Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  General Mirabeau chortled and said, “You and me both, Sergeant. It’s the story of my life.” Mirabeau had three black stars on the front of his uniform and on his black beret.

  The other officers in the converted RV, ranging from captain to brigadier general, seemed taken aback by the familiarity between their commanding general and the unknown medic. Both of them were African-Americans, while most of the other officers were white.

  “Now, what’s all this about a massacre up in Tennessee? You have pictures?”

  Captain Harris said, “I have them, sir, on my laptop. They came from his camera.”

  Zack said, “It’s not really my camera. I was just supposed to bring it to Mississippi. That was my mission.”

  “Your mission, huh?” said the general. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Zachary Tutweiler.”

  “And you witnessed this massacre?”

  “No sir, she did.” He nodded to Jenny.

  The general looked mildly frustrated. “So, who actually took the pictures?”

  Zack said, “A Green Beret named Boone Vikersun. Master Sergeant Boone Vikersun. He sent me here with the camera, because of these pictures. He wrote down the grid coordinates and the latitude and longitude, so the place where it happened could be found later. And I have a letter that he wrote, like a report.”

  “A Green Beret sent you? Really?” General Mirabeau studied the skinny seventeen-year-old carefully. “Well, I want to see these pictures. Captain, put your laptop on my desk there, and let’s take a look. And somebody get a chair for this young lady; she’s got a baby, for crying out loud!”

  General Mirabeau pulled a chair up close to the computer and put on reading glasses. Captain Harris opened his laptop and turned it on, and in a few moments they were looking at Boone’s photographs. The other staff officers stood around and behind the general, peering over his shoulders. First the general appeared surprised, and then his face grew stormy as he clicked from picture to picture. He said, “We’ve been hearing stories from the refugees about the Kazaks going berserk and burning homes and shooting people, but this—I just can’t believe this!” When he saw a dead Kazak soldier lying on his back in the snow, he stopped the slide show and turned to Jenny. Zack was standing beside her chair. “Who killed him? Who killed this Kazak soldier? Your Green Beret?”

  Jenny answered him. “Yes sir, Boone Vikersun. The Kazaks in these pictures were looters, who came back Sunday morning to steal from the dead. Boone was there to take pictures, and he killed them.”

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Jenny McClure.”

  “Did you see him shoot these Kazaks?”

  She said, “No, I didn’t see Boone shoot them. He told us about it later. I was there the night before. That’s when I found this baby, under her mother. Her mother was shot dead, like everybody else there.”

  General Mirabeau clicked through the photos, growing more and more agitated, especially when he saw the photo of the blue helicopter flying low over the ravine. “Jenny, you need to tell me everything you know about this. And you too, son. Start at the beginning, and tell me everything. Who were you with? How did you happen to be with a Special Forces soldier? And where are your families?

  Zack looked at Jenny, and she answered for both of them. “They’re dead. Both of our families are dead. Zack met Boone before I did.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that about your families. This has truly been a year like no other. So how did you meet this Green Beret, son?”

  “He came to my house last Saturday night. It was because of my visitor, Mr. Carson. Mr. Carson was a Green Beret too, but a long time ago. So I guess it really all started on Christmas morning, when you might say I had a visitor. I was out bow-hunting, and I accidentally shot him. I sort of mistook him for a deer. I was in a tree stand, and I grazed him with an arrow.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Phil Carson. Only then, I thought his name was Colonel Brice. That’s what it said on his ID card, and on his uniform. When I met him, he was wearing a uniform like yours.”

  The general stared at Zack. “Did you say Colonel Brice? You’re sure about that name?”

  “Yes sir. I’m positive. Colonel Jonathan T. Brice. He had a military ID card. I took care of him, after I accidentally wounded him with an arrow.”

  “And this was Christmas morning?”

  “Yes sir. At dawn on Christmas.”

  The general paused, thinking. “Tell me something, Zachary. Did this Colonel Brice have any tattoos that you know of?”

