Foreign Enemies and Traitors (40 page)

“At the high school.  I’m familiar with it,” said Boone.

“Well these Russians came, or Kazaks or whatever they are.  It was an ambush, a trap.  We were penned up inside the fence, on the high school parking lot.  I can’t believe how stupid we were!  They came on horses and they had trucks and helicopters, and little tanks on wheels.  They had a machine that burned our skin like fire.  Then they put everybody on buses and took them to a ravine, back there, back where I was coming from.  That’s where I found this baby.  Everybody else there was dead, dead in the snow.  Hundreds of them, I think.  They were all shot.”

“Hundreds?” asked Boone, perplexed.  He’d seen a lot of death in his years of war fighting, both abroad and lately at home, but this was a new level of atrocity—if it was true.  Only some of Saddam Hussein’s old mass graves in Iraq had been on that scale.  And some in the Balkans that he had read about, but not personally seen.

“Yes, hundreds.  Everybody who was at the swap market, and at the Baptist church across the street.  They were taken away on our own Radford County school buses.  Taken to a ravine…and shot.”

After a brief silence Boone asked, “How did you get away?  Did they miss you when they were shooting?  Did you play possum?”

Jenny shook her head, “No, no, it wasn’t like that, not for me.  I didn’t go there with everybody on the buses.  I was with—well, there was a group of girls.  We weren’t taken to the ravine.  We were put on an Army truck, an American Army truck, and taken to a big house, a mansion like they have on a plantation.”  She paused, remembering.  “It was called Barton Hall.”

“I know the place.”

“The Russians were having a party…”

“Kazaks, they’re Kazaks,” Boone reminded her.  “I just call ’em Cossacks, their old name.  Most of them speak Russian, but they’re from Kazakhstan, in Central Asia.  It used to belong to Russia, back when it was the Soviet Union.  There’s almost a thousand of them in Tennessee now.”

“Well, we were the main event.  At the party, I mean.  There was an American with the Kazaks.  He dragged me upstairs, and he tried to rape me.  That’s what the party really was: a rape party.  Now he’s dead. There was a fireplace in the bedroom, and I lit the whole house on fire before I climbed out the window.  Now I’m wearing his uniform and his boots.  I was hoping he had food or valuables in his pack, but I couldn’t stop to check.  I had to keep running away; I was trying to get far away before the snow stopped, and before daylight.  Then I found the baby in the ravine.  You know the rest.”

There was silence as the men digested the incredible tale.  Boone began mentally ticking off the names and faces he would have expected to be in Mannville yesterday morning, at the church, the swap market, or both.  Most of his local network was probably wiped out.  Most of his half year of working to organize a guerrilla insurgency was gone.  Mannville was a vital linchpin.  It was the center of a small region where he could occasionally surface and live a semi-overt life, find support, and slip in and out of the areas under the traitor government’s control.  It would be difficult to recover from this blow, if she was telling the truth.  His last operational sanctuary was gone.

After a period of silence, Carson asked Jenny, “Is the baby all right?”

“I think so.  I’m not sure.  I hope she is.  I gave her a bottle of instant milk.  I stopped in a house trailer by a junkyard that’s not very far from the ravine where I found her.  There was an old blind lady there.  That’s where I found the milk powder.  She gave it to me.”

“I know the place you mean,” said Boone.  “Lots of old refriderators and washing machines.”

“That trailer is real close to where the people were shot.”

“And it’s not very far from here either.  Listen, Jenny, we need to see what’s in your pack.”  Doug held the flashlight while Boone spread out a green poncho on the ground between them, mostly beneath the Subaru’s hatch.  Boone removed the contents from the side and back pouches, and then the main compartment.  The holly branches above their heads blocked most of the falling snow.  “This pack belonged to the American, the traitor with the Cossacks?”

“Yes.  He was the one on the loudspeaker back at Mannville, when they attacked the swap market.  He was the one that gave the orders, and told us what to do.  When we didn’t move fast enough, he burned us with some kind of a heat ray that looked like a big TV screen.  Later he showed up at the house they took us to—the girls, I mean.  Then he dragged me upstairs and tried to rape me, but I killed him instead.”

