Enemies Foreign And Domestic

by Matthew Bracken

  ****

  Ranya Bardiwell changed into her disguise in a stall in the women’s bathroom on the first floor of Old Dominion University’s main library. She had spent a productive hour shopping in the downtown Norfolk Goodwill Store, and now she admired her new look in front of the long mirror above the row of sinks. Her hair was pulled back and pinned in a tight bun and covered with a crocheted Jamaican-style Rastafarian cap, and an oversized pair of orange-tinted glasses obscured her eyes. Her jeans, boots, t-shirt and bra were now in a large hemp shoulder bag, and in their place, she wore a calf-length Mexican peasant’s dress, with a deeply scooped front and tight elastic gathers under her breasts. She bounced her heels on her Birkenstock clogs and was satisfied with the visible jiggle it produced.

  In less than five minutes, Ranya located her quarry, a pimply-faced freshman web surfing on a library computer in an isolated corner of the stacks on the second floor. There was an untouched tower of books beside him on the desk at his carrel, all of them concerning the Civil War.

  “Oh, wow, are you a Civil War buff?” she asked, leaning over as she pretended to study the titles on the book spines. “Or should I say, the War of Northern Aggression?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure, I guess so,” he stammered, his eyes darting between her face and her exposed cleavage. He had a slightly deeper voice than she had expected.

  She said, “Nathan Bedford Forrest was the greatest Confederate general, even though he was a slave master and he started the Ku Klux Klan, don’t you think?”

  “Uh, well, probably, but he was just in Tennessee. I think you have to consider the generals in Virginia to be much more important.”

  “Hey, that’s a great point! Are you a history major?”

  “I haven’t declared my major yet, but I think so.”

  “Say, can I ask a teeny favor from you? I’m down here visiting my friends at ODU; I go to Georgetown. Are you online? Do you mind if I check my email for a few minutes?”

  “What? Oh, not a problem, be my guest.” The pizza-faced frosh got up, offering Ranya his chair. “I need to go outside for a cigarette anyway. Take your time.”

  Mission accomplished, thought Ranya, clicking to her favorite search engine as soon as he walked off. The tricky part was not finding Eric Sanderson’s home address: the tricky part was doing it from a computer that could not be traced back to you. Her queries of real estate sales, property tax and mortgage records would leave an electronic trail, and after Sanderson was shot Ranya knew that investigators would be checking those databases for anyone who had shown recent interest in his home and property. It was unlikely that even skilled cyber sleuths would get beyond the library’s computer network to find her unwitting accomplice, and even if they did, she was certain that he would not be able to provide a useful description above her neck.

  It only took a few minutes to find Sanderson’s address and a bit of biographical data, including the fact that he had a ten-year younger wife, and two college-age daughters of his own. She went to a free satellite imagery website and zoomed in on the area around his house and made a quick hand-drawn sketch, because she had no capability to print out the overhead picture. Then Ranya deleted her computer “cookies” showing the sites she had visited, logged off, and was gone before the freshman returned to his empty chair.

  Before leaving the library, Ranya made a stop in the reference section and located the U.S. Geological Survey elevation contour maps. She found the paper map covering the area around Sanderson’s house in complete detail, down to every stream and fence and dirt road. Each house and barn was marked on the map by a tiny black square. She slid the map out of its wide steel drawer, folded it up unobserved, and put it into her shoulder bag. Then she returned to the ladies’ room and changed back into her jeans; the peasant dress and shoulder bag and clogs went into her black daypack. She let her hair down, brushed it out, and left the library. She found the process of becoming another person to be quite enjoyable, the first diversion she had enjoyed since learning of her father’s death.

  ****

  Bob Bullard was halfway through his bottle of room service scotch. He was staying on the seventh floor of the Virginia Beach Sheraton overlooking the Atlantic. Wally Malvone had said to enjoy a big night out on the credit card he had provided, and Bullard was not one to turn down such an offer. Access to shady unaccountable credit cards to cover operating expenses in the field was one of the attractions of leading the Special Training Unit.

