasses. The man was around forty years old, wearing a doctor’s white lab coat, which was open at the front over a camouflage uniform. A black stethoscope was slung casually around his neck. In appearance, he could have been Geraldo Rivera’s younger brother. Large windows behind the two revealed that they were on the ground floor of a low building arranged around a central courtyard. The plaza was open at the other end; military trucks could be seen driving in and out. Soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms and blue NAL berets were carrying boxes and equipment from other trucks parked on the side of the street.

  The reporter faced the camera holding her microphone and said, “I’m Linda Veneno-Radburn for CBA News, in Bolivar, Tennessee. Today, the public health clinic and emergency hospital is reopening, one year after the second New Madrid earthquake. I’m joined today by Dr. Hernan Cortez Arrasando, who has been leading the effort to bring basic health services back to a very hard-hit region of Western Tennessee.” She turned from the camera to face the doctor. She was wearing tight black pants, and a cream-colored sweater that accentuated her figure. Her long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail.

  “Thank you, Linda,” he said with a toothy smile.

  “Doctor Arrasando, this must be quite an exciting day for you!” The reporter pronounced the double-R in his last name with an exaggerated Spanish tongue roll, firmly establishing her Latina identity for any viewers who might have wondered.

  The doctor had a slight Mexican accent. “Oh yes, Linda, it’s been a very gratifying experience for all of us, especially today. Thank you so much for having us on CBA News, so that we can show all of North America the results of our many weeks of hard work. Beginning today, we’re providing medical services and emergency care to a part of Western Tennessee that was badly affected by the earthquakes. Most of the people who live in this area haven’t seen a doctor in more than a year! There is a great deal of need, and we’re anxious to get to work. Especially for the sake of the children, who are really the innocent victims here.”

  “Dr. Arrasando, I understand that you’re not a local, that in fact you’ve come a very long way to help. I’m told that you’re from Mexico City, and that you have your own successful private practice there. How did you come to be serving the people of Western Tennessee?”

  “Well Linda, in my case, this story goes all the way back to 1985. I was a young boy living in Mexico City when we were hit by our own very powerful series of earthquakes. I remember the help that our North American neighbors provided to us in our time of need. So when the New Madrid earthquakes struck this region last year and I saw all of the terrible devastation and suffering on television, I just k
new that I had to do something. I had to do something to express my gratitude for all of the help we received from the American volunteers back in 1985. That’s when I learned that the North American Legion was accepting volunteers for their new medical corps. As soon as I could, I left my practice and accepted a commission in the Legion. Joining the North American Legion was the best way that I could help the people whose lives were so terribly affected by the earthquakes. And to be able to serve in a town named for the great liberator Simon Bolivar, well, of course that just makes this experience so much more rewarding for me.”

  CW4 Rogan stood, pointed at the TV and blurted out, “This is bullshit! Look at that! Look at those trees there, see? Past the trucks, outside that little quad.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” asked one of the men.

  “The leaves! Half of the leaves are still on those trees! They’re red and yellow, but hell, the leaves have been off the trees in Tennessee for at least a month. And look: some of those soldiers have their sleeves rolled up! You ever see Mexicans rolling their sleeves up when it’s this cold out? So either this bullshit propaganda video was made a long time ago or it was made somewhere else, but it sure as hell wasn’t made in Tennessee today. No, they’ve had this film in the can, just waiting for the right day to play it. Either that, or they filmed it in Texas or somewhere else.”

  “So CBA News is lying,” said Donelson. “What else is new? Are you really surprised?”

  “No, I guess not,” said Rogan, dropping back into his chair. “It’s CBA News. Maybe I’m still just a little surprised that they’re working with the government to run straight-out bullshit propaganda. I mean, they have to know that this video is at least a month old, but they’re claiming it was shot just today. Either that, or they know it wasn’t filmed in Tennessee. Either way, it’s bullshit. It’s just a government propaganda infomercial. Linda Radburn is a real CBA reporter, so CBA is in on the scam. I mean, this is like the news in Russia or China! I wonder if CBA found an actor to play the doctor and they produced it, or if the government did, and they just got Linda to play along?”

  “What’s the difference anymore?” asked CW4 Rogan. “The corporations that own the TV networks are basically owned by the government, ever since the trillion-dollar bailouts. Like my grandma used to say, ‘He who pays the piper calls the tune’.”

  “Hold it a second, mute the television.” Donelson pulled a small walkie-talkie out of his shirt pocket, answered it and then turned to Rogan with an update. “Mark says Ira’s here; he made it. But he says Ira has two strap hangers with him. Mark says he stopped them, since he wasn’t expecting to see three guys at once.”

  Rogan said, “Aw hell, this is getting out of control! How can we pull this off and maintain opsec if people are bringing friends? Who does Ira have with him?”

  “Wait a second…” Donelson whispered into the radio, and listened to the answer. “Boone Vikersun, and some guy Boone says used to be in Special Forces. What do you think?”

  CW4 Rogan asked, “Charlie, you know Boone Vikersun pretty good, don’t you? You were both in the 1st Battalion, right? What do you think?”

  One of their other guests, a black man in his thirties who had been listening intently, said, “Master Sergeant Boone Vikersun? The Viking? I know him real good. He was the ops sergeant in my ODA on our last tour in the sandbox. Hell yeah, let him in! Old Boone, he went over the wire last year. He split, he went AWOL from the Group with an SR-25. Oh, he’s been in the deep shit, I just know it! I can’t wait to see that crazy bastard and find out what he’s been up to. Oh hell yeah, tell Mark to send Boone and his friend around back.” Despite the cold outside, the black soldier was wearing a tight green Special Forces T-shirt over blue jeans, emphasizing his body-builder’s sculptured physique.

