The Land of the Free

by TJ Tucker

  Torres looked at Stahl fearfully. Stahl continued, “And be glad that they want to maintain it. Because one day, they’ll decide that it’s not worth the trouble. And you won’t like what comes after that.”

  Torres was shaken, pondering Stahl’s warning. Changing the subject, he asked, “Have you heard of Yu-Xin Zheng?”

  “Sure. He’s a star not only in Chinese politics but also on the world scene.”

  “He’s paying me a visit tomorrow.”

  “It’s a safe bet that it won’t be a trivial matter. Zheng’s a heavyweight. Good luck with that.”

  Chapter 6: San Gustavo

  Dawn in the northern Mexican desert brings cool and even slightly moist air, compared to the dry heat of mid day. The sunrise is pink, fading to blue across the vast expanse of sky. The stars begin to fade and daylight takes hold. Cam Burrows awoke in his Border Patrol Chevy Tahoe and stepped out to get his bearings. He briefly took in the beauty of the moment before hardening his determination to pursue the people who almost killed his friend Jason Gilbert. I hope Jason wakes up to this beautiful morning.

  As he had hoped, extricating the Tahoe from the gully was not much of a challenge, but the terrain was as bad as ever as he moved forward, following the still legible tracks of the armed vehicles. Even had they faded, Burrows was now confident that the tracks led to the airport he had been watching. The planes kept coming and going uninterrupted, as frequently as if this had been a major US commercial airport. He had the impression that the flow of air traffic never stopped, not even at night.

  As Burrows made slow progress toward the airport and what was obviously a large scale operation, he wondered what he was going to say once he got there. Hello, I’m from the US Border Patrol and I really shouldn’t be here but I was just wondering what you guys are doing here in Mexico, sending cargo aircraft in and out to the southwest to make sure we can’t see them in Texas. I hope you don’t mind letting me see your facilities. He chuckled at the absurdity of the idea, and continued.

  He came to a dry riverbed and saw that the airport was straight ahead, just over a rocky ridge. His GPS showed the location as San Gustavo. He zoomed out and noticed that Laughlin Air Force Base in Texas was barely 25 miles away. Wouldn’t they know what was going on over here? The ridge ahead was too steep for the Tahoe to climb, and in any event it would be too visible from the top. He backtracked slightly across the dry riverbed and parked the vehicle amid some scrub, in a gully that seemed to be a tributary to the dry river. He cut some brush, which he threw on the roof of the Tahoe to cover its markings and lights. The beige color of the rest of the vehicle would now blend in with the desert.

  Burrows began his hike up the ridge near mid day, and found himself going through his water faster than he had anticipated. He approached the top of the ridge, weary from the heat and questioning why he had ever done this. As he crested the top, his reasons hit him in the forehead like an errant baseball bat. This was not just an airport. It was a massive complex of hangars, fuel depots, barracks and endless storage warehouses. There were two long runways on the outside edges of the complex, running not quite parallel, diverging slightly to the southwest. The northeast ends of the runways were connected by four taxiways, so the planes could both take off and land to the southwest. There were several cargo planes unloading as he stood there. Using his binoculars, he saw armored personnel carriers coming off one plane and into some sort of hangar. To the left he spotted another plane unloading its cargo, backed up against an open hangar. He could not see the cargo, so he decided to take a closer look.

  As he descended from the ridge, Burrows could finally appreciate the size of the complex. It would dwarf Laughlin AFB, of that he was sure. The tops of the buildings were painted in camouflage, and everything looked brand new. Any older satellite images would show nothing. There were people everywhere, busy unloading the constantly arriving cargo jets. Another jet pulled up to a fuel cistern, and instead of fueling up, it connected a hose to its belly. A tanker? They’re flying in fuel. Doesn’t Mexico have plenty they could truck around?

  The edges of the complex at San Gustavo were only loosely ringed with fencing. There was a ring of razor wire at the top, but the bottom was sloppily put together, leaving large gaps under the chain link fencing. Burrows had no problem slipping under at one spot, but he failed to notice the trip wire just inside the fence, and his foot pulled it decisively. He approached the runway, not daring to cross it, as he was sure the staff in the control tower would see him. He stayed off to the side and positioned himself to see into the hangar receiving cargo from one large jet. Fighters! They were unloading fighter jets. What the hell? Since when does Mexico have fighters like that? And do they not fly? Why do they have to ship them in like this? I need to get back and tell someone what I’ve seen.

  Chapter 7: Visit from an Envoy

  Torres spent a half hour reading the news on his computer. He enjoyed the coverage given him by the corporate media, but was far too intelligent to treat those obsequious reports as indicative of how the people saw him. He knew too well that there would be suspicious and critical coverage linked from aggregator web sites, so he checked every day to see what his political adversaries were saying. Sometimes the attacks were simply laughable. But he had a problem with those who called him a socialist, and could not bring himself to understand what their problem was. The word socialist was a pejorative in America, but he was sure that deep down, most Americans were socialist in a limited sense, regardless their discomfort with the label. Nearly every Representative and Senator from both parties voted for progressive social programs to varying degrees, so what did they consider themselves?

