Detective McCafferty had given Kicky several pairs of bugged earrings to wear so she didn’t attract attention from the NVA by wearing the same ones every time, and every so often she was required to stop at a pay phone and call a number in the Operation Searchlight headquarters and give a report of where she was and what she was doing. She was also given a hip holster for her cell phone and told to make sure she always wore it on her belt; whenever it vibrated, she was to find a pay phone and call in, unless she was actually in the presence of the NVA. “Why the hell do I have to do that, when you’re already tracking me and listening to me twenty-four seven?” she demanded.
“For one thing, your electronic monitoring devices are only one-way,” said Lainie. “We may have instructions for you. Your cell phone isn’t secure. We can monitor wireless phone calls and we have to assume that the goots can as well. You can buy the equipment needed in any Radio Shack. But mostly, Kicky, you and the team need to interact, to stay close. I want you to hear my voice at least two or three times a day.”
“What do I do if they do contact me?” asked Kicky.
“You mean when they contact you,” replied Lainie with a frown. “You should think positive, Kristin! When they contact you, do whatever they say to do. We’re on your phone and we’re listening in on you at all times. The minute something happens, we hit the record button.”
Kicky didn’t even bother to ask if there were any plans to rescue her if the NVA decided to take her off somewhere nice and quiet for execution. She had already noted that she had been given no code words or procedures to use if she felt threatened. But then one night three Mexican gang-bangers came swaggering up to her bus stop where she was standing after she got off work and started in on the dirty word routine. They were just getting into the pawing part, preparatory to the blouse-ripping and dragging off into a dark corner, and Kicky was reaching into her purse for her lock and sock when two Portland PB patrol cars pulled up to the curb. The driver of the lead squad car flashed his blue bubble light and bleeped his siren, and the Mexicans turned and fled. The patrol cars pulled away without anyone speaking to her, so there was no telling whether their presence was by order from her monitors, or just a lucky chance.
Kicky noted that the vehicles rolled heavily and unevenly, and looked oddly thick under the streetlights. The PB was experimenting with armor-reinforcing their squad cars, in addition to doubling up on them on the street. It didn’t seem to do much good. Three Portland cops, all black or Mexican, were killed by the Volunteers in the week following Kicky’s release from the Justice Center, and to top it off the Jack of Diamonds killed none other than Captain Jason Rawlinson of the Hatecrime and Civil Disobedience Squad. A single bullet to the head, as Rawlinson was violating Bureau security procedures by grilling burgers on the rear patio of his house. The shot was estimated at over four hundred yards, at night, and a Jack of Diamonds was found on the roof of a nearby Seventh Day Adventist church.
Ten days after the death of Lenny Gillis, Kicky had almost decided that nothing was going to happen, and she turned her mind toward finding some way to convince Martinez and Jarvis to give up and fold the operation and let her go. She was cogitating on this subject one night at about eight o’clock, as she dropped a fare off in front of the Vintage Plaza hotel on Broadway SW. She marked off the trip on her sheet, pocketed the ten dollar tip, and was about to pull over into the cab rank and wait for a possible pickup when the door opened behind her and someone got in. “Where to?” she asked her new passenger, her eyes still on her clipboard.
“To freedom, comrade, in a new nation under a new flag,” said a familiar voice. Kicky whirled around and saw the man she had been introduced to as Thumper sitting in the rear seat. He looked less biker-ish tonight, wearing a long-sleeved canvas jacket and slacks. “Shit!” she exclaimed. “Oh, uh, Comrade Thumper. I guess you’ve been following me around, huh? Sorry, sorry, I know, no questions. Uh, where do you want to go? I’ll need to call something in to my dispatcher.” She sounded flustered, but presumably the man would accept that as natural with him popping up in her cab like a jack-in-the-box.
