The Ungovernable

by Franklin Horton

  He hadn’t given up on revenge. Since his injury he’d knocked around thoughts of how he might exact his revenge without compromising his obligation to Owen. In fact, when he was not actively engaged in some task or working out to the point of puking, it was where his mind settled. It was the low spot in the landscape of his thoughts. He’d eventually come to the conclusion that even though he couldn't personally launch a scorched earth campaign on the residents of southwestern Virginia, it didn’t mean a mission couldn't be run. He could treat it like any of the other dozens of missions he was personally overseeing now, at least until it was time for the grand finale. Then he would step in and get his hands dirty.

  When he had a rough plan fleshed out he started monitoring chopper traffic in and out of the base. Occasionally, he saw Gordon's team, the people who’d rescued him from the power plant, coming and going. He was aware they’d come in the previous night. When he made an inquiry he found out they’d be on base for forty-eight hours while their chopper underwent routine maintenance. A further inquiry led him to the quarters they’d be staying at while their chopper was serviced. That was his next stop for the evening.

  While Boss didn’t know where Gordon and his crew were based out of, they were overnighting in some of the temporary quarters that had sprouted up in every empty corner of the base. People, both military and civilian, were showing up every day. Boss had no idea where they were all coming from but he understood the influx included government VIPs in need of shelter, engineers on their way to power generation assignments, and military folks from all branches. There was no shortage of supplies, but there was a shortage of space inside the wire. Some base personnel were currently being fed in tents instead of the normal dining facilities. Boss assumed they’d been displaced to make room for the VIPs who didn’t want to eat without air conditioning.

  The placement of the temporary housing units created tight alleys not even wide enough for a vehicle to pass through. With the gun emplacements, armed troops, and the general atmosphere of urgency, the facility more closely resembled an operating base in Iraq than an urban base on American soil. After months where the city surrounding them had no power, the area was even developing the smell of a war zone. Large diesel generators hummed like trucks, powering lighting and climate control for the congested tent city. Boss couldn’t imagine the civilians sleeping in the noise but the military folks wouldn’t even notice it.

  The base was operating with limited services. They had fuel, generator power, and the toilets flushed. Millions in the city around them had a lot less. If Boss was in charge, he would have shut the damn place down and pulled all personnel back to a facility that wasn’t surrounded by so many folks wanting what they had. There were a ton of bases within range of a truck convoy.

  Remaining there was supposed to be symbolic. Those in charge didn’t want to vacate the seat of power. They didn’t want to surrender Washington, D.C. for fear they’d never get it back. They didn’t want to vacate the White House or the Capitol Building for the message that sent to the public. They had the whole area surrounded by a security perimeter, complete with concertina wire and sniper nests. Although the center of power was safe for now, it was a tenuous foothold. If the angry residents decided to overrun them, it would be a difficult wave to put down.

  Weaving his way through the maze of brown air beam tents and hastily erected plywood buildings, Boss was certain there was some type of organizational system in place but he couldn’t figure it out. There were markings on the structures, though nothing to tell him which way he needed to go. After finally asking the right person, he found the right tent.

  He entered an airlock system that used two separate doors to keep the cooler conditioned air trapped inside. The interior of the tent was a vast open space the size of a gymnasium. While some of the tents had plywood interior walls with individual rooms this one didn’t. Cots were neatly aligned in rows throughout most of the floor space. This wasn’t a home, it was a crash pad. Only a few were occupied, which should make Boss’s job easier.

  He went from cot to cot, searching for a familiar face. It took him a half-dozen to finally spot the guy he thought he was looking for. The last time he’d seen Gordon it had been under different conditions. Boss had been drugged and delirious. Gordon had been wearing a helmet and flight gear. Boss had done his homework, though. He’d accessed Gordon’s service record while he was developing his plan. He’d gotten a good gander at his picture and refreshed his memory.

  He leaned over the bunk and nudged him. "Gordon."

  There was grumbling from some of the bunks.

  “What the fuck, dude!” one man grumbled, raising up and glaring at Boss. The expression he got in return made him lay down and shut his mouth.

  "Gordon!" Boss repeated, shaking him harder.

  Gordon groaned, turned his head, and opened his eyes. “What the hell? What do you want, man?”

  “It’s Captain Ballou. You pulled me out of that power plant. Remember?”

  Gordon blinked a few times, trying to focus. Boss was cleaner, less rough around the edges, than the last time he saw him. "Give me a minute.”

  "I'll be out front," Boss said.

  He left the dim sleeping quarters and took a seat on a crude bench in front of the tent, watching the activity taking place around him. He couldn’t imagine this base had ever seen the level of activity it was seeing now. There was a steady stream of choppers flying in and out, and convoys of vehicles were running missions, armed up like they were on patrol in Iraq or Afghanistan.

  Gordon came staggering out in a pair of running shorts and dropped onto the bench beside Boss.

  “Late night?” Boss asked.

  “We hit the base around sunup,” Gordon said. “I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Everything has been turn and burn the last few days. I’m surprised they haven’t grounded the pilot for exceeding his flight hours.”

  “Nobody is grounding pilots right now. We fly them until they drop.”