  “Tattoos? Um, yes sir, he did. I mean, he does. He has a parachute tattoo on his left arm, right here.” Zack pointed to his own arm, near the shoulder. “It’s a tattoo of Army jump wings. Like the ones you’re wearing on your uniform, right there over your pocket. But his doesn’t have a star on top like yours does.”

  The general gazed at Zack and Jenny in wonder. “Son, you told me that you have a report from the other Green Beret. The one who took these pictures.”

  “Yes sir, right here.” Zack handed the general a small Ziploc bag with a folded paper inside.

  The general passed it to his chief staff officer, a brigadier general. “Find the exact location of this massacre, and find out what you can about Master Sergeant Vikersun.” Then the general turned to Jenny, who was holding the baby on her lap. “Now, honey, tell me where you come into this. You were actually at the massacre site? You were an eyewitness?”

  “To it happening? No. But I was there after the massacre, Saturday night. So I guess I’m an eyewitness that it really happened. That’s where I found this baby.”

  “In the ravine? Among the bodies?”

  “That’s right. She was under her mother. I heard her crying, that’s how I knew she was alive. This diaper bag was with her mother. I don’t know her name, her mother I mean. I named the baby Hope. It was after that, that Mr. Vikersun and Mr. Carson found me and took me to a cave, where they had a hideout. Only—”

  “Wait, they had a hideout in a cave? These Special Forces soldiers had a hideout in a cave? Excuse me, Jenny, wait just a moment. Major Townsend, let’s set up a video camera. Have we got a camera ready to go? We do? Good, let’s film her right now, while it’s fresh. We’ll film her, and then him. And I want hard copies of all of the pictures on that camera, big ones. Two sets. And make sure we save them all on our computers. Do we enough color ink for the printer? Excuse me, Jenny, this will just take a few minutes to get ready. Do you kids want some juice? Maybe some cornbread or oatmeal? Have you eaten this morning? No, I guess not. Don’t worry; we’ll take care of you, and the baby. But let’s make these video depositions first.”

  “If you’re going to film me, just let me wash my face and brush my hair first. And brush my teeth.”

  Within a few minutes, the camera was set up on a tripod facing Jenny, who sat in a hard-backed office chair. She’d brushed her hair back and tied it in a ponytail, and was wearing her green sweater and jeans. Zack held the baby, off-camera. Hope had finished her bottle, and a fatherly colonel was showing the teenaged boy how to burp her over his shoulder.

  The general said, “All right, Jenny, just say who you are, and what day it is.”

  “I don’t know what day it is…is it Tuesday?”

  “Yes, it’s Tuesday, January 15th, and you’re in Corinth, Mississippi. Just tell your story, Jenny.” General Mirabeau, his staff, Sergeant Amory, Captain Harris, and Zack watched in awed silence, listening intently as she went through her entire tale again. Occasionally she had to pause to wipe away tears, and so did the members of her audience.

  ****

  General Mirabeau watched Jenny and then Zack give their video-recorded depositions from behind his desk. When they were finished, and after he had read Boone Vikersun’s report on the massacre, he dismissed everyone from the room except for his CSO and his command sergeant major, who pulled up chairs across from him. A stack of eight-by-ten color prints had already been produced i
n another of the general’s mobile headquarters vehicles, and was lying on the desk.

  “So, what have you learned about Master Sergeant Vikersun?”

  The brigadier said, “Well, he was a combat-decorated Special Forces soldier, assigned to the 5th Group out of Fort Campbell—”

  “Was?”

  “That’s affirmative. He’s listed as a deserter, as of August of last year. He’s also wanted for theft of government property, and for numerous federal firearms violations. Apparently, when he went over the hill, he took some expensive Army property with him, including a top-line sniper rifle and night vision goggles.”

  Mirabeau shook his head ruefully. “And he’s the one who’s listed as a deserter? Hell, it sounds like he’s the only one who’s been fighting!”

  “So it would appear.”

  “Sergeant Major, who do you know at NORTHCOM? Specifically, who do you know on Lieutenant General Armstead’s staff? Do you have a hookup there?”

  The command sergeant major was a squat fireplug of a man, with a pale complexion and black hair. He thought for a moment, and smiled. “Yes sir. I know a few people at NORTHCOM. In fact, I know General Armstead’s CSM quite well.”