Jimmy Wingo gave her an address in rural Clackamas County. “Call that in. It’s a restaurant and roadhouse, but we’re not actually going there. Tell your dispatcher I’ll want you to wait for a while. It will be a long trip, so the mileage will more or less match. This ought to cover it.” He leaned forward and gave her a hundred dollars in twenties. “That way your sheet will balance out, plus tip.”
Kicky called the bogus trip in and pulled out into Broadway. “Okay, where are we really going?” she asked.
“Just head toward Gresham,” he said. Kicky felt the phone at her side vibrate. She knew that the cops back in the operations center had heard and understood what was happening, and were recording. “Uh, okay, what happens now?” she asked.
“You’re going to meet someone and have a talk with them,” said Wingo genially. “And with me.”
“Get to tell my life story, huh?” remarked Kicky, navigating through the traffic. It was still light out, so she had no need for headlights.
“We already pretty much know that,” said Wingo. “We actually think you can be of some use to us. This cab, for instance. Cabbies are people we like to recruit. Taxis can go anywhere, be seen on the streets at any time of day or night, and no one thinks they’re out of place or questions their presence. For the time being, a lot of your work for the NVA will be doing just what you’re doing now, driving people and sometimes packages here, there, and everywhere. Of course you’ll have to get creative about your trip sheet. We’ve wanted to get someone with access to an Excelsior Cab for quite some time now. Most of the more upmarket fleets have GPIs installed in their cars to keep track of where their vehicles are going, make sure the driver’s not cooking his sheet or running off the meter or fucking off, that kind of thing. But Excelsior is owned by a couple of Bangladeshis who are too cheap to spring for the system. You might say you’re uniquely positioned. How bad was it down in Coffee Creek?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“It wasn’t one of my more edifying experiences in life, thank you,” said Kicky sourly.
“I’ve been there myself. Angola, in Louisiana,” he told her.
Kicky was tempted to ask him if that’s where he was from, and what he had gone to prison for, but the old convict code immediately kicked in. You never asked. “That’s worse,” she admitted. “Even out here we’ve heard of Angola.”
“Any society that permits a place like that to be, has to be destroyed,” said Wingo, not angry or bitter, simply stating a self-evident fact.
“Is that possible?” asked Kicky, genuinely interested. “I mean, I meant what I said, I want in, but it seems to me we’re either going to have to have some kind of secret weapon to bring these bastards down with, or else just get really lucky.”
“There’s an old Norse saying: ‘Luck often enough will save a man, if his courage hold,’” Wingo replied. “McGee. That’s Irish, right?”
“Yeah, way back,” she said. “Both sides. My mom was a Harrigan. I remember my dad used to get drunker than usual every St. Patrick’s Day, before he split. I guess that’s about all of Ireland we kept with us. Some of my tats are Irish. The Book of Kells thing, and also I have a Celtic Cross on my ankle.”
“Well, the Irish never gave up for eight hundred years,” said Wingo.
“I hope we can win a bit sooner than that,” said Kicky with a small laugh.
“The Army Council is basing all its strategic thinking on an assumed thirty-year conflict,” said Wingo seriously.
Back in the operations center Lainie Martinez had her headphones on. She was listening intently and taking notes. “Ex con check record Louisiana DOC Angola”, “Use of taxis by t’sts”, and “30 year terror campaign (???!!!!)” Jamal Jarvis was off tonight, no doubt out doing the rounds collecting his graft and raping white prostitutes, for which Lainie was thankful. Now she could concentrate on what she was
hearing.
Back in the cab, Kicky glanced into her side mirror. “Cops coming up in the left lane,” she said. “Two cars. They always move in pairs now.”
“I see them,” said Wingo. He shifted slightly and Kicky was sure he’d pulled out a pistol. “Just watch your speed and wave at them if they look at you when they go by. Don’t look away.”
“That would be One Charlie Nine and Ten,” said Andy McCafferty, quickly checking a computer monitor to identify the units. “You want me to get on the horn and warn them to back off?” he asked Lainie.