  Torres’ private time was interrupted when the intercom buzzed. “Mr. Zheng has arrived at the White House.”

  “Have him escorted to the Map Room, in the Executive Residence.” Torres felt this would be more personal than the Oval Office or the Diplomatic Reception room. They would serve Zheng some tea and let him make himself comfortable for a few minutes. Torres finished his last cup of coffee, shut down his computer, and paced around the office anxiously, trying to gather his thoughts and his wits. He did not want to appear agitated at the meeting, but as usual he’d had too much coffee this morning. It was easy to do when they kept offering him more. He imagined the nerves that Zheng must be feeling, and reminded himself that he always projected authority well. He took a deep breath, checked himself in the mirror, and said, “It’s show time.”

  Now cheerful and energetic, Torres opened his door and walked the colonnade to the Map Room. “Welcome to the White House, Mr. Zheng,” he radiated, giving the visitor a firm handshake.

  Zheng had been chosen as much for his comfort with the English language and American customs as for his negotiating skills, which were considerable. His family was originally from Shanghai, but Yu-Xin Zheng had grown up in Beijing, with stints in Australia and Canada where his father was assigned as a diplomat. His English was consequently very strong, with only the softest Mandarin accent. “Thank you for receiving me at this time, Mr. President.” Zheng smiled at the President and sat down in the chair that had been prepared for him across a small table from Torres.

  “Your people said it was urgent,” replied Torres, looking Zheng in the eye. “I can’t stress enough how much we value our relationship with the Chinese people.” Torres consciously used the word “people” rather than “government” when speaking of China, a detail that did not go unnoticed by Zheng.

  Zheng sat down in his chair, still holding his teacup in one hand, the saucer in the other. He began. “I was asked to come here on behalf of the representatives of the Chinese people, Mr. President, who have been America’s largest foreign creditors for some time.”

  “As America is China’s biggest customer,” retorted Torres, hoping Zheng remembered that the customer is always right.

  “Mr. President, a conservative estimate of America’s total debt and social obligations is in excess of 100 trillion
dollars. The Chinese are concerned about America’s continued solvency.”

  Torres frowned and objected. “Just a second. Our debt to China is less than a trillion, and our total debt is only around 10 trillion.”

  Zheng avoided eye contact and continued. “Mr. President, 10 trillion does not count your social obligations to your seniors. It is simply implausible to assert that you can keep all your promises moving forward. And that brings us to China’s special concern. In a default, we expect to be the first to lose.”

  Torres leaned forward across his desk and waved the pen in his hand at Zheng, who recoiled slightly in his chair. “I’ll say it again, Mr. Zheng. The US government will never default on its obligations. We are the most reliable financial entity in the world.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. President, but I must speak the case I was sent to make,” replied Zheng, now conscious of Torres’ irritation. He put his saucer on the table and wiped the palm of his hand on his pant leg, picked it up again, then continued. “Whether the default comes overtly or as a devaluation of our holdings by inflation, it is unavoidable. The American economy simply cannot generate enough value for it to be otherwise.”

  Torres remained silent for some time, then stood, walked to the window, looked outside and ignored his guest for the better part of a minute. “We’ll just have to disagree on economics. My advisers are unanimous in their advice, which differs markedly from your argument. But the reason you came here was to make a case for your government. If it was as you say, a question of inflation or default – which I do not concede at this time – which would be less objectionable to the Chinese government?”

  Zheng tensed, gripping his tea cup so tightly it rattled against the saucer in his other hand. He quickly put both on the desk, but he had betrayed his tension, and indicated to Torres that this was the moment when Zheng would deliver the crux of his message. Zheng stood and walked to the end of the room, glanced at the art on the walls, then continued. “The representatives of the Chinese people want neither option, as either one would destroy the United States as customer and world power. We would like to pursue an alternative form of compensation, that does not damage the United States.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Zheng took a slow step forward, now sensing that he had an opening in the conversation. “China has strategic objectives in the international arena, and the United States is often a major obstacle to their achievement. We wish to expand our sphere of influence, with your acquiescence. In exchange we will forgive your debt. I’ve been asked to invite you to negotiate these items with representatives of the Chinese people. Upon your agreement to negotiate, we will appoint a team to come to Washington to work out the specific details to be in play. We ask that you consult with whomever you need to consult, and let representatives of the Chinese people know your willingness to negotiate in one week’s time.”

  “So you’re giving me an ultimatum,” said Torres in a subdued voice, still standing at the window. “We turn our backs on our allies for money. And if we refuse? Are you going to make the threats, or will those come at a later date?”

  Zheng moved slightly closer to Torres but stopped at about the middle of the room. “Mr. President, I am but an envoy, and in any event it is the fervent hope of China that it never comes to that. The Chinese people are faced with the danger of losing the value of their hard earned assets. The money that has gone to China has been accumulated by many formerly poor families, at rates of pay Americans would find unlivable. If this value were lost, it would cause such social instability in China that my government is frightened at the possibilities. So we are looking for an alternative arrangement that would avoid the financial ruin of America while giving China something tangible. Something of value that could create the right circumstances for us to stabilize our society in the difficult years to come.”

