Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  “Which Battle of Fallujah?”

  “Both,” said Major Acorzado. “And they were both motherfuckers. But winning was better. A lot better.”

  “Roger that. So, when’s the president showing up?” Boone asked this as matter-of-factly as he could.

  “The informal reception runs from ten to ten-thirty. The president should arrive around ten-thirty. Then there’ll be a reception line, and he’ll kick off the meeting at eleven with a short talk in the conference room. After that he’ll leave.” Then more quietly, the major said, “But he rarely makes the schedule, so who the hell really knows?”

  Boone thought that he detected a slight rolling of the eyes, but it was very subtle. Acorzado’s crow-black eyes were hard to read.

  Another white electric cart rolled around the circle and stopped in front of the portico. A different Marine corporal from before was driving. Acorzado said, “Take the major to the real Blackhawk, the dirty one in the back. He needs to get something. Go the back way, and then return him here ASAP.” Then the major turned to Boone and they exchanged quick informal salutes followed by firm handshakes and direct eye contact. “I have no idea where this golf cart came from, Major Paxton. It’s highly irregular. I’ll be seeing you.” Then Acorzado turned toward the conference center and disappeared inside.

  The corporal remained seated, waiting for the Army major to take a seat, but his eyes grew wide when he saw Lieutenant General Armstead approach. The general had walked out of the conference center just after Major Acorzado left. Both Boone and General Armstead sat on the two rear-facing seats, and the corporal drove off. He had been ordered to take the major to the Army Blackhawk, and he was certainly not going to question the addition of a three-star general as an extra passenger. This was Camp David, and he had driven presidents and prime ministers.

  There was an asphalt bicycle path that ran downhill around the conference center, and along the side of the hill just inside the eastern perimeter fence. This winding path through the trees was wide enough for only one cart. It bypassed the main road down the center of Camp David, and took them directly to the helicopter landing zone. The corporal parked by the Blackhawk, and both officers stepped out of the golf cart. Without a word, General Armstead climbed into the troop bay. A thin black valise was handed to Boone, and the door slid shut. The slim case was not important; it was just a prop, a reason for him to return to the helicopter. He placed it into his briefcase. It might still have been inspected, so it was innocuous and contained no contraband.

  The helicopter engines began to whine as Boone sat again at the back of the cart, facing away from the driver. The corporal had no questions and followed his original orders to bring the major back to the conference center as quickly as possible. Marine corporals do not say a single word to a field-grade officer unless they are asked a direct question. Boone had no questions, so not a word was exchanged, not even about the cold but clear weather. Behind him, Boone could hear their Blackhawk apply power. Because he was facing rearward and the tree branches were bare of leaves, he saw their helo lift off and bank away to the north, to Raven Rock. So far, so good.

  The cart returned by the same jogging path, bypassing security. They could not depend on getting this break; it was just a fluke, so they had not prepared a contingency to bring in weapons this way. When devising the plan, they had thought it probable that Boone would have to go back through the security building again, but in fact he did not. They returned by the same narrow path through the trees. He could have brought back his Glock .45, or grenades, or almost anything. Lessons learned. As if there would be a second go-round for this crazy Camp David operation…

  On the way into the conference center, Boone found the men’s room. Sitting in a stall, he carefully looked around for pinhole camera lenses. The ceiling tiles were full of dots. He wondered if there was a Secret Service agent somewhere whose job was to spy on suspicious activity in the johns. He opened his briefcase on his lap and removed the green cloth-covered binder, which was closed with a zipper. He unzipped the binder, opened it, and used a car key to spread apart the metal-and-plastic reinforcing spine behind the three silver ring clips.

