The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  “You know how we do things in Hollywood, Julia,” said Blaustein. “An exchange of favors. You carry out a sensitive piece of work for us, and you’ve got an assistant producer’s slot here at Paradigm or any other job you want, at any salary you want, with any studio or network in town. I guarantee it. Hell, you pull this off for us and you can have Myron Silverstein’s job if you want it.”

  “Now that’s a thought,” said Julia with a wry little laugh, sipping her latté. “I don’t need to tell you gentlemen what kind of wall I’ve got my back against. You know better than anyone, since you put me there. I don’t seem to have much choice. Whatever it is, I’ll give it a shot.”

  “An ironic choice of words,” said Blaustein with a mirthless chuckle. “Actually, we want you to try and stop the shooting.”

  “What?” asked Julia in surprise.

  “Ms. Lear, you have been very frank with us, and we will be equally candid with you,” said David Danziger, leaning forward. “This . . . this horror, this bloodshed, this madness has to stop. Our industry is being destroyed. I think we’re all shocked and appalled at how easily and quickly this NVA terror campaign has brought us all to a standstill, with everyone from mega-stars, to executives such as ourselves, down to our set crews and tech crews, the studio staff, and the people who do our catering and janitorial work afraid to show their faces anywhere near a studio office, a set, or an industry event. The amount of money we have lost already is so huge that we can’t even quantify it, and if I quoted you any figure it would be meaningless today and invalid tomorrow, as the butchery goes on and on. The FBI and the police have been trying for months now to get a handle on it, and they have come up empty. For all they know, Scotty may be beaming these gunmen and bombers down from the Enterprise, and beaming them back up after they kill again. The closest we’ve come to any of them is when my late brother-in-law Martin Shulman, a lifelong friend and a very brave man, was able to track down Erica Collingwood as the inside contact who helped set up that slaughterhouse at the Academy Awards. Erica has vanished, and Marty paid with his life for getting even that close. We have come to realize that if anything is to be salvaged out of this wreckage, billions of dollars and tens of thousands of jobs and careers, including our own, then we are going to have to swallow some very bitter medicine indeed. We must defer our anger and our desire for revenge until times and circumstances change. In the meantime, we must at least attempt to make some arrangement with these murderers that will allow us to resume production and put our people back to work. That may not be possible, and if not then God only knows what will happen, but we have to at least make that attempt. That’s where you come in.”

  “Me?” gasped Julia in amazement.

  Danziger nodded. “To put it melodramatically, Julia, we want you to bear our flag of surrender to the enemy. The problem we have in attempting to negotiate or at least communicate with these people is the same one the police and the FBI have. We haven’t got a clue where to find the sons of bitches. You are the only tenuous lead we have, at least the only one we know about. Obviously some people in town know where to find them, like that Collingwood bitch,” he hissed viciously. “But the death of Marty Shulman has demonstrated the danger of trying to track them down that way. We want you to try and slip in the back door and have a word on our behalf, see if you can talk to someone who might be able to call these dogs off us. Then we can call ours off you.”

  “You mean Zack,” said Julia slowly, comprehension slowly dawning.

  “Yes,” admitted Danziger. “We want you to go on a visit back up to your home town and look up your old boyfriend.”

  “I’m not sure I could find him myself, if the entire might of United States law enforcement and the military can’t,” she told them. “I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure he’d want me to find him. Why Zack? I haven’t heard that he’s involved in any of this stuff going down here in Hollywood.”

  “I understand he’s a battalion commander, whatever that entails, and more or less the NVA’s local warlord for the northern Oregon coast,” replied Danziger. “Not to mention something of a media star in his own right, riding around in a Humvee with a .50-caliber machine gun and a feather in his cap, flourishing a Winchester like an old-time cowboy. His gang even call themselves the Wild Bunch. He sounds like he’d have the kind of juice we need, or he knows who does, if you can persuade him.”

  “And risk getting the same bullet for my trouble that Marty Shulman got?” exclaimed Julia with asperity.

  “I meant it when I said that you can write your own ticket in Hollywood if you do this for us,” said Blaustein. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t have to earn it.”

  “Now, you say you haven’t seen this man Hatfield in years,” pressed Danziger. “Just how close were you, if I may ask?”

  “We were at least in the discussion stage of getting married, as serious as that can be with two 17 year-olds, but his family didn’t have the money for college, he got drafted and ended up in Iraq for a lot of years, and I lost track of him. Obviously he’s changed quite a bit since then,” said Julia sourly. “America taught him how to kill, and it looks like he can’t kick the habit.”

  “Do you think he would harm you or allow others to do so if you tried to contact him and speak for us?” asked Blaustein.

  “Honest to God, sir, I just don’t know,” said Julia, shaking her head. “I hear about him on the news sometimes. That’s not the boy I remember, is all I can say.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I want to work again, and I want to work here, in TV or movies. That’s always been my dream. If I do this, and if I can find Zack, and if he doesn’t shoot me or just plain kick me out on my ass, what exactly do you want me to say to him?”