  “In that case, Mr. Zheng, I thank you for your visit. We will be in touch through the Chinese embassy,” said a highly irritated Torres. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said as he quickly shook Zheng’s hand, feeling the sweat on the envoy’s palm. He walked out of the room and down the colonnade back to the oval office.

  Back in his office, Torres sat down and started to review the implications of the meeting with Zheng. “China wants us to sell out our allies, possibly Taiwan, in exchange for wiping out our debt. No threats have been expressed yet, but they have something up their sleeves, I can be sure of that. He typed an email to Mansour Kurdistani instructing him to convene his advisory council for 2 pm that afternoon. Attendance would be mandatory and any conflicting appointments were immediately to be canceled. Kurdi was also told to arrange a working meal at around 6 pm, with everyone notified that it could be a late evening of work. He signed off and added, “Count me among your attendees.”

  Torres then called an all-cabinet meeting for the following afternoon at 3 pm. Attendance was again mandatory, and all conflicting appointments had to be canceled. He did not want to face the Cobra, so to ensure his unavailability until the cabinet meeting, he called up Carson Stahl for a morning game of golf. He then called his chief of cyber services, instructing him to place the audio recording of his meeting with Zheng in his secure folder on the White House server. Finally, he walked back to the Treaty Room that he used as his study, ordering his lunch in there. This would give him some quiet time to collect his thoughts and review the recording of his meeting with Zheng, to make sure he had correctly understood everything the envoy had said.

  Chapter 8: The Scoop from Purchasing

  It was not the most interesting training session Robbie Linssman had ever attended. He struggled to stay awake for large parts of it as he sat in the dimly lit conference room. That the presenter was his old friend Evan Bozak from Tilbury headquarters in Chicago, on a rare visit to Kingston, made no difference. Evan was great to be with in social and work situations, but he was simply a bore at the front of the room. It did not help that the topic was a new automated purchasing system that was finally being implemented three years after it was acquired. So far as anyone could tell, the new owners of Helsing-Tilbury did not care about systems upgrades that would enhance efficiency. Oh well, it’s their money, thought Linssman.

  After Evan had finished his presentation, and Robbie had caught up on his sleep, the two men agreed to go out for a few drinks before dinner. They sat at the bar in the Copper Kettle, a cozy local microbrewery. A larger group would join them later, but for the moment, it was just the two of them. “What do you make of the San Marcos purchase, Bozie? I think it’s just the weirdest thing. It can’t make money, can it?”

  Evan Bozak was capable of finding a lot of useful information. His office ran the purchasing operations at Tilbury’s US headquarters in Chicago and processed all financial transactions. “You don’t know the half of it, Robbie. You know that on certain occasions the CFO approves special requests that circumvent review by our department. The special requisitions are sometimes used where confidential information is at stake, or, as I’ve sometimes come across, when a contractor connected to a politician required preferential treatment to secure favors from said politician. You follow those and you quickly see where all the skeletons are hiding.”

  “I think you’ve told me about those before” said Robbie. “Are you seeing anything interesting in that regard?”

  “Out of a suspicious feeling, I started keeping an eye on any special requisitions coming through on San Marcos. But the fact is, I can’t keep track of it all. Just about everything at San Marcos is on a special requisition. The kicker is, there’s only one contractor for everything. It’s obvious that it’s a front company, with only a P.O. Box as its address.”

  “What kind of stuff are they buying?”

  “That’s weird too. There’s construction going on, so you see ordinary materials you’d expect for that. But thousands of portable housing units are on the list. They have nonperishable foodstuffs by the boatload, and over a thousand chemical toilets.”

>   “Must be a crappy place,” quipped Robbie as he took a drink of his beer.

  “A crappy place with a lot of people. And we’re not talking tourists here. This stuff is pretty industrial grade.”

  “What do you think is going on there?”

  “At this point, I don’t know what it is. But Smithfield’s interest in San Marcos, given their total lack of interest in any other part of Tilbury, makes me think that the only reason they bought us out is to enable them to do whatever it is they’re doing on San Marcos.”

  Other people began to arrive at the bar, and Bozak realized the time to discuss the matter was coming to a close. He turned to Robbie one last time before engaging the group. “Before I forget, Robbie, in your time at Tilbury, have you ever known us to be interested in the oil infrastructure of the US?”

  “No, never. Why?”

  “It’s just something that keeps coming up lately. Reports keep coming through our office on refineries, distribution hubs, pipelines and all sorts of other stuff that’s oil related. It’s not normal so I just thought I’d ask. At this rate I’d hate to see us merge with an oil company, if that’s where this is going.”

  “Keep me in the loop, okay?” said Robbie.

  “Sure thing” replied Bozak.

  Chapter 9: Analyzing the Motives

  The National Security meeting convened in the Roosevelt Room. While Torres felt the meeting rooms were all far too stuffy and formal, protocol prevented him from fundamentally changing their character. The small indulgence he gave himself was the addition of comfortable chairs that swiveled and tilted. These made the attendees far more comfortable at long meetings, and he tried hard to put people at ease in meetings. If they could express themselves there, they did not carp to the press as much behind his back.