Foreign Enemies and Traitors (108 page)

                               
Epilogue

Like hundreds of millions of people
in America and around the world, Ranya Bardiwell was an eyewitness to the world-changing broadcast on that Thursday in January.  She had watched it on television with her husband, Alex, and her son, Brian, in the den of her home.  Like all of those millions of people, she was surprised and amazed to see American history literally shift with earthquake speed and power.  But none of those millions of witnesses were as shocked as Ranya was when the “Marine-cam” video began to play, and she saw that the old brigadier general behind President Tambor, the man holding what they all thought was explosive detonating cord, was none other than Phil Carson. 
Her
Phil Carson. 

                A lesser woman probably would have fainted, but Ranya was stronger than that and she merely gulped air, began to hyperventilate, and stared at the screen.  He had a new scar across the top of his forehead, but it was the same Phil Carson.  She had spent several months looking at that face when they were on the sailboat in Colombia, and she knew that it was the same man, that there was absolutely no chance of a misidentification.  And then somehow, in some cosmic way, it all actually made sense to her.  These things didn’t just happen.  The stars didn’t just line up randomly.  Forces and powers were at work that were beyond mere human comprehension.  She had seen and experienced similarly improbable events before in her life, several times. 

                It took pounds of gold coins and several months for her team of private investigators to locate and then make contact with him.  After the events at Camp David, he had been put into isolation by the military-backed temporary government, pending Tambor’s impeachment trial for high treason.  After that, Carson had gone into his own seclusion.  But by late March, her investigators had found him in northern Mississippi.  They gave Carson a letter and her contact information, and after one phone call, he had readily agreed to come to Wyoming to see her.

                He flew out at the end of April.  A few days into his visit the weather cleared, the air warmed, and the roads were fit for a motorcycle ride.  They traveled in tandem from her home near Lander to Ranya’s favorite stretch of road, along the Wind River Canyon between Shoshoni and Thermopolis.  The air was still brisk but the pavement was dry, and they were dressed for it.  Ranya wore her custom-tailored red and black leathers, which matched her helmet and her 1,000cc Yamaha ZF-R1 high-performance sport bike.  When Phil called and confirmed that he was coming out to Wyoming, she purchased a used Harley-Davidson “Fat Boy” in nearby Riverton, had it delivered, and put it in their four-car garage.  She didn’t tell him that it was a gift to encourage frequent visits.  Instead, she concocted a story about Alex buying it, but not really taking to the sport.  It was hard for people who were not used to great wealth to accept expensive gifts when they could not reciprocate in kind.  She even had a black thermal riding suit ready for him when he arrived.  When the weather broke, it had not taken any arm-twisting to convince Phil to climb on the big Harley and accompany her on a one-day outing.

                ****

The Wind River Canyon
was everything that Ranya had described.  The two-lane blacktop of Highway 20 twisted along a narrow ledge hundreds of feet above the thundering rapids.  Above the road on both sides were thousand-foot-high granite walls, with a few pines clinging to them and some residual snow painted on in streaks.  Now in her late twenties, Ranya was strikingly beautiful, and he had always remembered her as beautiful to begin with, even as a young girl back in Virginia.  Ranya’s form-hugging motorcycle leathers didn’t do much to hide the fact that her figure had only improved with a few more years.

               
They parked at a scenic overlook with room for a half-dozen cars, but they were the only visitors today.  There was still some slush and ice on the overlook’s narrow parking area.  Cars passed only every few minutes.  The canyon was all theirs.  Below them was a steep drop-off down to fields of giant boulders and the roaring Wind River.  Ranya took off her helmet, her long brown hair spilling across her back.  She said, “Wait a minute,” and dashed across the road.  She scrambled a dozen feet up into the rocks at the base of the mountain and grabbed a handful of little wildflowers with spiky red petals.

               
“These are called Indian Paintbrushes,” she said, showing them to Phil.  “They’re our state flower.  They’re kind of pretty, and kind of wild—just like Wyoming.”  She twisted their weedy stems together, waited until the wind was gusting just right, and tossed them out over the chasm.  The swirling breeze caught the bouquet, carried the flowers aloft, and then dropped them down into the river hundreds of feet below.  They could see the bright red dot hit the white water, to be swept away to the north, over and through the rocks and out of sight.

               
Ranya asked, “Do you know where this river goes?” 

               
“No.”

               
“The Wind River becomes the Bighorn, and it flows up into Montana to the Yellowstone.  Then it goes down the Missouri and the Mississippi to the Gulf, and then to the Atlantic.  That’s where it meets the water from the Potomac.  So I guess you know who the flowers are for.”

               
“Of course I do.  They’re for Brad Fallon.  I never forgot him either.  Never.  But I’m still glad you were able to make a new life for yourself.  A happy life.  You were moping around pretty bad down there in Colombia.  Sometimes you didn’t say a word for days.  I’m sure Brad would be happy if he could see how happy you are now.  It’s just a shame that he never met his son.”

               
“I know.  I still think about Brad all the time.  How can I not, when I see him in Brian’s face every day of my life?  It’s bittersweet.  It makes me happy and sad at the same time.”

               
“Focus on the sweet.  Let me tell you, bitter does you no good at all.  And it’s not good for Brian either, or for Alex.”  She had told him their entire story, from New Mexico to California to Wyoming.  This included an explanation of their current aliases, and their more than comfortable financial situation. 

               
“I know you’re right, but it’s hard.”  Her eyes teared up just a little, and she turned away.  Carson pretended not to notice.

