Foreign Enemies and Traitors (15 page)

Carson smiled.  “But it’s a risk you’re willing to take, right, Doctor?”

“You know, there’s something low and disgusting about people who profit off the misery of others.  There’s a good reason they hang profiteers and smugglers.”

“That’s no way to talk to a business partner.  And for what it’s worth, Doc, I never had any intention of coming to Mississippi.  Believe me, this is the
last
place I wanted to wind up.  I’m only here because of the hurricane.  I was heading to East Texas, where there’s no martial law and no price controls.” 

“East Texas, huh?  Now, you might be able to make it to Texas from here, but Montana?  Montana might as well be on the moon.  I could probably arrange travel papers to Dallas—Dallas is in the so-called Republic of Texas.  If you got to Dallas, you’d be on your own after that.  From Dallas, you’d be able to travel north into Oklahoma and maybe Kansas at least.  After Kansas, I don’t know what you’d need for travel papers.”

“If I can make it to Texas, I can make it the rest of the way.  East Texas is still free.  Well, at least compared to here.”

“Good, I think we can do business then.  So, tell me where the coffee and the solar panels are, and we’ll work on getting you to Dallas.”

Carson smiled.  “I don’t think so.  My memory is kind of slipping in and out.  I’ll tell you where they are later—once I’m in Texas.”

“No way.  I’m not going to put my neck in a noose for a promise.”

“Nor am I, Doctor.  I’ll tell you where they are when I’m in Texas.”

“Sure you will.  Do you take me for a complete fool?”  Doctor Foley began to rise from his chair.

“Sit down, don’t be dramatic.  We can work something out, something that works for both of us.”

The doctor sat down heavily and paused, reflecting.  “You really do have seven hundred kilos of coffee and a hundred solar panels?”

“They’re in a safe place.”

“In a place where I can get them, secretly?”

“Yes, for sure.”

“You have a map or something?”

Carson touched his right index finger to his temple.  “Right in here.”

“But you could draw a map, a map that would work?  Something one hundred percent certain?”

“Once I’m in Texas I will.”

“Not Texas, I can’t go that far.”

“You’re going with me?” asked Carson.

“Damn right I am.  If we’re going to do this, I’m going to protect my investment.  I’ll be with you until you give me the map and the directions.  How about in Louisiana, on the other side of the Mississippi River?  With a vehicle and travel permits, you can make it from there to Dallas easy.  Draw me a good map and directions once we’re on the other side of the river.  Then we’ll say goodbye.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“No, don’t think about it, you don’t have time!  You don’t have anybody else you can deal with.  All right?  Do we have a deal?”

Carson hesitated, then said, “For now.”

“Good.  But let me take the Kyocera schematic.  I’ll need to convince somebody to help me with the travel papers and the ID.  Somebody higher up.  The solar panel diagram will help.”

“Be careful—both of our necks are on the line,” said Carson.

“You think I don’t know it?”

“I’ll need papers, travel permits, a real ID badge, and a good car with extra gas.  Enough gas to make it to Dallas nonstop.  The right clothes, and winter gear for up north—I’ll give you a list.  You get all of that and get me across the Mississippi River, and you have my word of honor: you’ll get the coffee and the solar panels.  Can you do all of that?”

Phil Carson extended his hand across the plastic table toward Doctor Foley, and they shook on the agreement while maintaining eye contact.

“It’s a deal, then,” said the doctor.  “I can arrange all of that.  But it’ll take a little time.”

“When?”

“A few days, maybe more.  I’ll send somebody with a razor and soap: keep yourself clean-shaven.  You’ll need to look presentable to pull this off.  We might need some more pictures too, for the IDs.”

“Okay, Doc, I’ll be right here.”

“The man who brings you the razor, give him your shopping list.”

Carson stroked his stubbly beard, suppressing a smile.  “You’ll be a very rich man, Doctor.”

“Rich…yes, I suppose so.  And you’ll be free, free to go.  Either that, or we’ll both be very dead—and swinging from the same gallows.”