“No,” she said. “Let’s see how they both handle this.” The two police cars slowly pulled up alongside the cab in the left lane; the cops in the passenger side looked into the cab. Kicky waved casually; Wingo looked them right in the face but did nothing. The two units pulled on ahead, and after a few minutes made a left turn onto a freeway entrance ramp.
“No problem,” Wingo remarked.
“How did you know they wouldn’t try to pull us over?” asked Kicky.
“That was just a regular patrol,” said Wingo. “They might have tried to pull you if you’d been speeding, or they had a warrant on you, or something else routine, but they’re under orders not to tangle with any Volunteers they detect. They’re supposed to hang back, keep us in sight, then get on the horn and yell for an RRT, a rapid response team. Those are the ones you have to watch out for, small convoys with multiple squad cars and one or two armored trucks or vans with them. The armored personnel carriers have a squad of muscle men in body armor and all kinds of heavy weapons inside. Some of them have concealed .50-caliber machine guns in a kind of retractable turret. Remember, ordinary police will never engage any suspect or enemy whom they even suspect might have equal or greater firepower. They always maintain distance and call for backup. Preserving their own lives is a very serious priority with them, and they are trained to operate in those parameters.”
“How the hell do those bastards know about the fifties?” demanded McCafferty in a stunned voice back in the ops center. “Not to mention our terror contact SOP?”
“How do you think?” snorted Lainie. “The whole PB has been compromised from Day One. If we hadn’t had our heads up our asses we would have phased out and banned all white male police officers and about half the white females, years ago. No offense, Andy, of course, but the only way we’re ever going to excise the virus of racism and sexism from this society is by a complete removal of power from the hands of those who carry it.” McCafferty either didn’t hear her response, or else chose the politic route of pretending not to hear it. He hunkered down over the receiver and diddled with the dials.
“GPI shows they’re entering Gresham,” he said.
In the cab Wingo said, “Hang a right here.”
“They’re turning onto Arbor Lane,” said McCafferty, checking his GPI.
The taxi was now driving down a residential street of ranch-type houses that would have been called middle class, back in the days when America still had a middle class. Dusk was falling now, and the street seemed desolate and deserted; there were no lights shining from about half the houses on the street. At the far end of the street Wingo told her to pull into the driveway of one of the apparently darkened homes. He got out, and she followed suit. “Some day you may have to pick yourself a location for a meet like this,” he said conversationally. “Let’s see how sharp you are. Why do you think we chose this house?”
“Uh, I see a front and side door, and I assume there’s a back, so a lot of exits,” said Kicky. “That looks like a big open field in the rear, vacant lots or something like that, and this street is a straight shot down to the end here, so you can pretty much see who’s coming a good ways off. It would be hard for anyone to sneak up on us. All kinds of side streets around here you could slide around in and most of them feed onto main arteries, so once you got loose either in a car or on foot, you’d have a pretty good chance to get away, especially in the dark.
“Very good!” he said approvingly. The lights flashed on a car parked down the street; it started and moved slowly toward them, then into the driveway. The door opened and a small, birdlike woman with gray hair got out. She was wearing a simple dress and carrying a large battered handbag. “Hey!” she called cheerily as she walked up to them and the car pulled away. “Y’all eaten supper yet?” Her accent was more distinctly Southern than the man’s.
“We’re fine, Ma,” he said. “She’ll cook at the drop of a hat,” he said in an aside to Kicky. “Ma, this is Kicky McGee. Kicky, this is Ma. She kind of does the hiring for female Volunteers. She’s the one who decides tonight whether we bring you into the NVA, or whether we kill you and bury you in the basement.”
“Now you just hush!” scolded Ma. “Who are you tonight, anyway?”
“Thumper,” Wingo told her.
“Don’t mind Thumper, dear,” said the old woman. “He’s got a bug up his ass about women in general. He’s just trying to see if you scare easy.”
