Foreign Enemies and Traitors (74 page)

The thick square armored side windows of their old humvee were scratched and dirty, and reflected back the glare of the arc lights.  The soldier on the passenger side appeared disinterested in the common military vehicle, and walked past them to a boxy delivery van just pulling up behind.  The soldier on the driver’s side squinted and peered through the vertical front windshield into the humvee.  Carson stared straight ahead, hands folded on his lap.  The black eagle rank insignia of a full colonel was clearly visible on the front of his camouflage parka and on his beret.  The cloth tape above his left breast pocket now read N.A.L. instead of U.S. Army.  Suddenly noticing the two officers in the front seats of the humvee, the North American Legion soldier pulled himself up to a rigid position of attention, eyes riveted straight ahead, staring at nothing.  He saluted smartly, his right hand snapping up to his blue beret, and he held the pose like a statue.

Carson said, “
Vamos, Teniente Malverde.  Buen trabajo
.  Good job.”  In a moment, they were driving above the tops of the trees growing along the west bank of the Tennessee River, and then up over the high arching bridge itself.  The remaining river channel was only about 500 yards wide here.  Below them, a vast marina complex on the near side had been left high and dry.  The river level here had dropped over twenty feet when the Kentucky Dam collapsed during the earthquake, and at least a hundred boats lay stranded in the dirt, trapped between wooden pilings.  The humvee’s wheels vibrated on the temporary steel grating as they crested the high two-lane bridge.  Middle Tennessee was spread before them to the eastern horizon, an orange glint of sun just edging above distant hills.

“So far so good, Lieutenant,” said Boone Vikersun, the suppressor-equipped Glock pistol now held in front across his lap.  “So far so good.”

****

The secure line had an obnoxious buzzing tone. 
It didn’t stop until Bob Bullard dragged himself to the side of his bed and pulled it from the side table.  The entire red telephone crashed onto the floor with a cascade of bangs.  He felt around for the receiver and eventually pulled it up to his face, while hanging off the bed.  It was Mitchell Brookfield, his deputy director.  Bullard managed to choke out, “Mitch, do you have any idea what time it is?”
 
It was still dark in the room.
 
His head ached, the result of a late Sunday night drinking session that had extended into the wee hours.  His deputy was under orders never to call him before seven, unless the entire world was blowing up.  He should just stop sleeping, he thought.  Bad news usually came when he was sleeping off a bad one.  Mondays were the worst, and he was usually hung over and dragging ass at the 0900 staff meeting.

“It’s 0645, but I think you need to hear about this.”

“Okay, what the hell is it?”  Bullard hacked and struggled to work some saliva into his dry mouth.  Just speaking took an effort.

“We have a big flap going on between the Nigerians and the Kazaks.  They’re at each other’s throats.  They’re literally ready to go to war down in Southwest Tennessee.  There’s a lot of dead, according to the Nigerians.”

“What?!”  Bullard twisted over and sat bolt upright in bed, in the process getting a painful Charlie horse muscle cramp in his left calf.

“We’re still putting reports together, but apparently there was some kind of a hot-pursuit situation, and the Kazaks rolled into Lexington County with a couple of armored vehicles.  It appears that they shot up a Nigerian border outpost by mistake.  Neither side’s story makes any sense.  The Nigerian CO is on the way up here, and he’s out for blood.  The Kazaks killed and wounded a bunch of Nigerians, and they lost two armored security vehicles in the process.  The Kazaks say they were ambushed and fired on by the Nigerians.  Nobody really knows what the hell is going on yet, but the Nigerians are redeploying both NPF battalions along a river facing the Kazaks.”

“Aw, you have
got
to be shitting me.  Okay, I’ll be over in ten minutes.  No—fifteen.  The conference room.  Round everybody up; we’ll start when I arrive.”  Bullard dropped the phone and grabbed his calf; it felt as if somebody had chopped into the muscle with an axe.  Mondays should be outlawed, he thought.

****

Phil Carson, riding shotgun in the front seat,
studied the screen on the handheld military GPS.  After descending from the temporary steel grates of the Tennessee River bridge, State Road 214 widened to four lanes.  It was nearly daylight.  He said, “This thing shows a road that cuts north around Lynnville.”