                                       
           5

Bob Bullard dropped the personnel file on his desk
and leaned back in his black leather executive chair.  Christmas Eve was just another working day as far as he was concerned, and it gratified him that the new man had reported to Fort Campbell as scheduled, without any whining about the holidays.  His new recruit, dressed in coat and tie, stood uneasily across the desk from him.  “I’ve looked over your résumé, Agent Zuberovsky.  It’s damn good.  Only four years out of the Army and you made the CAGE Unit—Chicago Anti-Gun Enforcement.  Great arrest stats.  Picked up your college degree on your own time, just like I did.  Then three years with the ATF, before coming over to Homeland Security.  That’s all fine, top notch.  Between the military and your law enforcement background, you’re more than qualified.  But there’s one more thing I have to know, and don’t bullshit me: can you really ride?” 

“Excuse me, sir?” 

Based solely on his professional background, which had been flagged by a computer search, Martin Zuberovsky had been sent from Chicago down to Fort Campbell.  Bullard was giving him the once-over before sending him out into the field.  Zuberovsky was thirty-seven, a good two decades younger than Bullard, but in many ways he reminded Bullard of himself in his younger days.  Zuberovsky had gotten his undergraduate degree via internet correspondence courses while still in the Army and later while working full time as a cop.  The degree was required to become a federal agent, but why waste time going to college with a bunch of commies and faggots? 

Martin Zuberovsky was no pansy—that was obvious.  The new man was only average height, but had a powerful physique that couldn’t be concealed under his jacket.  His build, along with his intense black eyes and black hair combed straight back, gave him the presence of a larger man.  Mid-afternoon and Zuberovsky already had a five o’clock shadow on his square jaw.  A real no-nonsense hard-ass like Bullard was.  He’d have to be, for what he was getting into.

“This file says you spent a year with the Chicago Mounted Police before you went to the CAGE unit.  So does that mean you can walk an old police department nag down a parade route—or can you really ride?  You know: gallop, jump fences and all that shit.”

“I don’t understand what—”

“If you’re going to be my liaison with the Kazak Battalion, you have to ride. 
Really
ride.  The Kazaks practically live on their horses.  Kazak is where the word Cossack comes from.  Kazaks, as in Cossacks.  They don’t respect anybody who can’t ride horses.  They’d rather screw a mare than a woman any day.  If you’re going to go out with them on operations, you’ll have to be a damned good horse rider.  Are you?”

“Sir, I was raised on a farm in downstate Illinois.  Yes, I can ride.  Gallop, jump fences and all that shit.”

“Well, if you can’t…I guess we’ll find out soon enough.  Here’s the deal.  You’re going to be my new liaison to the Kazak Battalion.  The Kazaks are a royal pain in the ass, very hard to work with.  Central Asian prima donnas.  They all think they’re Genghis Khan.  But for RPP ops they can’t be beat.  I’m not going to sugarcoat it, Agent Zuberovsky: the rural pacification program can get ugly.  And the Kazak mercenaries do ugly better than just about anybody I’ve ever seen.”

“Sir, I haven’t actually been briefed on the program.  I’ve heard some back-channel talk, but I haven’t seen anything in writing.  I couldn’t find an ops manual.  In fact, I couldn’t find any formal references for the RPP.”

Bullard leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head.  “And why do you think that is, Agent Zuberovsky?”

“I really wouldn’t want to guess…”

“Go ahead, guess.”

“Well, I suppose some of the methods that are employed in the RPP are a bit on the…ah…
ugly
side, as you mentioned.”

“Ugly is an understatement, Agent Zuberovsky.  But Tennessee is very, very ugly these days.  Western Tennessee is the worst of all, because it was cut off by the rivers after the quake.  That’s where you’re going.  Most of the locals in the unpacified counties are beyond redemption.  They’re still holding onto the old days and the old ways.  They’re dead-enders.  They totally reject the new constitution and the emergency laws.  We went in to try to help them, and they shot at us.  Shot at us!  So be it.  We’re not bargaining, and we’re not negotiating.  We’re way beyond all that.  Either they obey the emergency laws, straight up, or they’re pacified the hard way.  We have a zero tolerance policy for assholes down there.  The president has made this clear: we don’t have any more time to screw around in Kentucky and Tennessee.  He wants it done.  Over.  Finished.  And that’s where the Kazak Battalion comes in.”

“Sir, I don’t speak any Kazak…”

“Of course not.”  Bullard cracked his knuckles and laughed.  “Who does, except for Kazaks?  But you speak some Russian, don’t you?  Isn’t your father a first-generation Russian?”