  The escort service he had called assured him that his “date” would be equipped to handle the card, and while he waited for her (“blond, long legs, big knockers”) to arrive, he lay on the king-sized bed in his boxer shorts chomping on a cigar and clicking between the cable news shows. Call girls loved his huge muscles and thick black chest hair; he could hardly wait for his “date” to arrive.

  The Stadium Massacre and its aftermath was still the lead story, but now the rash of gun store arsons, the machine gun attack on the mosque in Portsmouth, and the breaking-news freeway car bombing were competing for the top billing. Bullard was proud that the freeway explosion was not only dominating the local news, but it was getting major play on the nationals.

  It had been a good night’s work. He had quickly settled on Mark Denton as his target when he saw that Denton drove a Jeep that he parked on the street in front of his house. It had been a simple matter to jam the ten-pound bomb up under the chassis between the gas tank and the rear axle. He secured it in place with wire coat hanger rods that stuck two feet out of each end of the duct tape wrapped package.

  Bullard knew that eventually fragments of the radio-firing device and the coat hanger wire might be discovered, but it didn’t worry him. For one thing, the analysis would not be completed for weeks if ever, and by then it would be old news. But Bob Bullard mostly didn’t need to worry because the bomb analysis would be done by ATF’s own Arson and Explosives Division, and he knew everybody that mattered down there.

  Finally, it was time for the CBA nightly news. Bullard sat cross-legged on the king-sized bed, a glass of Chivas in one hand and a stogie in the other as the show began.

  ****

  The blow-dried CBA weekend news anchor was visibly excited to be breaking a fast moving story ahead of the other networks, even ahead of The Sledge Report, for once! This had not happened to him in more months than he could remember, and he was lucky that the senior anchor was fly-fishing in Montana, or he would have been dragged in to claim credit for the CBA exclusive. This was a big break for the weekend anchor’s career, and could push him ahead of his backstabbing colleagues in the cutthroat race to replace the doddering senior anchor. He relished his coup as he was given the countdown to airtime.

  “Good evening. CBA News has been covering the deadly car bomb explosion on the highway in Norfolk Virginia that claimed seven lives today. Now CBA News has learned from a senior federal law enforcement official that the driver of the vehicle that exploded was until recently a member of a mysterious anti-government militia group in southeastern Virginia. James Shifflett, the stadium sniper, may have also been a member of the same militia group.

  “The driver of the Jeep, Mark Palmer Denton of Virginia Beach Virginia, was a successful corporate attorney with connections to the Republican Party. Interestingly, three decades ago he was a ‘Green Beret’ officer in Vietnam. Denton was traveling with his son when their Jeep exploded at the interchange of the Virginia Beach Expressway and I-264 in Norfolk. Both of them were killed, along with five others who had the horrible luck to be traveling near them at the same time. Twenty seven more were injured, many critically.”

  The camera switched to an aerial view recorded earlier showing a scene of unimaginable gridlock stretching to the horizon in all directions. At the center was a highway cloverleaf strewn with cars, trucks and rescue vehicles.

  “In the wreckage of the fifty-car pileup which followed the explosion, police found an entire arsenal of assault rifles, and literally thousands of assault
rifle bullets scattered on the highway. All of the assault rifle bullets recovered are said to be deadly ‘cop killer bullets’ capable of penetrating any police officer’s bulletproof vest. Several of the rifles which were recovered have been positively identified as belonging to Mark Palmer Denton.”

  Bullard laughed aloud at these inane comments. Virtually all rifle bullets made in the last century or two would penetrate Kevlar vests, so in the view of the network news writers, they were now all “cop killer bullets.” And thousands of bullets, which sounded on the news like enough for an army, would fit in a few shoe boxes and could be shot on a single weekend at a range. It was great to see that the networks were still singing from the ATF’s music sheet.

  “Now our sources within federal law enforcement tell us that they have very strong information from informants within the Virginia militia movement, that Denton was on his way to plant his powerful bomb inside the Norfolk federal building. Our sources believe that the attempted bombing of the Norfolk federal building is related to the Stadium Massacre, and that the bomb was going to be detonated on Tuesday, when the assault rifle ban comes into effect.