  Carefully, he slid out a thin black piece of material shaped like a ruler. It was eleven inches long, less than an inch wide, and no more than an eighth of an inch thick at any point. Half of its length was sharpened on one side; the rest was an integral handle. Three inches from the sharp end on both sides was an indentation, at a forty-five degree angle. Boone placed this crease over the metal edge of his open briefcase, pushed down hard on both sides, and snapped off the end. Now the blade had a chiselshaped tip, like a very long box-cutter or exacto knife. Before, its innocuous shape had allowed it pass through the X-ray machines undetected. It had been seen, but not seen. The ceramic knife was created for being smuggled through security, not for comfortable handling. It could also pass through metal detectors, including the ones that Boone assumed were built into many of the doors here in the conference center. In addition, Boone knew that undercover Secret Service agents would mingle among the attendees, covertly scanning them with concealed metal detectors.

  The knife was provided by Ira Gersham, who had picked it up years before from his former employers at “another government agency.” The entire one-piece blade and handle was made of zirconium oxide, the second-hardest substance, after diamonds. Ira had impressed Boone and Carson by dropping a tissue paper and then slicing it in half in midair. The edge was beyond razor sharp, it was scalpel sharp. Inside his briefcase was a thin plastic sleeve to cover the working end. Boone gingerly slid the knife up his left forearm, under the black velcro band of his wristwatch. An inch of the black handle protruded from the band, but was concealed by the cuff of his white dress shirt and blue jacket.

  Behind the top flap of the briefcase, there was a computer connecting cable. Uncoiled, the green plastic cable was six feet long. This harmless item had also been seen and inspected when they passed through security. Boone pulled the connector off one end, and fit the other end into the modified charging jack on his cell phone. Then he coiled the tubing more tightly, folded a brochure around it, and placed it into his left jacket pocket. Then he flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and returned to the conference center. He found Carson outside the main hall on a long patio deck. The hillside fell away from the conference center on this side. The uncovered deck was being used by some of the foreigners for smoking, in spite of the very brisk weather.

  “How did it go?” asked Carson. He turned toward the wooden patio railing, overlooking the trees. On the patio, their heads were uncovered, even though they were outside. Their hats had been left by the entrance to the conference center. It was quite cold, just above freezing.

  Boone joined him, facing away from the building and any watchers or listeners. “It went just fine. The Blackhawk’s gone, and I’ve unloaded my briefcase. Oh, here’s that paper you were asking about.” Boone slipped the brochure containing the coiled connector cable to Carson, who casually dropped it into his own jacket pocket.

  “I saw the chopper take off,” said Carson. “That means we’re on our own. We’re just going by our schedule now.”

  Boone said, “I got a schedule update while I was outside looking for a ride back to the LZ. The president should arrive at 1030, but he’s known for showing up late. The economic part of the conference starts at 1100, and then we’re up at 1130 for the CONPLAN brief. Cross your fingers and hope they have luck inside Raven Rock. It’s ten after ten now, and our window is ten-thirty to eleven.”

  “Shit, twenty minutes to go,” said Carson. “I’d rather be chased by Cossacks any day. This place…well, let’s just say it’s not my style. I feel like a bug pinned down under a microscope. And that General Delaney was asking me some funny questions. He was testing me, I think. ‘How is old so-and-so?’ People I don’t know. I think maybe he’s suspicious. He’s got me worried. I’m dodging him now. Fortunately, the secretary of the Army nabbed him and
I slipped away.”

  “If he’s suspicious now, just wait until he finds out that Armstead flew the coop.”

  “I know. He’s going to throw a fit. You’re lucky you’re only a major today. The whole scene in there just really pisses me off. Especially the Russians. They’re probably all FSB or SVR, or whatever they call the KGB these days. They’re acting cool, but they’re gloating at the same time. They’re really rubbing it in. You can’t get a cup of coffee without them trying to start a conversation. They’re even speaking in English to each other so you can hear them. They were talking about buying houses in the States for their kids. Talking about how cheap real estate is. About what a good buy America is these days. I get what they’re saying. They’re twisting the knife about Buffalo Jump. America is a good buy. It’s a liquidation sale.”

  “I guess they feel like it’s payback for ’91 and ’92,” said Boone. “We sure did our share of gloating then.”