                Boone, sitting behind their captured driver, didn’t need to consult the electronic map.  “Maybe, but we can’t use it.  A big stretch of it was ruined by the earthquakes.  We have to go through Lynnville.  That’s where we’ll pick up 13 heading north, and then we’ll be home free.”  State Road 13 ran parallel to the Tennessee River, a few miles to its east.

                “Lynnville looks pretty substantial on the GPS map,” said Carson.  “I don’t like the idea of driving straight through a town that size.  The alarm is going to go out any minute.  Somebody is going to find those—find out what happened at the garage.  Then they’re going to freak out, big-time.  They’re going to go totally ape shit.”

                “Maybe, maybe not.  The radio is still quiet.  It’s only about five miles to Lynnville.  We’ll be through it and out in no time.  It’s better to rack up the road miles while we can.  Get some distance from Carrolton.  And I’m still feeling lucky.”  The radio had been left on its working channel.  Spanish-speaking voices were occasionally heard, but there was no sound of panic or warning.

                “I still don’t like it,” said Carson.  “Why can’t we dump this hummer and get picked up on this side of town?”

                “I don’t know why not; I just know we have to get north of Lynnville on 13.  That’s where the escape ratline starts.”

                In a few minutes, they approached the outskirts of the town.  It was set in a natural cleft in the low hills that ran parallel to the Tennessee River.  After a half mile of widely spaced businesses, they reached the intersection with the two-lane State Road 13.  The traffic signal was flashing a four-way red. 

                Doug Dolan said, “Lynnville has electricity.  That’s always a good sign.”

                “That’s an improvement since the last time I was over here,” said Boone.  “The last time I was here was a few months ago, and it was still blacked out then.  Okay Lieutenant Malverde, come to a complete stop and take a nice easy left turn at the light.  Don’t make a big mistake and try to attract attention with a traffic violation.  If we’re stopped...you know what’ll happen.”

                State Road 13 climbed uphill through the old downtown, which consisted of two- and three-story businesses fronting on the main street.  It almost resembled a small town in a Western movie, with the storefronts coming up to the sidewalks on either side.  Lynnville was the county seat.  At the top of the hill, there was a brick courthouse on one corner, and a Baptist church on another.  The road descended and the businesses began to be set further back from the road and were spread apart on more property.  A few miles north, on a flat stretch of ground ahead of them, they could see two large warehouse-like buildings.  One was trimmed with blue, and the other, orange.

                “What’s that?” asked Doug.

                “It used to be Wal-Mart and Home Depot,” said Boone.  “13 goes right between them.”

                Carson said, “I’m not liking this.  It looks like it’s all fenced in.”  He studied his GPS screen.  “We can turn east and go around it.”

                “No,” replied Boone.  “I don’t care what that GPS shows, it’s wrong.  I know this area.  That way just takes you into a maze of back roads, but there’s no way around.  Driving back there would just draw attention to us, and we’d wind up in a dead end anyway.  We have to go past the Wal-Mart.  Lieutenant, what’s going on up there?”

                Malverde seemed surprised to be asked a question, and gave a “Who me?” look before responding.  “That?  It’s a relocation center.  Part of the the Recovery and Reconstruction Administration.  It’s no problem, we can just drive through.  The road in between is open for normal traffic.”

                Carson said, “I don’t like this, not one little bit.  What if he’s lying?  We’ll be driving right into a controlled-access area.  Look, it’s all fenced, all the way around.”

                “Hey, if he’s lying, he’s dying,” said Boone.  “Right, Lieutenant?”

                Their driver said nothing, his lips tightly pursed as he stared straight ahead.

The fugitives approached the last public road intersection before the acres of parking lots.  The two-lane state road widened to four lanes between the big-box stores.  Home Depot was on their left, Wal-Mart on the right.  Their corporate signs had been taken down, but there was no mistaking the origins of the giant buildings.  The entire perimeters of the Home Depot and Wal-Mart properties were fenced in multiple layers of chain link, with angled razor wire strands on top.  The chain link and barbed wire extended right up to the curbs on both sides of State Road 13, leaving just an enclosed corridor in between for the passage of through traffic.  A tan humvee bearing the three black stars of the North American Legion was parked on the opposite side of the intersection.  Atop its roof was a 7.62mm M-240 medium machine gun on a conventional ring-and-pintle mount, but nobody was visible in or around the vehicle. 