  “Our sources tell us that a faulty detonator, or old degraded explosives, possibly stolen years ago from an Army Special Forces depot, may have caused the premature accidental explosion. Forensics experts from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives are now on the scene investigating all the evidence.

  “Meanwhile the entire Tidewater Virginia region is a literal powder keg of fear and anger. Earlier today CBA reporter Beverly Bronwyn interviewed Muslim leader and community activist Sheik Ali bin Muhamed, whose Portsmouth Virginia mosque and community center was heavily damaged in a machine gun attack early this morning. Here is her report.”

  An attractive blond reporter was holding her microphone in front of Sheik Muhamed, who was wearing a green military-style flak vest over white robes. Behind him were the shattered empty windows of his storefront mosque. All around him stood more than twenty bodyguards, angry-faced young African-American men in black suits and dark sunglasses who were openly brandishing pistols and shotguns.

  “I’m telling you, I’m telling America, I’m telling the whole world that if these white-devil racist militias want a war, we’ll give them a war!”

  He held up one of the leaflets that had been found after the attack. The visible headline of the pamphlet said in large block letters:

  NIGGERS GO BACK TO AFRICA!!

  MOSLEMS GO BACK TO HELL!!

  “I was right back inside there last night when we were attacked,” the Sheik lied, pointing behind him to the open windows, which still had shards of broken glass hanging from the edges. “The machine gun bullets flew all around me, but mighty Allah, all peace be upon him, saw fit to protect his servant, to save him for his work, and I was not struck, all praise be to Allah, peace be upon him!

  “These disgusting papers were left behind after the cowardly machine gun attack. Now you can see the kind of genocidal murdering butchers who are trying to exterminate us. Jimmy Shifflett was just the tip of the white devils’ iceberg! This paper says it is ‘Communiqué Number One from General Lee of the White Christian Militia of Virginia’, now, what does that tell you? I cannot even read to you all the filthy, evil, disgusting, vile, racist, anti-Muslim insults written on this so-called Communiqué!” Ali bin Muhamed’s hand was shaking; he held the paper by a corner with a thumb and one finger, as if it was infected with a deadly contagion. “Today we are demanding, demanding that the President send the Army into Virginia to smash these rampaging white-racist militias!”

  The news cut back to the weekend anchor in the studio, a look of deep worry on his face. “There is a further development in the Stadium Massacre investigation. Experts from the ATF’s firearms tracking program have positively identified the SKS assault rifle used by Jimmy Shifflett as having been purchased by a founding member of the White Identity Militia group in Idaho. The rifle was purchased at a gun show in Coeur d’Alene Idaho in 1993 by Frederick Fultz, who was later convicted on federal weapons charges in 1999, and sentenced to fifteen years confinement at Leavenworth Kansas. In a strange twist of fate, Fultz hanged himself with a towel in his prison cell just one month ago, on August 16th.

  “Tonight I am joined in the studio by Rutherford Cavanaugh, an expert on militia groups and domestic terrorism. Mr. Cavanaugh is the founder of ‘The Center to Study Militia Violence’ in Chicago, and is a leading consultant to the federal government on domestic terrorism. Mr. Cavanaugh, were you surprised to learn that Shifflett’s SKS assault rifle came from the White Identity Militia in Idaho?”

  Cavanaugh was a morbidly obese balding man in his forties, with rolls of fat completely obscuring his shirt collar. “I’m not surprised at all, because we have found that there is a constant flow of militia members and assault weapons from state to state and from region to region. Working closely with federal law enforcement, we have discovered a nationwide network linking the most dangerous right wing militia fanatics, who frequently hide within the so-called ‘gun show circuit.’ So no, it’s no shock that Shifflett’s assault rifle came from the White Identity Militia.”

  “What do you expect next, Mr. Cavanaugh? The assault rifle ban goes into effect less than 48 hours from now, on Tuesday at noon eastern time. Are the militias going to comply with the new law?”

