Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  The muscular black NCO said, “Boone Vikersun was there! I should have known. Tell us about it, Boone, go ahead, tell us about it while we get your pictures loaded.”

  “No, let’s see the video already!” said another. “Boone can narrate it if he knows what went down.”

  And that’s what they did. Sergeant Major Donelson clicked the mouse and played the Predator video. The condensed ten-minute film looped continuously while the visitors watched in stunned silence, their cheerful camaraderie blown away by its grim content. Even seen from 15,000 feet up, there was no question about what had taken place in Radford County. The mounted horse troops, with their infrared lights blinking Kilo in Morse code, left no doubt as to the identity of the perpetrators. Hundreds of civilians were rounded up, put onto buses, driven away and shot, fifty or more at a time in a remote gully. Afterward, they showed Boone’s still photos, his color close-ups from the massacre, in their gory, frozen detail. There were over twenty sharp digital pictures on his camera, and the silent men watched them all in a slide show that played through several times.

  The black NCO pointed to a dead Kazak soldier on the computer screen. He was lying on his back wearing the Russian-style camouflage uniform, among the civilian corpses dusted in snow. “I don’t understand. You were there during the massacre? How did you…”

  “No,” said Boone, “I took these pictures at dawn on Sunday morning. Yesterday. The massacre happened on Saturday afternoon. Saturday night I got intel about it from a survivor, an eyewitness. So I was there doing photo recon Sunday morning when three Cossacks showed up to loot the bodies. I was hiding right where they were bound to trip over me, so I had to kill them first. I hid their bodies after I finished taking these pictures for proof.”

  The black NCO’s eyes were welling up. “You were down there fighting. You were fighting, while we…while we…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Hugh Rogan, the Warrant Officer 4 helicopter pilot, said, “That blue Eurocopter—I know I’ve seen that helo. It’s from here. It operates out of the back of Campbell Field, the old air strip. The restricted end.”

  “Is that the Building 1405 crowd?” asked Colonel Spencer.

  “I don’t know, but I can sure find out,” said Rogan. “What’s the tail number? Can we see the tail number in that picture?”

  After they had watched the Predator film and seen the photos multiple times and heard Boone’s story, the now very angry men talked randomly and chaotically, venting their pent-up fury and frustration. Finally the colonel said, “Listen, men, I don’t want to pull rank, but I think I’m starting to see the big picture here. A few things are coming into focus for me. Now, I think we should dispense with the distinction between active duty and retired, and officer and enlisted. SF is SF, and I think we all know where this is going. I’m counting you Night Stalkers from the 160th too, of course. Nobody’s giving orders here; we’re past that, way past. I left that at the door. But I may know a few things from the message traffic that I’m privy to—and added to what we’ve just learned, I think I can see where this is heading.”

  “Where’s that, sir?” asked Sergeant Major Donelson.

  “For now, right back to Fort Campbell. To U.S. Army North, the Fifth Army. Northern Command, the homeland command. NORTHCOM. And maybe from there to the 101st, what’s left of it. There are some people I know who should see this video, and these pictures. People high up, who I trust to do the right thing with the information. Or at least that I trust not to do the wrong thing.”

  “How do you know you can trust them?” The question could have come from any of the men. NORTHCOM, a jumbled-up staff command, consisted of active duty and reserve units assigned to it on an ad hoc basis. Some units assigned to NORTHCOM were even working together with the foreign “peacekeeping” forces.

  Spencer answered, “The same way that we know we can trust each other. I have some longtime close friends over there. How many of you know General Lucian Armstead?” There were a few nods of recognition. Except for Phil Carson, they were all familiar with his name, his three-star rank and his position, but none of them had ever met him. The colonel said, “Armstead’s the commanding general of NORTHCOM, headquartered right here at Fort Campbell ever since they got booted out of Texas. General Lucian Armstead is the one who needs to see this video. We need to focus our effort on him, and then we’ll know how to steer this thing. If we can bring Armstead on board, anything is possible. Anything. Armstead meets regularly with the Joint Chiefs…and even the president.”