  “Well, that’s good, because I have a short-fuse mission for you. You’re getting on one of those Blackhawks outside, and you’re flying up to Fort Campbell. You’re going to find your counterpart or do whatever you have to do, and then you’re going to put these pictures into General Armstead’s hands. You personally, into his hands, personally. Mano a mano, understood? Then you’re going to stay clamped onto him as tight as a tick on a hound, until you see him look at the pictures. All of the pictures. I’m going to write him a letter to go with the pictures. Oh, and let’s include a copy of Jenny McClure’s deposition. After he’s seen the photographs and read my letter, ask him if he has a message for me. Then fly back here, or wherever our headquarters is located by then. On the way back, fly over these grid coordinates and shoot some pictures, but don’t be obvious about it. Don’t orbit, just make one pass. If you can’t get them, don’t sweat it, we’ll send up a UAV when we can. Take whoever you need to shoot the pictures, or have the Blackhawk’s crew do it. This mission won’t be a problem, will it, Sergeant Major?”

  “No sir! No problem at all! It’ll be my honor. And I can goddamn well guarantee that I’ll have these pictures in General Armstead’s hands by this afternoon, and I’ll see you again by dinner with his answer.”

  “Outstanding. You take care of the Blackhawk, and we’ll get the package ready.”

  27

  President Tambor met with Sidney Krantz in his special “quiet room” off the Oval Office. Tambor sat in his black leather recliner, smoking a cigarette. He was dressed casually, in jeans, loafers and an open-necked white dress shirt. Krantz was opposite him in another comfortable leather chair. “I’m running out of time,” said the president. “That’s why I called you down here. The Camp David conference is Thursday, and I’m supposed to have finalized our policy for dealing with the foreign military units.”

  “Why Thursday? I thought it was Friday. That’s not much time.”

  “It’s a Muslim thing. They didn’t want it on Friday.”

  “I see.”

  “And now the Joint Chiefs are playing the passive-aggressive game. They won’t commit to anything. They don’t want to take responsibility. They’ve given me a range of options, but they’re staying noncommittal. They want the decisions to all be on me.”

  “Well, let’s face it,” said Krantz, “you didn’t put them in the JCS because of their backbones.”

  “True. Now the big sticking point is whether to have U.S. or U.N. control of the foreign units. The foreign leaders want the U.N. seal of approval on this operation. They want blue berets, blue helmets, everything. They hate being called mercenaries and contract soldiers. They don’t want to do it like Tennessee. They want the U.N.’s blessing all the way. That’s one of the things I have to decide before Camp David. But our reactionaries will go ballistic if they see the U.N.’s imprimatur on this operation. Whatever we gain in the Northwest we might lose elsewhere, if it leads to more resistance to federal authority. So I need to find a way to split this baby like Solomon, without killing it. How can we satisfy our foreign allies without enraging our own Neanderthals?”

  “Well, you certainly can’t put blue helmets on them. Don’t even consider it. I’d say we follow the North American Legion model. Put the U.N. flag on one shoulder and their national flag on the other. Or put an American flag on one shoulder and a U.N. flag on the other. Hell, those flag patches are only velcro anyway. They can change them or stick them in their pockets whenever they’re told to. They can even put on North American Legion flags, why not? Who’s going to know? Let them wear whatever headgear they want, just as long as it’s not U.N. sky blue. When they wear helmets, just let them use old American helmets. It’s all about symbolism. We can tell our allies it’s a U.N. mission, but that doesn’t mean we need to tell our own citizens. I don’t see the mainstream media making a big issue of it. They’re still on our side at least. Which countries are providing the major forces for the operation?”

  The president hesitated, and then answered. “Turkey and Pakistan are providing two full divisions each. The Saudis and the Gulf States are sponsoring the Turks, and China is sponsoring the Pakistanis. Russia is sponsoring the Uzbeks, the Kazaks and the Bulgarians. Actually, some of them will be Russians, but they won’t be in Russian uniforms. There are some others, but those are the main players. The Chinese, the Russians and the Saudis will be the primary beneficiaries, after we subdue the Northwest. It’s been in the works for a long time, but I couldn’t tell you.”