In the parking lot of the Wal-Mart, over a hundred big general-purpose Army tents had been set up, similar to the ones Carson had slept in back at Camp Shelton in Mississippi.  These GP-Large tents could fit more than twenty cots each.  The tents had been arranged with military precision in ranks and files.  On the Home Depot side were dozens of gray FEMA house trailers in neatly ordered rows, and more green and tan Army tents. 

Their humvee had to stop and wait while a vehicle gate on the Home Depot side to their left was swung open by a pair of soldiers in camouflage uniforms.  A convoy of a dozen canvas-covered military trucks exited the Home Depot parking lot, turned north in front of the humvee, and then turned right and passed through another gate on the Wal-Mart side.  After the last of the big trucks turned onto State Road 13, the two guards with rifles slung on their shoulders closed the gate behind them.  These guards wore black berets, but it was not possible to determine if they were Americans or foreign. 

Boone asked Malverde, “What’s that all about?”

The lieutenant answered, “They’re probably picking up a work detail.  For reconstruction projects.  Roads, bridges, you name it.  That’s what this camp is for, housing the workers.  FEMA runs the camp for the Recovery and Reconstruction Administration.”

Carson looked out his right side window, beyond the two chain link fences toward the Wal-Mart building.  The parallel fences were spaced about ten feet apart, enough room for a vehicle, guards patrolling on foot, or police dogs.  A line of hundreds of civilians, all men, queued up on the other side of the second fence.  Hands were thrust in coat pockets as they shuffled along.  It was cold enough outside to see their breath, even though the sky was mostly clear with just a few high wisps of cloud.  Some of the men looked away or at the ground, others chatted, but many stared at the North American Legion humvee with undisguised contempt.  A few spat toward them or gave the middle finger.  There was no mistaking the two words forming on their lips when they gave the finger gesture.

The humvee pulled forward when the road ahead was clear of the truck convoy.  Carson watched the front of the line of civilian men entering an enormous white tent, big enough for a large wedding or a small circus.  On the other side of the white tent from the queue, men stood outside in small groups, eating with spoons from silver mess trays.

The main entrance road running from State Road 13 into the Wal-Mart complex was also fenced on both sides.  An enormous chain link gate closed this entrance off from 13, and was shut behind the last of the Army trucks.  On the other side of the entrance road that bisected the thirty-acre Wal-Mart parking lot, Carson saw another line of civilians and another huge white tent, but all of the people on this side were women, along with children of both sexes.  The new line of people waiting to be fed extended for hundreds of yards beyond this second white tent, running parallel to the double row of fences along State Road 13.

Boone said, “This FEMA camp wasn’t here the last time I was on this side of the river.  It was just a regular Wal-Mart and a Home Depot.  Of course, they were out of business then.  They never reopened after the earthquakes.  They were looted down to the floors, and abandoned.”

“So that’s what a FEMA relocation camp looks like,” said Doug.

“Doesn’t look like a lot of fun in there,” said Boone.  “Not anyplace I’d want to live.”

From behind the wheel, Lieutenant Malverde ventured a quiet comment.  “It’s better than starving, and freezing in the rain and snow.  The old people and the mothers with little children and babies get to stay in the buildings.  It’s dry and warm in there.  Only the able-bodied adults and big kids stay in the tents.”

Boone said, “You seem to know a lot about the place, LT.  What else can you tell us?”

After a hesitation Malverde said, “Who else is going to rebuild Tennessee?”

Carson said, “Did you notice something odd about the people lined up to get into the mess tents?”

“What, you mean it was all men on one side of the camp, and women on the other?” asked Doug.

“Well, yeah, but that’s not what I meant.  Look, it’s all whites in there.  Caucasians.  I didn’t see a single black face.”

“There’s not so many blacks that live around here,” said Boone.  “But I’ll admit, that seems strange.  Maybe there’s a different camp for blacks.”

“Or maybe they’re only putting whites into these camps,” observed Doug.  “Or at least, into this camp.”