  One of the men said, “That’s what we’re really talking about, isn’t it? That’s where this has to go. Straight to the president—to Jamal Tambor. The traitor-in-chief.”

  “Hey, that’s the president of the United States you’re talking about!” said another.

  “I know it. But the buck stops at the top, and nowhere else.”

  “Still, you can’t say—”

  “Can’t say what? Can’t say that the president is a traitor? That he’s wrecking this country on purpose, tearing it apart piece by piece? That’s what I can’t say?”

  “Whoa, whoa, hold your horses. Don’t even go there! I won’t be a part of any plot to take out the president. No way. Not even this president.”

  Colonel Spencer said, “I agree, but for a different reason. It wouldn’t work anyway; it would be counterproductive. We need to discredit him, not make him a martyr. We need to use this massacre video. We can only destroy him and everything he represents with the truth—the truth that’s on these pictures and this video.”

  Phil Carson knew only one man in the room, Boone Vikersun, and he had known him for only a few days. Ira, AKA Dewey O. Lieberman, he had met just today. The rest of the men were strangers to him on one level, but on another, they were not. They were all Special Forces or other specops warriors. They were part of an indivisible, unending community, stretching in an unbroken line back to his tours in Southeast Asia and beyond.

  After they had finished watching the video and his pictures, the men continued their discussion away from the computer, standing mostly around a circular poker table that dominated the middle of the den. While they argued, Phil Carson meandered around the perimeter of the wood-paneled room. He heard them, but didn’t follow who was saying what because he didn’t know them. Like many homes of military men he had visited over the years, the shelves and walls of this den were packed with military memorabilia. Framed group photos of old A-teams, plaques commemorating foreign visits and old unit assignments. A Kevlar helmet, a chromed dagger stuck into a black rock like Excalibur. Small statuettes of soldiers, helicopters and military vehicles. The overloaded bookshelves leaned heavily toward history, aviation, weaponry and military special operations. He recognized many of the titles, had read a few, and would have liked to borrow some. Behind him, the arguing continued and intensified. They were not all men of the South; many regional accents were represented.

  “You know, the government will consider what we’re doing to be treason if we even think about moving against the president. They’ll call us traitors.”

  “Sorry, Jack, too late—I called him a traitor first. I mean, the president invited foreign troops in to kill Americans—we just saw it with our own eyes! And do you know how they pay off these foreign troops? They’re paid with land, American land! Selling America by the acre to foreign enemies—what do you call that, if that’s not treason?”

  “But he’s still the president! He’s the commander-in-chief, so he’s authorized to sign treaties, and Congress—”

  “Congress is not authorized to sell pieces of America to foreign mercenaries, mercenaries like the Cossacks who we just saw massacre hundreds of Americans! That’s treason, whether it’s coming from the Capitol, the White House …or the Pentagon.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the president—he’s a goddamn traitor! I’d drop the hammer on that communist son of a bitch myself!”

  “You can’t say that!”

  “L
ook, fellows, we’ve served some bad presidents before, and we’ve survived. We’ve gotten past them. Look at Dave Whitman: he sold our nuclear secrets to the Chinese! If that’s not treason, what is?”

  “But even Weasel Dave didn’t bring foreign troops onto American soil to massacre American civilians!”

  “Only because he couldn’t figure out a way to make money from it.”

  “You think this is funny? You think this is some kind of a goddamn joke?”

  “I’m not joking! You think I’m joking?”

  “Come on, think about it! If we don’t stop these traitors, who can? Who will? If not us, then who? If not now, then when? Who’s got a better shot at this than we do? At least we have a chance! If we can bring General Armstead on board, we have a chance. If we can get Armstead, we can get the 101st, and maybe the 82nd. The other Special Forces Groups for sure. We have the pictures, and the video. If we do this right, we’ll have a chance to put the evidence straight in front of the American people directly. We can do it!”