  “I suppose we did. Well, anyway, that old battle-axe Henrietta Bramwell is keeping Delaney busy, trying to get his group to mingle with the Chinese delegation. She wants them all to be best friends forever, it looks like. I almost feel sorry for Delaney and his people. I peeled away when her group jumped him.”

  Boone said, “Bramwell’s husband does a lot of business over there. And I don’t mean millions, I mean billions. His company was one of the first to set up aircraft factories in China, back in the ’90s. They moved entire plants over there lock, stock and barrel. And now his wife is the secretary of the Army. They used to call that a conflict of interest. Not anymore.”

  The two counterfeit Army officers spoke very quietly, leaning against the wooden patio railing, looking down and casually covering their mouths with their hands. Camp David was a paranoia-inspiring place, especially considering what they were planning to do. It was easy to imagine directional microphones, hidden bugs and telephoto cameras everywhere. Supposedly, Camp David was a private place where world leaders could talk freely, in an informal rustic setting. Anybody who believed that was too naïve to cross the street alone or talk to strangers.

  “That explains it,” said Carson. “She’s chatting with those Chinese civilians like they’re old buddies, and trying to hook General Delaney up with some Chinese brass.”

  Boone shook his head disgustedly, looking out over the slope through the winter trees. The paved golf cart path he had used to return to the helicopter was just barely visible a few hundred yards downhill. “Henrietta’s so happy, you’d think her husband was just opening another jet factory in China, instead of her getting ready to trade a chunk of America to the Chinese. I guess it’s all the same to people like her. They really don’t care which way the business is flowing, just as long as they’re getting a cut of the action.”

  Carson said, “This is how the Chinese must have felt when the British came in and started carving up China. You know, the opium wars, gunboat diplomacy and all of that. What goes around comes around. Now we’re the decadent failed empire, being carved up and put on the auction block by our own Mandarins.”

  “General Armstead was right,” said Boone. “They’re vultures. And not just the foreigners. Our own traitors are even worse. They could give a shit about America. This whole thing just makes me want to puke.”

  “Don’t puke until you’ve had some of the pastry. Those Navy chefs are the best. Everybody at Camp David is the top of their field. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I don’t want to go back inside until we have to.”

  “Just do what I did,” said Carson. “Load up a few napkins with pastries and bring them back out here. Those rear echelon motherfuckers can’t stand the cold, so we’re safe out here. I’d rather freeze my ass off than have to shake hands and smile at a bunch of traitors and foreign vultures. Just swoop by the pastry table and do a touch-and-go. And try to ignore those Russian assholes. I swear, I think they’ve been hitting the vodka already.”

  Major General Delaney came out onto the patio deck and headed directly for Carson, his aide-de-camp in tow holding a briefcase in each hand. Delaney outranked Brigadier General Harper by one star. “The president is arriving in five minutes, with the secretaries of state and defense. You shouldn’t be hiding out here. It’s bad for our image. You represent the Army. This is a diplomatic mission today.” He spoke frankly and directly, as if the two aides were not present.

  “You seem to have the diplomacy angle covered,” said Carson. “How are your Chinese friends getting along?”

  Delaney ignored his sarcasm. “They invited me over for a vacation.”

  “I’ll bet. I’m sure Henrietta wouldn’t mind. She’s only been over there about twenty times with her husband. I think she has a house there.”

  “Actually, she suggested it—but let’s not get into that now. Where’s General Armstead?”

  “Oh, he just hates these kinds of functions. He never did get along very well with our foreign allies. Especially our brand-new allies, the Russians and the Chinese.”

  “Are you intentionally being a smart-ass?” asked Delaney.

  “Not me, no sir,” said Carson. “I think we should bend over backwards for our new allies. Grab our ankles, even. Isn’t that the core of Operation Buffalo Jump?”

  “Don’t bait me, Harper. I asked you where’s General Armstead.”