  “Keep it simple,” said Blaustein. “Just ask him what it would take to put a stop to all this murder and destruction down here. If it’s money, we’ll pay it, however and wherever they want it. If it’s something else we can live with, we’ll do it. Just let us get back to work.”

  “What couldn’t you live with?” asked Julia. She was frightened at what they were asking of her, but fascinated as well.

  “They’ve got to be at least a little bit realistic,” spoke up Moshe Feinstein. “They’ve got to understand we can’t simply fire every Jew and every homosexual and African-American who works for us, we can’t stop making movies and TV shows with minority actors, nothing like that. It would shut us down just as effectively as their murder campaign. Oy, maybe that’s what these maniacs want and there’s no way we can work anything out with them at all, in which case I guess we’ll have to move the whole industry to Europe or New Zealand or someplace. We don’t want to do that, end a century-old tradition here in Hollywood. We just want to know if there’s any way we can work out some modus vivendi so that we can shoot a film without worrying about truck bombs and snipers on the set.”

  “And I’m supposed to negotiate all this on my own?” asked Julia incredulously.

  “No, we wouldn’t expect that of you,” said Blaustein. “If your old high school flame seems receptive at all, ask him to pass it up the line to his own superiors and give us some kind of contact down here in California, preferably someone who knows the industry, someone with the authority to make an agreement on their part. He has our solemn undertaking that we will keep this strictly between ourselves, and that no police or FBI or government will be brought into the matter. We want this settled, and we understand the preconditions.”

  “Do you think they’ll accept the word of Jews on anything?” Julia asked them bluntly, looking around the room.

  Moshe Feinstein spread his hands. “Madam, I assure you, with a gun pointed at our heads, we’re as honest as the day is long.”

  XXIV

  One If By Land, Two If By Sea

  Dispatch: this knave’s tongue begins to double.

  Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants!

  King Henry VI.—Act II, Scene 3

  Julia hadn’t been home for over thr
ee years, since before 10/22 in fact, and she was astounded at how complicated the journey had become these days. Massive airport security boarding the plane at LAX was something she was used to, but having to go through the same extensive screening when she got off the plane in Portland was a new one on her. This included X-rays, metal detectors, and full searches of her checked luggage and her laptop, her carry-on bag and briefcase as well by sullen maroon-jacketed Sky Marshals, most of whom seemed to be Hispanic or black, and all of whom carried holstered Glocks on their hip. It took her almost two hours from the time she stepped off the plane until she finally got into the main arrival lounge, and even then there were differences. The terminal was a lot more quiet than she remembered other airports ever being, and she quickly spotted the probable cause. In almost every corner, and strolling up and down the causeway, were pairs of blue-black uniformed men and a few women in heavy body armor, with helmets and dark visors, carrying M-16s with infrared sights. On their backs in bright gold letters were the letters FATPO, the acronym of the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization. Julia noticed that people were trying to avoid the government gun thugs as much as possible without seeming to do so. They seemed to have a habit of stopping people in the terminal for no reason, barking orders and glowering and demanding documents. The Iron Heel had arrived in the Northwest.

  Then Julia spotted a slim middle-aged man in a blue blazer and white trousers who was holding up a cardboard sign with the word Lear on it in magic marker. She walked up to him, pulling her travel suitcase behind her on its casters. “Hello, I’m Julia Lear,” she said to the man.

  “Wally Post,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “Mr. Blaustein said you would meet me, but why?” asked Julia.

  “I have a little company here called Oregon Security Associates,” explained Post. “I used to be a P.I., but since The Trouble started we specialize in tourism and business travel. We make sure people who need to visit our fair City of Roses and certain of our scenic rural areas for any legitimate reason can come in, get their business done, and get out without incident. You might say I’m your trusty native guide. I’ll get you through the jungle safely and keep you away from the lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

  “Being a native of this particular jungle myself, I don’t think I need a guide,” said Julia with a laugh.

  “Blaustein tells me you haven’t been up here since things started going boom in the night,” Post told her. “The jungle is a lot more dangerous now, mem-sahib.” He glanced behind her. “Case in point . . .”

  Julia felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she turned to find a huge black man in FATPO body armor behind her. His partner, a smaller Mexican, was standing several paces away with the muzzle of his M-16 pointed right at Julia’s midriff. “Who you be, woman, and whut de fuck you doin’ comin’ into my town?” demanded the black belligerently. Before the stunned Julia could reply, Post deftly slid a small card out of his shirt pocket and extended it to the FATPO.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said suavely. “I’m Wally Post from O.S.A. This lady is from Paradigm Studios in Hollywood, and I am escorting her to make sure she is safe from the insurgents. As you can see, I have a courtesy card from your commanding officer Colonel Aceveda. His cell number is on the back.”

  The huge negro glanced at the card, but was evidently familiar with the system in place, and he handed it back. “You wan’ be safe fum dese racist muthafukkas, you ought be hanging wid de ‘Po while you in town,” he said to Julia with a leering grin.

  “Actually, she’s here gathering background for a movie Paradigm is considering, all about you FATPO heroes and your gallant battle against hate and terrorism,” said Post smoothly.

  “Yeah?” spoke up the Mexican. “You gonna need some of us ‘Po Boys for actors in your movie, essay?”