  “It’s still treason, no matter how you look at it. We’ll be a dozen up against millions.”

  “The treason is on their side! We’ll be upholding our sworn oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies—and that means foreign and domestic.”

  “You mean the old constitution, or the new one? The new guys take the oath to the new constitution.”

  “Fuck that—there’s only one Constitution! We all swore that oath, and it didn’t say ‘except for the president, who is above the law.’ And we won’t just be a dozen; we’ll be thousands, if we’re smart about how we do this.”

  “You try to bring in thousands of conspirators, and we’ll all be eating breakfast in Fort Leavenworth by next week.”

  “What a mess, what a fucking mess.”

  “It’s still treason—”

  “Hell yes, it’s treason, but it’s their treason! Not ours!”

  Ira, AKA Dewey O. Lieberman, was not the tallest of the group by any means, but he had an imposing face and a commanding presence when he chose to exercise them. He held up both hands, looked at each of the men, and they grew quiet. Carson noticed this rather theatrical turn. In an almost Shakespearian manner Ira quoted, “‘Treason doth never prosper: what’s the reason? Why, if it prosper, none dare call it treason.’ An Englishman named John Harrington said that, all the way back around the year 1600.”

  “Ira, what the hell’s the point of that?” asked the muscular black man in the green T-shirt.

  “The point is, there’s nothing new under the sun. There’s an ancient pattern at work here.”

  Another man said, “I’ve seen that quote before, but what’s it mean? Can you interpret that so us mere enlisted swine can understand it?”

  Ira replied, “Hey, I’m a mere enlisted swine too, or at least I was until I retired.”

  Colonel Spencer spoke next, and they all turned to listen to him. “It means that if we’re successful, we’ll all be heroes, and nobody will ever say a negative word against us. We’ll be called the saviors of the republic, and nobody will ever dare call us traitors.”

  The black NCO asked, “Well, what if we’re not successful? I’m just saying…”

  The colonel gave a wry smile and said, “Then they’ll hang us all. They’ll hang us, and bury us in Potter’s Field, next to Booth and Oswald.”

  “Yeah,” said Donelson, rubbing his neck with his hand. “I saw that World War Two movie Valkyrie. I didn’t like the ending. That mission to take out Hitler was fubar to the max.”

  “That Hitler op was fubar because it was too big and too complicated. Small and fast is the way to go.”

  “I think this is crazy. I think this is all beer talk, and you’ll forget it in the morning.”

  “Did you think that Predator video was crazy? You think you’ll forget Boone’s pictures in the morning? They’re slaughtering American civilians now, and we’re going to do nothing about it? We can’t just sit on this information—we have to use it. I mean, really use it! Take it just as far as it needs to go.”

  “If we can’t light the fuse on this thing, who can? Anyway, look at the aces we’ve been dealt with this video and these pictures. When will we have a better hand than now? When will we have a better chance to see this through? Who can do this kind of thing better than we can? The longer we wait, the weaker we’ll become, and the more chance of compromise there’ll be. Keep it small and do it fast—that’s the best way. Who dares, wins!”

  “So who’s in? It’s time to stand up and be counted!”

  “Oh, man, I don’t know—the president! You’re talking about the president! I don’t know about that…”

  “If we don’t take this thing on now, we never will. How will we be able to look at ourselves in the mirror if we can see what we just saw and just go home and do nothing? What will we tell our grandkids when they ask us why we didn’t act when we had the chance?”

  Phil Carson listened to their discussion while continuing to examine the objects around the room. The den was practically a museum of militaria, a decorated veteran’s “me room” commemorating the highlights of his long career and many adventures. In a position of honor on a mahogany shelf, inside a custom-made triangular glass-topped shadow box, was an American flag, tri-folded and showing only the blue field of white stars. A small brass plate on its front identified the flag as having been given in honor of one Lt. Chester G. Donelson, USA, 5th SFG(A), 1941-1967. The mahogany-trimmed glass top of the case was mounted on small brass hinges.