  “Are you sure?” asked Rogan. “What about the other guy?”

  The black man said, “If he’s with Boone and Ira, then he’s okay. Ira Hayes Gersham and Boone Vikersun! Damn, now we’re talking!”

  Donelson spoke into the radio, and in a minute the three were led into the den via the back door and kitchen. The men were all standing, exchanging animated greetings and hearty handshakes. Several of them playfully grabbed Boone’s shoulder-length dirty blond hair. He was easily the tallest man in the room, and with his wild hair and beard and flashing blue eyes, he really did give the appearance of a Viking raider.

  Cold bottles of beer were thrust into the newcomers’ hands. Phil Carson was introduced to the men by Boone, who vetted his Special Forces credentials and his unquestionable trustworthiness. A lingering air of reservation seemed to hover around the stranger, so Boone made a point of mentioning that Carson had served with his father in the same SOG Recon Team. This recounting of history seemed to raise Carson above doubt. The men were just naturally suspicious; it was an ingrained part of their makeup not to trust a recently met outsider.

  The last visitors arrived soon after, including one man they all addressed as colonel, until he told them to knock it off, he was just Tom tonight. This seemed difficult for the men, who continued to refer to him as colonel or awkwardly as Mr. Spencer. The colonel was another six-footer, in his late forties, with a regulation military haircut that was gray on the sides.

  Twelve men were finally assembled in the den; they ranged in age from their mid-thirties to Phil Carson at over sixty. They were all active duty, reserve or retired Special Forces operators, or members of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. They had been trying to continue their lives as normally as possible on Fort Campbell and around Clarksville, while Boone Vikersun had “gone operational” in resisting the foreign occupiers. They listened with rapt attention as Boone described his recent experiences in West Tennessee. They were particularly amazed by his recounting of their hijacking of the Kazak ASV, their pursuit, and their instigation of a running gun battle between the Kazak and Nigerian peacekeepers.

  ****

  Carson noted that the other men called their driver “Ira.” Nobody asked how Boone and Carson had managed to come to the meeting in Ira’s company. Carson listened carefully, but nobody in the room called Ira by any other name. He assumed Dewey Lieberman was an alias, based on the initials D.O.L. from the name on his truck. The initials were an obvious coded reference to the Special Forces, but Carson had not mentioned it and Boone had not brought it up. Ira’s cover as a salvage hauler and his operation of a clandestine evacuation network was never mentioned by the men in the room. Carson was left to wonder if the other men knew about Ira’s secret work.

  Except for the muscular black soldier wearing a T-shirt, the men in the room were all dressed in a variety of boots or running shoes, jeans and windbreakers or parkas. Loose, bulky clothes, which could conceal serious weaponry. He could only guess who among them in the room was on active duty and who was retired, mostly judging by the length and grayness of their hair. They ranged from super-fit to somewhat physically gone to seed. Most appeared to Carson to be NCOs, but guessing at ranks was always a dubious undertaking. He heard someone call their host Sergeant Major, and another man who arrived after them had been greeted as Colonel Spencer.

  Apparently, rumors about the Kazak-Nigerian firefight were already floating around the local Special Forces community. Carson heard them asking Boone, “So you started this fight between the Cossacks and the Nigerians? You got the Kazaks to chase you through a Nigerian forward operating base? That’s how it went down? That’s just awesome, man! Talk about a force multiplier—you guys practically started a war!”

  A pint bottle of dark beer clutched in his hand, Boone couldn’t help gloating a bit, but he was happy to share the credit with Carson. “This old man here was driving that ASV like a maniac on crack. I was just shooting up the countryside with the turret guns, until I ran out of ammo and fired off the smokes. I swear, I think he killed more Cossacks and Nigerians by running them down than I got with the forty-millimeter and the fifty-cal combined. I could hardly hold a sight picture,
the way that ASV was knocking them down and rolling over their bodies.” Bottles were raised and clinked in toast, and both Boone and Carson were subjected to congratulatory backslaps and arm punches, amidst broad grins and mock salutes.

  It was Charlie Donelson’s house, so he finally addressed them as a group to bring the meeting to order, redirecting them back from the rising locker room victory atmosphere. “All right, listen up. I think everybody’s here who’s coming. I know you’re wondering what this is all about, aside from Boone’s homecoming—which was a surprise to me too. What’s the urgency? What’s up with the dispersed arrivals, and the Sneaky Pete backdoor routine? Just watch the computer screen, and you’ll find out. That’s why you’re all here—to see a Predator video. It was taken over Radford County on Saturday. Get in close, and pay attention.”

  “Where’s Radford County?” asked one of the men as they gathered by the computer desk.

  Boone answered him. “It’s southeast of Jackson, down near the Mississippi state line. That’s in West Tennessee, on the other side of the river. That was my area of operations. I’m guessing that this video was taken outside a town called Mannville.”

  “How the hell did you know that?” asked Rogan in surprise. “Have you seen it already? Damn! And I thought we had the only copy.”

  “No, I haven’t seen the video; I didn’t even know there was a video. But I think I know where it was shot, because if it’s a video of the same thing—I was there. Right there. I even took pictures, and that’s why I’m here. Charlie, have you got a cable that can jack this camera into your computer? After we see the video, I’ll show you my pictures. I’ll bet it’s of the same thing.” He handed his silver digital camera to the sergeant major, since it was his house and his computer.