  “The more authentic the better,” agreed Julia.

  “Dass cool. I like to be a movie star, essay. I’m Private Ramirez, Tiburcio Ramirez, but my homeys in de ‘Po call me Cangrande. Dass Big Dog in Spanish. You need some technical advice or something, you look me up, hokay, mami?”

  “I’ll remember,” promised Julia. The black man’s radio crackled, something unintelligible came out, he grunted to the Mexican and they moved away down the terminal causeway. Julia stared after them and swallowed.

  “A lot of them are former gang-bangers from L.A., New York, Chicago, Miami, places like that,” explained Post conversationally.

  “How bad could that have gotten?” asked Julia nervously.

  Post smiled. “Here in public, in the daylight? Probably not too bad, if you had sense enough to keep your cool and keep it light and bantering. Out there at night, on some street corner or on some dark rural highway with no one around but you and them? Bad. Very bad.”

  “What was that card in your pocket, and how did you get it?” asked Julia.

  “The Portland commander of the FATPO is one Colonel Reynaldo Aceveda, a Colombian. I’m told he used to work for the CIA down there. He clearly thinks he’s back in Medillín, and for all practical purposes I guess he is. The Fatties are his own private army, they’re legally immunized both by Congress and by a Presidential Executive Order against prosecution for anything they care to do to anyone. In the few short weeks he’s been here, Aceveda’s already making money hand over fist with a dozen scams, mostly involving protection from his own armored goons. That card has his private cell number written on the back in green, which means I’ve paid him for a certain level of protection and co-operation. That’s the middle level card, one cut above black ink. I won’t tell you how much I paid, because you wouldn’t believe me. If I can get you in and out in one piece and you can get done whatever it is he wants you to do, Mr. Blaustein has promised me a bonus big enough to buy a red card off Aceveda, one with his number written in red ink. That’s the one you want.”

  “What does a red card get you?” asked Julia. “Or do I really want to know?”

  Post gave her a chilly smile. “Among other things, with a red card I can kill people. How were you planning on getting down to Astoria, ma’am?”

  “Uh, renting a car, like I usually do?” said Julia, bemused.

  “Not recommended,” said Post, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter if you take Highway 30 or Highway 26, you’re going to run into at least a couple of FATPO checkpoints, and once you get past those, usually between Rainier and Clatskanie, you may run into a few NVA checkpoints as well. Cap Hatfield likes to keep up with who’s coming in and out of his manor. The goots know the local people and don’t bother them, but I’m not sure if you’re still considered local or not. And I really, really would not recommend a single white woman trying to get through a Fattie roadblock after dark. These guys aren’t regular police or even regular military, they’re a brute squad sent in here by Hillary Clinton to stomp on anybody with a white skin who looks at them wrong. You need me, Ms. Lear. Really, you do. Blaustein hired me to get you there and back. Please let me do so.”

  “Okay,” said Julia, shaking her head in wonderment. “Let’s go.” She followed Post out of the terminal and into the short-term parking tiers, and he loaded her baggage into a new Jeep Cherokee. As they were pulling out of the airport and onto a feeder road heading to Interstate 5, Julia said carefully, “You mentioned a guy called Cap Hatfield. I thought his name was Zack?”

  “It is,” said Post. “He’s an NVA captain, so the locals call him Captain Zack or Cap, and the media seem to have picked up on it. Real cowboy, packs a Winchester and uses it, too. Hatfield killed some hotshot U.S. Marshal last year who challenged him to a duel or something. Faced him down in the street in Clatskanie with that rifle and knocked him ass over head before the fed could get his Glock clear of the holster. The local cops seem to have decided to just stay the hell out of his way, and after that they damned sure did. The First Portland Brigade of the NVA has three battalions. Hatfield is commander of the Third Battalion. Call themselves the Wild Bunch. Nobody knows how bi
g the first two are, but the Third Battalion seems to be pretty big and it covers a really huge area, pretty much from roughly Rainier on down to Astoria and as far south as Cannon Beach or so. His guys have pretty much taken over down where you’re going. From there on down to Newport it’s the Second Oregon Coastal Brigade, commanded by some Swede who calls himself Ragnar Redbeard. His real name is Dan something. Guy’s a real head case. He’s got a boat he set up like a Viking long ship with shields on the side and a dragonhead prow. Back when there were still Mexicans along that stretch of 101, he used to chop them up and go fishing using the bits and pieces as bait. No more Mexicans around, though. Once it all started up after 10/22 they got the message real fast. You won’t hear any Spanish outside Portland now.”

  “Well, that will be a change from L.A.,” said Julia.

  “I imagine so,” agreed Post. He took an exit and started heading down toward the river.

  “You know this Hatfield personally?” asked Julia casually.

  “Why?” inquired Post.

  “Because he’s the man I’m going to Astoria to see,” said Julia. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this or not, but the fact is that once I get to Astoria I haven’t got a clue how to get hold of him. I do have some contacts in local law enforcement, so to speak, but . . . well, I’m not sure they’ll discuss things with me. I don’t even know how to go about asking,” she concluded, shaking her head.