               
“You’re lucky to have Alex.  He’s a good man, and Brian loves him an awful lot.  Don’t you ever forget those two things.  It would be a terrible mistake to let the torch you’re carrying for Brad ruin the life that you’ve built here.  Brad wouldn’t want it, and Alex doesn’t deserve it.”

               
“I know.  Without Alex, I never would have found Brian.  But I’ll still never forget Brad.”

               
“Sometimes all you can do is remember.  No matter how hard you try not to.”

               
“Yeah.”  Ranya stooped and picked up a handful of pebbles, and one at a time she tried to throw them so far out that they would drop down into the rapids.  Some of them made it to the water, but most landed short on the craggy boulders a few hundred feet below.  When she had thrown all the rocks she asked, “Do you think the military government will really hold new elections?”

               
“Technically, it’s not a military government,” said Phil.  “The vice president was sworn in.  But I know what you’re saying.  I hope so.  Yeah, I think they’ll have new elections.  At least I hope so.”

               
“It’s still kind of bizarre, seeing the Army running the show in Washington.”

               
“Well, nobody should really be surprised.  When Congress created NORTHCOM and gave it the homeland security mission, they opened up Pandora’s box.  They politicized the military, so it shouldn’t come as a shock that the military got mixed up in politics.  But what other solution was there?  Somebody had to arrest the traitor-in-chief.  Anyway, it’s only supposed to be temporary, until the next elections.”

               
Ranya asked, “Do you think America will ever go back to the way it was before?”

               
“No, that America is gone.  We’re too divided.  We’re just not one united country anymore.  It’ll never be the same as it was before all of this.  But then, it hasn’t been the same for a long time.”

               
“You can’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again?”

               
“Something like that.”

               
“The impeachment trial was sort of a sham, don’t you think?  Only half of the senators even showed up for it.”

               
“Well, that doesn’t mean it was a sham,” said Phil.  “It just took twothirds of the Senators
who were present
to convict him of treason.  That’s what it says right in the Constitution: ‘two-thirds of the members present.’  If forty of those slimy bastards were too yellow to show their faces at the trial, then that’s sort of poetic justice in itself.  I still think they all got off too easy.  There should have been a lot more impeachments than just the president.  He wasn’t the only traitor, not by a long shot.”

               
Ranya said, “Well, at least they resigned.  It saved the country a lot of pain.”

               
“Sometimes pain is good.  It lets you know when you’ve made a big mistake, like electing traitors.  And how long can they keep Tambor at Camp David?”

               
“I don’t know,” she replied.  “Maybe forever.  He’s not very old.  He could live for a long time.  Where else can they keep him?”  The former president was still in exile at the “Naval Support Facility Thurmont.”  Some called it house arrest.  The presidential weekend retreat was already fenced off by three rows of strong chain link fencing, razor wire and sensor fields.  The presidential residence known as the Aspen Lodge was further fenced off within Camp David, forming a sub-prison within a prison, all for one man.  Jamal Tambor was restricted to a three-acre area, including his own swimming pool.  His wife had not remained at Camp David to keep him company in his internal exile, but had returned to her native San Francisco and was keeping a very low profile.  Tambor was free to wander his three acres, guarded by a new company of combat Marines.  He had left Camp David only for the brief Senate impeachment trial, and after his conviction, he was quickly returned to seclusion. 

               
“Well, politically he’s finished anyway,” said Carson.  “Wherever they put him, he’s done.  The Waylen videotape cooked his goose.  That, and the Mannville massacre pictures, and his plan for Operation Buffalo Jump.”

               
“At least they won’t be trying to invade the free states anytime soon.  I really don’t care what they do back East, just as long as they don’t try to force their socialism on us out here.”

               
“From what I’ve seen this week, I don’t think socialism would be a big seller in Wyoming.  I think anybody who proposed it would get shot full of holes pretty quick.” 

               
“Damn right they would,” said Ranya.  “They can keep their socialism in New England and the Rust Belt if they want it.  Just don’t try to force it on us too, and we’ll get along all right.  And they can keep their amero dollars, or whatever they call their new money these days.  It’s just paper trash, and we don’t need it.”

               
“You and Alex are doing pretty well out here.”

               
“We were just lucky as hell back in San Diego, that’s all.  We just lucked into all of this, we didn’t earn it.  And I still want you to have one of the ammo cans full of gold.”

               
“That’s not right.  That’s not me.  That’s not what I’m about.”

               
“I know you’re not.  When Brad and I needed you, you didn’t stop and ask, ‘What’s in it for me?’  You didn’t ask for anything.  You just came, no questions asked.  And you told Brad that I’m the closest thing to family that you have, remember?  Then when we were in Colombia, you even called me your daughter, and I called you my father, remember that?  Remember when I was Diana Williams?”

               
“I remember.”  That had been the name on her counterfeit Canadian passport while they were in South America.  Carson smiled wistfully, recalling their happy months on the sailboat.  Before Ranya flew home to have her baby, and to be arrested. 

               
She said, “We have two hundred acres, and that’s more than enough.  If you don’t want to live with us, just pick a spot you like and build on it.  You don’t have to stay there; you can come and go when you please.  Live where you like, you can afford it.  One of those cans of gold is yours, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

               
“I don’t deserve all that.”

               
“Neither do I.  Who does?  Just think about it.  If you don’t like Wyoming, take your gold and buy some property somewhere else.  Or buy another boat, whatever you’d like.”