  “Well, just today we have seen a machine gun attack on a mosque in Portsmouth Virginia; that was clearly a white-racist militia attack. In addition, we have seen the attempted bombing of the federal building in Norfolk. So I certainly don’t see the militia violence stopping before the Tuesday deadline. But I hope and I believe that the right wing violence will end soon after the deadline, as even the most rabid gun fanatics come to accept the new law of the land. After all, Europe and the entire civilized world have accepted common sense gun laws for decades, and so will all good and decent Americans, given time.”

  “Thank you Rutherford Cavanaugh.”

  “Thanks for having me on.”

  ****

  Back in his room at the Sheraton, overlooking the ocean, Bob Bullard couldn’t stop grinning. Wally Malvone, the unnamed “senior federal law enforcement official,” was a genius! He was playing 3D chess when the rest of the country was struggling to learn checkers. Bullard was certain now that the President would give the green light to upgrading the Special Training Unit into a larger and permanent Special Projects Division, just the way that Malvone had laid it out. When that happened, he would get some of these magic credit cards of his own to keep.

  There was a knock on his door; his “date” had arrived. Life was great. Bob Bullard was on a solid winning streak with no end in sight, and it was only going to get better.

  “Come on in Sugar Darlin’, and say hi to your new Sugar Daddy!”

  13

  Ben Mitchell was in the middle of pouring several gallons of clear liquid plastic onto a new mahogany tabletop when the phone rang in his garage workshop. The table had taken him several days to build and he could not stop now: the catalyzed liquid was going to harden in a few minutes. The clear plastic would forever capture an “underwater” scene of seashells, realistic looking “gold doubloons” and other pirate loot and artifacts. The ten-foot-long table was going to an upscale seafood restaurant on the Rappahannock River south of Fredericksburg, and they were paying him twelve-hundred dollars for it. If they liked it (and they would) they would order more.

  After seven rings, the answering machine kicked in with his taped message, and Ben Mitchell heard a familiar voice, cracking with emotion. “Damn it Ben, are you there? This is Terry Shriver, pick up the phone! They blew up Mark Denton, Captain Mark Denton! Pick up the phone damn it, or turn on the TV, it’s all over the news!” The voice ended, the line went dead and the answering machine clicked off.

  Mitchell finished pouring his bucket of clear liquid plastic, pulled off his rubber gloves and apron and air filter respirator and went back into his house. Te
rry Shriver was another retired Special Forces NCO, but Ben had not heard from him in a few months. Mark Denton was blown up? What was that about?

  Mark Denton! Now there was a name from the distant past! Mark Denton had been a young lieutenant back in 68 or 69 when Ben was running a Studies and Observation Group recon team out of Kontum back in the Operation Prairie Fire days, jumping the fence into Laos on a regular basis. Denton had gone along as a straphanger on some ops with Mitchell’s Recon Team Utah, although he was actually a staff officer of a much larger SOG “Hatchet Force.” In the SOG, it was not an exaggeration to say that when it came to cross-border operations, rank came in a distant second to skill and experience. Even junior NCOs were made recon team leaders, based strictly on their aptitude and talent. When an officer was crazy enough to want to tag along, he went as a junior man: he followed instructions and he kept his mouth shut.

  This inverted rank structure was unique to the SOG, and unique to that time and those classified missions. Later in the states Denton and Mitchell had both briefly served at the Special Forces Training Group, as a staff officer and an instructor, and the seniority relationship of course returned to the conventional one. But both men remembered their times together jumping over the fence into Laos when the Sergeant had led the Lieutenant. The ties forged on those classified missions, missions that were never officially recognized until decades later, were particularly strong and deep. No one knew about those do-or-die missions, about their shared dangers, and the friends who didn’t make it back. No one knew except the men who had suited up and climbed aboard the lone Hueys to go places they could never talk about publicly.

  Mark Denton was a fine man and a good listener for an officer, but he hadn’t been career Army, and he’d gotten out a few years after the war as a captain. Ben still knew of Denton through the Special Forces Association, and periodically had run into him at SOG reunions at Fort Bragg and elsewhere over the years, but Denton wasn’t one to make a life out of being a former Green Beret, like some did. He’d moved on.