  “Obviously,” Gordon said.

  "Sorry to drag your ass out of bed."

  Gordon yawned. "It’s cool. I guess I have shit to do anyway." He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth. He had a lighter in his palm and lit the smoke, taking a deep inhale. First of the day. It was the moment smokers lived for, up until it killed them.

  "I need a favor," Boss said.

  Gordon exhaled then turned to look at Boss, seeing no clue in his face as to how serious a favor it might be. "What is it?"

  “You fly on a regular basis over that region of southwestern Virginia where you picked me up?”

  Gordon had both hands on his thighs, almost like he was holding himself up. His cigarette dangled from his lip, defying gravity as he spoke. "I don't know our exact schedule, man. Shit has been chaotic, but we’ve been that way at least twice a week or so. It’s a regular flight path."

  "I need you to do something for me on your next trip west. It has to be in that same area."

  Gordon’s expression changed. People were always asking him to do things. They wanted him to stop and ask about their parents, search for their family, or even feed their dog. Gordon didn't mind helping out when he could but his crew ran on a tight schedule. They could fit in a few unsanctioned stops but couldn't exactly be stopping to launch missions in hostile areas without command approval.

  “What is it?” Gordon asked hesitantly.

  "No landing, no boots on the ground. I just need you to throw a loop in your flightpath and circle over that general region once or twice."

  Gordon took another drag on his cigarette. It was starting to get dark and solar powered floodlights kicked on near them, bathing the ground in a harsh yellow light. "You looking for someone? You think you got a team member out there still alive? We didn’t see anyone else when we picked you up but the conditions were pretty bad."

  Boss shook his head. "Nothing like that. Just a little information dissemination. I’ve got some flyers t
hat I need you to throw out over the population centers."

  "What kind of flyers?"

  "Does it matter?"

  Gordon shrugged. "I guess not. Just being nosy, but I guess I should know better, right? It doesn't sound like a big deal. I’m sure we can help you out."

  Boss smiled. “I appreciate that. I told you before, I'm a good man to have in your debt. This favor won’t be forgotten."

  Gordon flipped his cigarette into a bucket by the door. "No problem, man. I’m just glad to see you're doing okay."

  Boss held up the arm with the missing hand. "I guess, as long as you consider this okay."

  Gordon stretched and stood up. "You’re on the right side of the dirt, brother. Not every man can say that."

  Boss knew that to be true as well. He’d buried his fair share of friends. Yet, he was struggling to adapt in a field of expertise where physical prowess was such a significant part of his identity.

  Boss stood and patted Gordon on the back. "Thanks, Gordon. You'll be hearing from me. Go on back to bed."

  “Shit, Captain, it’s Miller time. I’m off-duty tomorrow.”

  12

  Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling (JBAB)

  The next day, Boss slipped out at lunchtime to pay a visit to a supply clerk he’d befriended several years ago. He’d run missions before where he needed custom maps printed, and the supply clerk was his connection for getting things printed on weatherproof paper. The stuff was like those crinkly white suits that painters wore but it was difficult to tear and wouldn’t smear under the worst of conditions.

  The printing office was a good distance from the operations building Boss was working out of. He took the opportunity to run, not wanting to waste good training time after being cooped up inside all day. He had a good sweat going when he stepped into the long, low building where copying and printing took place. The first thing he noticed was the air-conditioning. Most places on the base didn’t have functional air-conditioning since it required so much additional electric power.

  "Can I help you?" a scrawny girl with tattoos and a nose ring asked. She appeared to be about twenty-two. Or twelve.

  Boss regarded her before replying. "You have air conditioning?"

  She smiled. “I know, right? We tried going without it and all the paper products started curling. People griped because it wouldn't go through the copiers and printers anymore. Something about the humidity. Next thing you know, we have air conditioning." She threw her hands up like it was a gift bestowed by the gods and she had no inkling from where it came.

  "I’m looking for Fuller,” Boss said.

  "Uh, he doesn’t work here anymore,” the girl said. “My name is Marsha. Can I help you?”

  She had to be new. She was too damn helpful for someone working on a military base. “Where’s Fuller?”

  She threw her hands up again, as if he’d poofed out of existence right before her eyes. “Something about being short-handed somewhere. They made him somebody’s aide. They said civilians could handle this job just fine and that’s what I’m doing.”

  Boss considered this. He wasn’t certain if her being a civilian would increase or decrease his chances of getting what he wanted. Either way, his approach would be the same as he would have used with Fuller–an appeal to greed. “I need something printed on that weatherproof paper.”

  “Weatherproof paper…” Marsha repeated, scratching her ear.

  “They use it for maps.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “Oh, I’ve seen that. Map paper!”

  “Yes, map paper used for maps. Can I take a look at it?”

  “You want me to bring you a piece of it?” she asked.

  “No,” Boss said. “I need to see the supply. I need to know how much you have.”

  Marsha regarded the long counter separating her from Boss. At the end, a plastic chain stretched between eye hooks kept him out of the “employee only” section. “I don’t know about that. Are you allowed back here?”