  In the shadow box, on top of the flag, rested a faded Green Beret, with the old black-and-yellow unit flash of the 5th Special Forces Group. On the same shelf, not far from the shadow box, lay a book with a cracked green vinyl cover, made to snap all the way around the open side to protect its pages. It had been decades since Phil Carson had seen one of them. It was a Vietnam-era Soldier’s Bible, made to fit into a pouch on a rucksack.

  Carson hoped that Lieutenant Chester Donelson, wherever he was resting, wouldn’t mind the imposition. Unnoticed by the men arguing behind him, Carson unlatched the shadow box’s glass lid and removed the tri-folded flag and the Green Beret. Then he picked up the small Soldier’s Bible and placed it on top of the beret. It was time to end the discussion. It was time to put this debate to rest. He remembered another similar dispute, seven years ago in another house. It had worked then, and it might work now.

  The men were standing around the poker table, still arguing. Carson put the flag, the beret and the Bible in the center of the table. His unexpected placement of those three items hushed the room to abrupt silence.

  He said, “Men, it’s time to stop debating if we’re going to do it, and start planning how we’re going to do it. It’s time, right now, to decide. Who’s in, and who’s out? If you’re in, you’re in all the way, to the bitter end. If you’re out—just leave now.” Then he leaned over the table and placed his hand on the Bible, the beret, and the flag. “Who else is in?”

  Sergeant Major Donelson looked at Carson across the table, met his eyes, and then placed his own right hand over Carson’s. His fingertips traced the edge of the old felt Green Beret. “Boone says you served with his father. That’s good enough for me. I’m in for the duration. All the way. No matter what it takes, no matter where it goes.”

  CW4 Rogan’s three-fingered right hand went down next, over his friend’s. “Count me in too. All the way to the end—Night Stalkers don’t quit!”

  All the right hands went down in seconds, crossing one another’s over the holy book. The men leaned in together like a football huddle, shoulder-to-shoulder and staring from face to scarred and weather-beaten face. No one balked, hesitated or refused. After perhaps half a minute, the men slowly withdrew their hands from the Bible, but they remained clustered tightly around the table, staring at the little stack of sacred items almost resonantly glowing between them.

  While they were still close together, Colonel Spencer turned to each of them and qu
ietly said, “Gentlemen, we might not come out of this too well…but that’s nothing new for any of us. Only God and history will be our judge. And I’d rather lose my life, than lose what’s left of my honor. I’ve stayed on board with this…this disgraceful situation we find ourselves in for much too long already…and I suspect you all feel the same way.

  “Men, we’ve fought our country’s wars all over the world for many years. That’s nothing new. What’s new is that this time, we really are fighting for our country, and for the very survival of our republic. This time, we’re not ten thousand miles from home. This time, we are home. This time, our oath is going to mean more than just the words we say when we re-up. This time, we’re actually going to defend the Constitution, against enemies both foreign and domestic. So let’s get to work. I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to share.”

  ****

  It was already after midnight. For the last six hours, the two teenagers had been hiking for twenty minutes and resting for ten, when the terrain allowed it. Zack walked ahead of Jenny, his bow strapped to his pack, his new AK-47 across his chest. He held it in both hands at the ready, its sling behind his neck. He would walk a few yards, then stop and look around, so it wasn’t hard for her to keep up with him. When he wasn’t sure of the route ahead, he left Jenny in temporary hiding places and scouted forward while she rested with the baby. When he found the way, he returned and they continued on.

  They had left their hiding place beneath the camper shell when it grew dark. Thick fog had rolled in with the night. The three-quarters moon was up just before twilight, so even with the fog, the night was less than black. The fog meant that visibility was short, less than a hundred feet, but without visual references, distances were just a guess. The moon lit their immediate surroundings so that they could walk quickly, without fear of tripping over unseen roots or stumbling in holes. It would be a perfect night for covering serious distance, at least until the moon set. Unless they had the bad luck to stumble right into a Cossack patrol, they’d make it across into Mississippi before dawn.