  “What are they getting out of it?”

  “Trade concessions, port deals, some mines…it’s a long list. Coal, gas, grain, all of it. ‘Payment in kind,’ they’re calling it. They’re not interested in our treasuries, not at any interest rate. They say we’re in technical default, and they won’t take any more of our paper. They want physical control of the assets, nothing less.”

  Krantz whistled softly. “It’s a good thing the media are still behind you, or you’d be crucified.”

  “I know, I know, it’s a total nightmare,” said the president. “But I just can’t see any other way to break the rebellion and reassert federal authority. Tennessee proved that we can’t rely on our own military to wipe out an insurgency.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, his head back against the recliner, staring at the ceiling. “So we have to rely on foreign peacekeepers…but just how do we do it? It’s very tricky.”

  Krantz said, “Wasn’t there just a problem in Tennessee between the Kazak and Nigerian peacekeepers? I’m hearing rumors about the Kazaks getting a little overexcited and burning some homes down.”

  “Burning some homes down? You think that’s all? You should see the reports I’m getting. Now there are bombs going off, and allied peacekeepers are being killed by the dozen. Rebels in Tennessee have even stolen tanks and gone on rampages! Just in the last few days, more than twenty Kazak and Nigerian peacekeepers have been killed by terrorists. Some North American Legion troops too.”

  “Wow! I’m sure not seeing any of that on the news.”

  “No, of course not,” said the president. “Media cooperation has been one of the few bright spots in this mess. But that cooperation can only go so far. We need to wrap up the Mid South as quickly as we can. We won’t be able to bury these stories forever. Tennessee needs to be finished.”

  “Oh, I hate those goddamn rednecks,” Krantz snarled. “Who would have ever thought that we’d still be trying to root them out a year after the earthquakes?”

  “I’m convinced they’re pathological,” said President Jamal Tambor. “They’re not rational, like normal human beings. They won’t even act in their own self-interest, no matter how much we’ve reached out to them and tried to help. They see a uniform and they shoot at it. It’s all guns and religion down there; t
here’s just no reasoning with them. Sidney, I’ve about had it with them. If I could just throw a switch and make all of those damned crackers disappear, I’d do it. If we still had neutron bombs, I swear I’d drop them down there in Tennessee. Don’t smile, I’m not kidding.”

  “I know you’re not,” said Krantz. “I happen to agree.”

  “So I’m certainly not going to get worked up about the Kazaks burning down a few houses. Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. Sometimes it’s the only way to deal with ideologically committed diehard reactionaries. There’s just no reasoning with them. They’re socially retarded; they’ll never fit into the new order. I swear, they’re like a fish bone stuck in my throat. The sooner we can get them out of the way, the better.”

  “Assuming that you can shape the media coverage and the public perception,” added Krantz. “That might be just a little difficult with neutron bombs.”

  “Well, I was using just a bit of hyperbole there. But I want you to tell that rural pacification guy—what’s his name?”

  “Robert Bullard.”

  “I want you to tell Robert Bullard to step up the pressure. Tell him to keep pushing those foreign contract battalions in Tennessee. Too many of the locals are still resisting us, and I want it over as fast as possible. I just want it over. I’m done with Tennessee; we have bigger fish to fry. Get it done, no matter what it takes. I’m beyond caring about how, just as long as it can be kept quiet in the media.”

  The president took another pull on his cigarette, and exhaled a blue stream. Then he said, “Give Bullard some extra motivation, if that’s what it takes. Pay him off, promise him the moon, I don’t care. Tell him he has to get finished down there so that he can head up my new Department of Internal Security. Tell him that we’re launching the DIS just as soon as he wraps up the Mid South and he’s free. That’ll get him moving.” The president took one more drag, stubbed out his cigarette, and stood up from his recliner to leave. As he got up, he had a small coughing fit. Krantz rose immediately after him. The cigarettes might be calming his nerves, but they were doing nothing for his health. At each visit, Krantz noticed a few more wrinkles, a little less hair, and now the smoker’s cough.