  “He took a lift of opportunity and flew to Site R. Raven Rock. It’s just over the hill.” Carson nodded his head toward the north.

  “He what?” Delaney was aghast, and actually took a step back, as if he had been hit.

  “We have our own Blackhawk. The general likes to bring his own transportation. He went for a quick visit.”

  “But we’re briefing the CONPLAN at eleven thirty! That’s only an hour!”

  “He’s aware of that. Don’t worry, he’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  Major General Delaney looked at Carson as if he was insane. “Look, none of us are happy about this. It’s not my choice either, but nobody asked my opinion. Shit rolls downhill, and we follow orders. That’s the way the world works.”

  “I hear you,” said Carson. “By the way, that must be quite a flu bug that kept General Terry in bed today. At least General Armstead came in person. But have no fear, he’ll be back before it’s time for our part of the dog and pony show. I’m sorry for any miscommunication about who was briefing today. We had assumed that your General Terry would want that honor. Don’t worry; General Armstead will do a yeoman’s job in his place, if nobody from the Joint Chiefs is available.”

  “Here they come,” said Major Fitzgibbon, Delaney’s aide. “The president’s party is here.” Fitzgibbon was even shorter than his general, with reddish hair and black eyeglasses.

  “We really have to go back inside,” said General Delaney. “You can’t just ignore the president.”

  “We’ll see you in there,” said Carson. Delaney and his aide-de-camp returned to the main hall of the conference center, through the glass doors.

  When they were gone, Boone said, “Did you have to piss him off like that? He’ll remember you, and that’s not a good thing.”

  “Let him remember me. I’m a brigadier general who’s topped-out and knows it. Do you think that old generals in their terminal grade give a shit about making bootlickers like Delaney happy?”

  “No, I guess they don’t really give a flying leap.”

  “You’re catching on,” said Carson. “I’ve got a real bad short-timer’s attitude. Remember, my unofficial recall to active duty is just for one day.”

  “Maybe just for one more hour,” Boone noted.

  “Yeah, maybe. So if we’re going to go out with a bang, let’s make it a memorable hour. Well, Major Paxton, let’s go inside and meet our illustrious commander-in-chief.”

  “After you, General Harper.” Boone picked up their briefcases and followed Carson inside.

  ****

  The president, the secretary of defense and the secretary of state arrived bene
ath the portico in the president’s armored custom black Cadillac limousine. Boone was amused by this, because it was only a quarter mile to his residence at the Aspen Lodge. Jamal Tambor entered the conference center’s main hall flanked by Secret Service men with earpieces and bulging suits. Like most of the civilian men in the room, the president was wearing a dark suit and tie. The youthful president animatedly worked the room, bouncing from group to group, shaking hands, smiling, his eyes dancing. It was almost as if he was in campaign mode. Maybe he was, Carson thought. Only today, he was campaigning for favorable terms from America’s foreign creditors. On the chopping block was the American Northwest, which would nominally come back under federal control once these foreign “allies” had subdued the region by force of arms.

  After a quick trip to the men’s room for his own final preparations, Carson strolled all the way around the circumference of the room toward the back windows and the patio, staying away from the president’s entourage. Boone trailed behind him, the faithful wingman. On the way, Carson caught a glimpse of General Delaney near the hall’s entrance, standing next to the commander of the Marine Security Company. Delaney was speaking to him, and Carson regretted his being testy out on the patio deck.

  The president was spending a few minutes with each national group, schmoozing them and trying to tell some jokes. The jokes clearly did not convey their humor through unsmiling interpreters, even with several attempts at retelling. At best, the laughs were forced. Carson guessed that the foreign interpreters finally told their principals, “He’s making a joke, so please laugh when I do.”

  At 1050, General Delaney found Carson again. Ignoring Boone, he said, “Listen, Harper: I just asked, and there’s no flight into Camp David from Site R scheduled for the next two hours. Is General Armstead giving the brief or not? If I’m giving the brief, I need to know that right now. And I need a straight answer, not more double-talk.”