Foreign Enemies and Traitors (14 page)

“Beautiful day for late December, just beautiful.  Thanks for inviting me up.  We flew up the Tennessee River the last part—that was my first good look at it since the earthquakes.  Kentucky Lake is gone…it’s amazing to see.  Just the old river running down the middle of a mud valley.  Any idea when the dams will be fixed?”

“If it’s even being discussed, I haven’t heard about it.”

“Well, Fort Campbell looks the same as ever.  I spent a few years here as a junior officer, and I’ve visited many times over the years.  I’d imagine you can almost forget the state of emergency here.  Do you golf?  What’s your handicap?”  They sat on opposite ends of the six-foot bench.

“No, I don’t golf, but I like getting out here.  Nature, and all that good shit.  My house isn’t far from here.”  Bullard leaned back and stuck his legs out, feet crossed at the ankles.  He was wearing low-cut leather hiking shoes.  “Listen, General, you didn’t fly all the way up here for small talk—if you don’t mind, I’m going to get right to business.  First of all, I’m having serious problems feeding our FEMA relocation camps.  Your deliveries have been dropping off for weeks.  If you can’t supply the amount of food that was agreed upon, well, then we won’t be able to keep all of these folks in Kentucky and Tennessee.  We’ll have to turn them loose, and you know where they’ll be heading: south.  If we can’t bring the food to them, then they’re going to go to where the food is.  It’s as simple as that.” 

“Well, Bob, you might let them walk out of the FEMA camps.  That’s Tennessee, so that’s your call.  But that doesn’t mean they’re going to just stroll on down into Mississippi and Alabama.  There’ll be no refugee camps waiting for them.  No food, no medical, nothing.  I won’t allow your refugees into my states, and that’s non-negotiable.  We have our own problems, plenty of them.”  Mirabeau coughed, clearing his throat.  “But at least
I
can feed my people—and
I
can control them with my own troops.”

“Listen, General, if you’re referring to our foreign peacekeepers…all I can say is I don’t make policy, I just carry it out.  But if a few million hungry refugees from Tennessee come walking down your way, well, it might just lead to a level of chaos your troops couldn’t handle.  In that case, President Tambor might feel a need to send some fresh foreign peacekeepers down into Mississippi and Alabama, to help restore order.”

General Mirabeau smiled.  “Help restore order?  Do you mean like they’ve restored order in Tennessee?”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, General.”

“We have a signed agreement.  The president would not—”

“He’ll do whatever it takes if you can’t keep order in your states.  Agreements can and will change, as new circumstances dictate.  The president is still the president of
all
of the states.  It will be
his
decision.  So, what I’m saying is that if you don’t want to feed and house a couple million new refugees, you’d better get the rice and pork and beef moving north again—as we agreed on in Mobile.”  Bullard leaned forward and scooped up a handful of pebbles.

“You can’t order blood to come from a turnip.  We still have people on the edge of starvation in my states—it’s not like we’re rolling in milk and honey.”

“Well, compared to Tennessee and Kentucky, you are.  And if my people don’t get fed, I’m going to hand them maps and point them south.”

Mirabeau gritted his teeth and said, “We’ll do our best.  We’re between a rock and a hard place as it is.”

“We all are.”  Bullard took careful aim and threw a pebble at a blue jay perched on a branch a dozen feet away, neatly hitting it.  The bird squawked and flew off.

“Now I’ve got an issue of my own,” declared the general.  “The black markets in the buffer zone are getting out of control.  I know we agreed not to make any moves in the buffer areas without consultation, but the free markets are becoming a serious problem.  We can’t police them effectively.  People are beginning to carry guns openly, and they’re not just bartering anymore, they’re trading with gold and silver and North American Dollars.  It’s causing a massive devaluation of the Temporary Emergency Dollars, and I just can’t tolerate that.  The TEDs are shaky enough as it is.  Plus, the markets are a magnet for criminals and refugees coming down from Tennessee.  I’m just giving you a heads up: I’m planning on a major crackdown on the swap markets, starting at Corinth.”

Bullard said, “I understand the problem, but I still want you to hold off for now.  The free markets are one of our best sources of actionable intelligence on the resistance in Tennessee.  Shut down those free markets and you’ll shut down our best source of information.”

“How long are you talking about?”