“I speak Russian okay.  Good enough to get laid.  And I traveled over there a few times—that’s where I met my second wife.”

“Your file says you’re divorced.”

“She flew home to Mother Russia when our economy tanked.  But yeah, I speak Russian pretty good.” 

“Well, that’s great, because the Kazaks speak Russian too, mostly.  You’ll be okay.  Most of their enlisted men can’t speak a word of English, but their officers speak it well enough.  But not well enough to go blabbing to reporters, if you catch my drift.”

“I do, sir.”

“Not that there are any reporters down there, but you know what I mean.  It’s good for operational security that the Kazaks can’t speak English.  They can’t get close to the locals.  Rural pacification is kind of a dark and foggy subject, and that’s not by accident.  That’s why we’re using foreign troops in West Tennessee.  Once it’s done, they’ll be shipped out or sent home.  We’re not keeping written records.  It’s an ugly chapter, one that won’t go in the history books.”  Bullard leaned forward, elbows on desk, and stared hard at his new liaison.  “Do you understand me, Agent Zuberovsky?”

“Perfectly.”     

Bullard sized up the new man.  The “CAGE,” the Chicago Anti-Gun Enforcement unit, was famous for its brutal efficiency at gun confiscation.  This had been a perfect introduction to the ATF and then to the DHS for the agent.  Like Bullard, Zuberovsky was divorced, with a messy trail of domestic violence complaints against him that had been papered over as he had shifted assignments, duty stations and agencies.  The fact that Zuberovsky spoke Russian and could ride horses made him a perfect fit for the liaison assignment. 

“The Kazaks have a new commanding officer,” stated Bullard.  “We’ve discussed the plans for their battalion’s redeployment to the West; this is going to take place next summer.  In the meantime, I want you to ride herd on them in West Tennessee.  They think their job there is over, but we want Kentucky and Tennessee fully pacified before springtime.  They need to clean out the dead-enders and the holdouts.  The Kazaks know how to do it—they just tend to be lazy between ops.  They need somebody to keep them on task until they’re redeployed out West.  I’ll be sending you specific mission taskings; it’ll be your job to motivate the Kazaks to do them.  Tell them about all the land out in Montana we’re going to give them.  How it’s just like back home in Kazakhstan, only better.  Promise them the moon, I don’t care.  But let me be frank: you’re going to get your hands dirty, Agent Zuberovsky.  Does that bother you?”

The agent didn’t hesitate or blink.  “No sir, not at all.  We can’t rehabilitate the fanatics.  I saw the TV reports about what they did to the Memphis refugees after the earthquake.  That was genocide, mass murder.  In my book, those Tennessee rednecks aren’t even human.  We don’t need their kind in the new America.”

“That’s good, Zuberovsky, very good.  Keep that attitude and it’ll see you through.  That, and the double differential pay you’ll be making in the RPP.  Oh, and one more thing: we’ve got some new gear we want you to test out.  It’s a microwave device for crowd control.  You’ll be briefed on it, but it seems simple enough.  I want a full report on how it works in the field, under real-world conditions.”

“No problem.”

****

December 24.  Christmas Eve. 
Outside the tent, light rain was falling as twilight faded to black.  The interior of the tent was barely lit by a single 15-watt bulb, hanging from the center pole.  The electricity would be cut off promptly at 10:00 p.m.  Every day and every night was the same, the only slight variation in the routine coming in the handcart that brought the meals.  Tonight’s supper had been a bowl of sweet potatoes and corn.  Carson wondered if the menu would improve on Christmas Day.  Maybe there would be meat.

It was two weeks since he had been brought to the quarantine and vaccination section of Camp Shelton, a week since he’d last been visited by Doctor Foley.  A vehicle pulled up close to the tent, and its engine shut off with a clatter.  Bad fuel.  The entrance flap to his tent was pushed aside, and a black enlisted man in his mid-twenties entered, carrying a large cardboard box.  Carson recognized him from the day he had been detained at the Alabama-Mississippi border.  He was one of the soldiers who had collected him in the orange pickup and brought him to the QV camp.  He was the medic.  Later he had brought Carson a used disposable razor and a sliver of bath soap for shaving.  His nametape and three chevrons identified him as Sergeant Amory.