“Of course I’m scared!” snapped Kicky. “But I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Come on inside,” she said. She took the house keys out of her handbag and opened the door. She took them right into the kitchen and turned on the lights. Kicky didn’t see too much else of the home other than a darkened living room. Then she put the kettle on the stove and rooted around in the cupboard for cups. “Have a seat, both of you, and I’ll make us some tea. Tell me, dear, are you a Christian?” she asked Kicky suddenly, taking her by surprise.
“Uh . . . I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that, ma’am,” Kicky said. “I think you already know what I am.”
“Yes, dear, I know,” said the old lady kindly, “But the two have never been as mutually exclusive as people tend to think.”
“Judge not lest ye be judged in turn and all that?” asked Kicky.
“Oh, poppycock!” said Ma. “This idea that no human being is supposed to ever make a moral judgment on anyone else is horse hockey. The Bible is full of people who did nothing but that. They were called prophets. There are all kinds of people running around today who are in urgent need of being judged. People make moral judgments all the time. The hog-jawed doo-doo birds who run this country have judged our entire race and condemned us all to death, and by God we need to start returning the favor!”
“Hog-jawed doo-doo birds?” laughed Wingo in amusement. “I never heard that one before. I’ll have to remember that.”
“You do that, young man. No, honey, the reason I asked was that I need to know what your moral universe is like. Everybody has one.”
“Uh, I don’t think I do,” said Kicky carefully. “I mean, where would I get a moral universe and what good would it do me if I had one? I just want in with the NVA to try and make some kind of better life for me and my baby, and well, I told myself I’d be honest with you, so I’ll say it. I want revenge! Revenge against some specific people who have hurt me, yes, but mostly just revenge on this whole damned filthy world that has never done anything except shit on me! I am just so tired of bad people winning all the time, so sick of nothing ever being right or good anymore. Why should it always be the bad people who win, and me who hurts? Goddamned niggers and Mexicans taking everything, goddamned cops beating me and shaking me down and locking me in a cage with animals, fucking Jews and rich bastards looking down their noses at me and treating me like dirt, I just want to hear them scream, and watch everything they have burn . . .” She put her hand to her mouth, and realized with sudden astonishment that she had begun to cry. “Jesus, where did all that come from?” she asked in a shaky voice.
“I’d say from the heart,” commented Wingo. “And ma’am, there ain’t a damned thing wrong with anything you just said.”
Ma took her hand. “Honey, if you’d given me some long speech that sounded like you’d been reading our books, and I thought you were telling me what you think I want to hear or something you’d been coached to say, I would have been suspicious, but you would be plai
n astonished to learn how many of us come into this thing running on nothing but pure rage. It is a righteous rage, the true Wrath of God, and it is a thing to be gloried in, not ashamed of. You have been done a terrible wrong, from the very moment of your birth, as has every man and woman with a white skin born in the past century. You have been denied your birthright, which is this world and everything in it, and you have every right to desire revenge and to seek it though our Army. Later on we’ll educate you, give you things to read and teach you how and why this terrible wrong has been done to you and to all of us, and by whom, and why, but pure righteous rage in your heart is a good starting point.”
“It’s just that—damn it all, things shouldn’t be like this!” Kicky sniffled, tears streaming down her face.
“And that tells me that you do indeed have a moral universe in you somewhere, in spite of the bad things you’ve done and in spite of the way you’ve lived your life,” said Ma. “That’s one of the things that make us different from these dark-skinned animals around us, Kristin. They glory in the filth of this world. They wallow in it like hogs in a trough. They love it, because like animals they don’t know it’s wrong. The muds have no knowledge of good or evil. They have only appetites to be sated. We know, and the Jews know as well, only the Jews worship that evil as their god. I think that was the secret of the forbidden fruit that Eve partook of in the Garden so long ago, that knowledge of right and wrong and the instinctive choice of right. For better or for worse, we ended up with that knowledge in our souls, and a hundred years of Jew lies and political correctness can’t eradicate it. In spite of everything, it’s still there in you, girl. You’re still good inside. The rest we can work on. The rest you can change.”
The Brigade Page 28