“Just a few months.  Summertime, maybe.  We’ll let you know.”

“I don’t like it, Director Bullard.  Those free markets are trouble: people are getting their backs up.  We can’t even send the Guard into some of them—they’d be lynched.  The local sheriffs in some of those northern counties are getting mighty independent-minded.  They put their own deputies around the markets, but they don’t stop the illegal activity, they protect it.  It’s not healthy; it’s causing erosion in respect for our authority.  We’re not ready for free markets yet, not until the economy is stabilized around the TEDs.  If we lose control of the currency, if people stop using the TEDs, we’ll lose top-down control for good.  It’ll be anarchy.  The food supply chain will break down again, and everything we’ve worked to rebuild will collapse.  God only knows what might happen then.  We’ll never get the banks functioning again if people are using any damn kind of money that they please.”

“Well, it’s not up to you.  The buffer zones are under shared control, so I’m asking you not to do any sweeps into them without consultation.”

Mirabeau stood up and turned, glaring down at Bullard, who was still sitting at the other end of the stone bench.  “Bob, that’s not what our memorandum of understanding says.  I’ll take this back to the White House if I have to.  The buffer zones are in Mississippi and Alabama, and that’s my bailiwick, not yours.  You only have approval for hot pursuit of terrorists and fugitives.”

Bullard smiled.  “General, that’s your interpretation.  Let me put it another way.  If you shut down those free markets, a lot of folks in southern Tennessee are going to be cold and hungry.  If they’re cold and hungry, they might get a mind to just walk right on through the buffer zone and keep going.”

“You keep threatening me with refugees.  We’ve already demonstrated that we know how to stop them—in case you’ve forgotten what happened after the quakes.”

“General, please.  I’m not making threats; I’m just stating the reality of the situation.  Provide the food in the tonnage we agreed on, and leave the free markets alone.  That is, if you don’t want a few million extra mouths to feed.”  Bullard smiled again.  “I don’t know why we’re even discussing it.  We already agreed on all of this last October in Mobile.”
                Mirabeau took a deep breath and exhaled through flaring nostrils.  “Okay, we’ll hold off on the sweeps for now, and we’ll do the best we can with the food shipments.  But for my part, I want to be in the loop when you go dropping rockets into the buffer zone.  Let me remind you: Mississippi is not Tennessee, and we don’t enforce the curfew with rockets in Mississippi.”

“Maybe you should.”

“And maybe you should just keep your UAVs out of our air space.”

“So that terrorists can just wander back and forth?  I don’t think so.  But I take your point.  Let’s beef up the liaison effort, and we’ll get on the horn before we run armed UAV missions on your side of the line.  Of course, if we’re in hot pursuit, we’re going to come in.  There won’t be any sanctuary states, not while I’m director of rural pacification.”  Even with the general looming over him, Bullard affected a posture of nonchalance.

“Hot pursuit or not, don’t send any of your foreign mercenaries into my states.  Not even one foot into the buffer zone.  That’s a redline I won’t tolerate being crossed.”

Bullard stood up and playfully punched the Creole “Savior of the South” on the shoulder.  “Aw hell, General,” he joshed.  “What have you got against a little multinational outreach?  Diversity is our strength, didn’t they teach you that in your Equal Opportunity classes?  God only knows I heard it a million times in mine.”  Then Bullard quickly walked to the golf cart and slid behind the wheel, gesturing to the open passenger seat.  “You coming, Marcus?”

****

“So, how was your weekend, Mr. Doe?”
  Doctor Foley returned to the quarantine tent at 10:30 Monday morning.  The weather had turned cold again and Carson had rolled the tent sides down.  Once again, the doctor entered without asking permission. 

Carson was sorting out his meager possessions on his cot, and tried not to appear startled as the canvas door flap was pushed aside.  “The dancing girls just left.  The maid is due any minute.”  They both sat down at the white plastic table.

“I can imagine.  Your forehead is looking a lot better.  Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”

“There are no mirrors in the latrine.”

“Well, your cut is looking fine, and almost all of the facial edema and bruising are gone.”

“Thanks for the update.  When can I get out of here?”

“You already know the answer.  After two weeks—depending.”

“Great.  Another week of peanut butter sandwiches and Kool-Aid.”