  Boss raised an eyebrow at her. He thought of all the places he’d been in this world, both officially and unofficially. That this girl would question his ability to step behind the counter at the base print shop was nearly laughable. Boss glanced around. “I don’t think anyone will say anything. We’re good.”

  "What are you using it for? ‘Cause, like, we have this process where you requisition stuff. Like, you request it officially and then we’re like ‘that’s cool, man, come get it.’"

  "I can’t tell you what it’s being used for. I’m familiar with the requisition process but this is an emergency. Something just came up."

  She screwed her mouth up in uncertainty. "I don't know. I'm new to this base. How do I know I won’t get in trouble?"

  Boss assessed the young girl. “How did you get this job?”

  She smiled. “My dad. He’s assigned here. I was in college at Virginia Commonwealth University and he brought me up until things got safe again. My whole family is here.”

  That explained a lot. "You want to earn some money?”

  Marsha became cautious. She’d obviously had a bad experience with that particular question at some point in her past. “I don’t have to do something creepy, do I? Not that I wouldn’t, but I’d have to think about it.”

  "Nothing creepy,” he said. “It would have to be confidential though. This is related to a top secret operation. National security and all, you know.”

  “No problem. I’m all about patriotism and shit. Seriously.”

  “Then let’s see what you have in weatherproof paper.”

  She led him back to the paper section of the storeroom but couldn’t point out specifically which paper was weatherproof. Boss found it himself after about ten minutes of digging around. In the same section, he found two pallets of high-visibility weatherproof paper. He’d used the same stuff in psy-ops before, dropping pamphlets over occupied territory in the Middle East. That would be even better than map paper and there was a hell of a lot of it.

  “This is what I need,” Boss said.

  She grabbed a ream of five hundred sheets from the top. “How much do you need?”

  “All of it.”

  Marsha’s eyes widened. “All of it?” She studied the pallet, trying to figure out just how many reams were in the two pallets before her.

  It was time to cut to the chase. Boss slipped his hand in his shirt pocket and came out with a shiny gold coin which he raised between two fingers. It was another of the Krugerrands. “Do you know what this is?"

  "It looks like gold, man.”

  "It is a gold coin. It amounts to damn good compensation for work you can do while you're already working here at this job. No extra time but a good bit of extra pay. You can’t say anything about it to anyone. Not even your dad."

  She nodded seriously. “Got it. What do I need to do?”

  “I’m going to give you a document. I need that document printed on that paper.”

  “Easy enough.”

  “Then you stack the printed flyers back in the boxes and I’ll have someone pick them up.”

  She eyed the coin pinched between two of Boss’s fingers. “How much is that thing worth?”

  Boss shrugged. “Around thirteen hundred dollars when I got this one. Since the shit hit the fan, who knows?”

  “More than that now?”

  Boss nodded. “Much more.”

  She smiled. “Where’s the file? I’ll get started tonight.”

  He handed her a USB thumb drive. “Take it to a machine and open it now. I want to make sure you don’t have any trouble with the file.”

  She did as he asked. When the document opened, she read it. When she was done, she turned to Boss with an alarmed expression on her face. “What the fuck, dude?”

  Boss held a finger to his lips. “Remember, not a word to anyone. This is a matter of national security.”

  Early the next morning before his shift in the war room, Boss ran by the print shop. The place wouldn't open for another
couple of hours but Boss knocked on the back window and found Marsha in the final stages of her marathon copying session. Fueled by energy drinks and God knew what else she’d pulled an all-nighter and earned the money Boss had promised her.

  She opened the back door and he slipped inside, locking it behind him.

  "Dude, that was a long night. I've got, like, paper cuts everywhere and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a toner buzz going on.”

  Boss was impressed. "You took on a job and you kicked its ass. That’s something to be proud of."

  "Hell yeah, I kicked its ass!" she confirmed, as if there’d been any doubt this would be the outcome. The girl had bravado if nothing else.

  Boss liked her attitude. That was part of the reason he never felt that an overtone of menace was required with her, as it often was with other people. This girl was down to play along. A challenge with money at the end was fine with her.

  "How long until you finish?" he asked

  She threw a quick glance at the running copiers, the boxes of open paper, and the nearly full pallet. "Like an hour," she replied hesitantly. "I'm running five copiers at a time and it's kept me hopping all night. I’ve run my ass off."

  Boss checked his watch. “Will that give you enough time before other employees show up?"

  "It'll be enough. Then what?"

  Boss glanced at the two pallets with concern. This was going to take some coordination. He may have been a hair ambitious in getting this many flyers made. He hoped Gordon was heading out empty or there would be no room for a cargo of this weight. They could transport it in the cargo net, but then how would Gordon be able to scatter the flyers? They needed to be inside the aircraft so he could scatter them by the handful.

  Then there were the fuel considerations. The additional weight of all this paper could impact their fuel consumption enough to throw off the refueling schedule. Boss checked one of the boxes of paper and recorded the weight, then did a quick calculation based on how many boxes were on the two pallets. He raised his eyebrows. It was considerably more than he had anticipated at around one ton per pallet. He was going to have to compare notes with Gordon and figure out how they would pull this off.