“Peanut butter is loaded with protein, and the Kool-Aid is fortified with vitamins,” said the doctor.  “It’s almost a complete meal.”

“I’m not really complaining.  It’s not so bad here, just boring as hell.”

“There are worse things than being bored, trust me.”

“Well, I could use a radio or a newspaper.  Even an old magazine.”

“It’s all just official news and propaganda.  Believe me, you’re not missing much.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Doc.  You’re not stuck in here.”

“So, how’s your memory?  Do you remember what we talked about on Friday?  If you have anything to say, you might want to get right to it, while there’s still time.  Once your two weeks are up, there’ll have to be some kind of a review.  After that, I won’t be the only one taking an interest in your case.  You’ll be out of my hands, out of my small circle of influence.  You might be moved from here to some other camp, or you might be assigned to a work brigade.  So, if your memory is coming back, tell me now.”

Carson had made his decision over the weekend.  “As a matter of fact, Doctor, it is.”

“Good.  How is your memory about coffee?  If you want help from me, you’ll need to offer something in return.”

“A special fee for your services? I thought that was against the rules.”

“Don’t give me any crap, John Doe—I’m just about out of patience.  If you want to know the truth, I’ve never bought the amnesia act for one minute.  So stop acting cute with me.  If you have something to offer, lay it out.  Otherwise, you’ll be on your own.”

Phil Carson had spent the entire weekend thinking about this coming confrontation and the subsequent negotiation.  “Doctor, it must be your bedside manner, or maybe the diet or the fresh air, but most of my memory has returned.”

“Yeah, I thought it would.  So tell me who you are, and where you came from.  You didn’t get that tan or those calluses in an office.”

“Sorry, but I don’t remember everything.  You might say that my memory is kind of…compartmentalized.”

“I’m sure.  So just tell me,
John
, what’s in the coffee compartment?”

“What’s in it for me, Doctor?”

“That depends on how much coffee there is and how easy it is for me to get it.  Get it without attracting attention.”

“A lot, and very easy.”

“How much is a lot?”

Carson paused.  “Seven hundred kilos of Brazil’s finest.  Packed in two-kilo plastic cans.”

“Seven…hundred…kilos?”  The doctor whistled softly.

“That’s right.  And that’s not all.  There’s more.”  Carson withdrew a compactly folded sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his blue hospital shirt.  “Do you know what this is?”

Doctor Foley opened the page, spread it out on the plastic table, and peered at it through his glasses.  “It’s some kind of a schematic.  ‘Kyocera 120 photovoltaic array.’  Where did you get this?”

“They’re packed in each box with the solar panels, where else?  I’ve got a hundred brand new panels.  They’re hidden the same place where the coffee is.”

“A hundred solar panels?”

“That’s right.  Kyoceras.  Big suckers.  The best there is.”

“And seven hundred kilos of coffee?”

“Correct.”

“What else?”

“That’s it,” said Carson.  “That’s everything.”

“Did you ever have any amnesia at all?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.  Were you in the Special Forces?”

“That part is true.  I was.”

“What’s your real name?”

“I’d rather not say.  John Doe is fine.”

“Have it your way…John.  Now, let’s cut to the chase.  What do you want for the coffee and the solar panels?”

“I want to get out of here.”

“Naturally; who wouldn’t?  I can help with that.”

“Not just out of here, I want to get
way
out of here.  Out of the emergency zone.  I want to go to the Northwest.  To Idaho, Montana or Wyoming.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I want an ID badge, and whatever papers and permits it takes for traveling freely.  I want a car with extra gas tanks, everything I’ll need to go all the way without stopping.  I’ll give you a list.”

“This is not based in reality, John.”

“Sure it is.”

“Just what do you think your bargaining position is?  Even if I believed your story about the coffee and the solar panels—”

“Where do you think I got that Kyocera 120 schematic?”

“Even if you do have the stuff, let’s talk about what’s possible, not your fantasies.”

“All right, Doctor, tell me what’s possible.”

“I can’t get you an ID badge and documents.  Well, not by myself, not without help.  At the very least I’d need to bring in somebody I know at the Personnel Support Detachment, and probably somebody higher.  That means at least a two- or three-way split, and more risk.  And it’s a big risk: they hang people for black-marketing, and for forging identity cards.”