After a pause, Boone redirected the conversation.  “Jenny, those three stars on your shoulders mean he was an officer.  Like a senior lieutenant or a captain, or maybe a major.  At least I think that’s the Russian rank system.  I don’t know what his American rank was.  He was probably assigned to the Cossack battalion as a liaison, not just as a translator.  That means he was a go-between, to take orders to the Cossacks.  They gave him a Cossack uniform so he could blend in with them.  Too bad he’s dead—he’s the kind of traitor I’d
really
love to talk to.  But I’m glad you got away, even if it meant killing him.  Don’t get me wrong, we would have killed him too.  I just wish we’d had a chance to interrogate him first—before hanging him.  That’s what we do with traitors when we catch them alive.”

Carson asked, “But who was giving him his orders?  An American, or a foreigner?  Who’s in charge of this thing?”

“Americans are in charge, I’m fairly sure,” said Boone.  “I think the foreign troops are being run under Homeland Security, so it would go from there to the president.  But just in Tennessee and Kentucky, I think.  And I think it’s being run out of Fort Campbell, that’s on the Kentucky state line a hundred miles north of us.  Now, if somebody else is giving orders to the president—I mean somebody foreign—well, that’s
way
above my level of knowledge.  I wouldn’t have a clue about that.”

Boone removed a black plastic waterproof Pelican case the size of a big shoebox.  The case was the largest item in the pack.  He opened its latches and removed a black brick-sized walkie-talkie.  The bottom third of the radio was a removable battery pack.  A thick rubber-coated antenna was detached from the radio so that it could fit within the waterproof container.

In the Pelican case there was also a portable GPS unit with a small LCD screen, a digital camera, a cell phone, an infrared aiming laser the size of a television remote control, a small tactical flashlight and a clear Ziploc bag full of AA batteries.  There was also a small plastic container full of exotic batteries for the other electronic devices.  There was nothing else in the Pelican case.  In a separate plastic case, there was a pair of night vision goggles identical to his military PVS-7’s.  The backpack also contained dry socks and other spare garments in a waterproof bag, ammunition, folded paper maps, candy, a water bottle, another sausage and two MRE military ration packs.

Boone held the walkie-talkie, turning it over and showing it to the others.  “This is a PRC-148; it’s used for talking ground-to-ground or ground-to-air.  And for communicating anywhere else too, using an airplane or a drone as a relay.  This was the traitor’s radio for contacting his headquarters, and for receiving his orders.”

Doug said, “We’d better pull the batteries out of all of this stuff.  Any of these things could be used as tracking beacons.”

“The cell phone and the radio, for sure.  But let’s turn on the GPS.  I haven’t had a working unit for a long time.”  GPS was now encrypted, and the encryption was changed frequently, so old GPS devices without current chips were useless.  GPS had become a tightly restricted tool available only to the military and certain civilian industries, after terrorists began programming airplanes to fly bombs into government buildings.  GPS plus an airplane flying on autopilot allowed almost anybody to create a poor man’s cruise missile.  Besides the government, only airlines, shipping lines and a few other authorized users were now granted access to GPS.  The position signals for these authorized civilian users were degraded to only quarter-mile accuracy, to prevent misuse.  Only the military had access to the real thing, GPS signal accuracy down to a few meters.

Boone pushed the power button, and the LCD screen lit up.  In a few moments it had acquired its position.  He scrolled the menu through screens until he found the map page.  He zoomed in until it covered the area surrounding them.  “See the dotted line?  The trackback was programmed.  Jenny, it shows every step of your path tonight.  It might even show how the traitor got here, and where his headquarters is.  This thing could be a gold mine of information.  It’s even got a night vision mode, so the screen won’t be too bright to use with NVGs.  It’s a damned good piece of gear.”

Doug Dolan was already removing the battery packs from the hand-held radio and the cell phone.  “What if the GPS can be activated as a tracker?”

“Not likely,” said Boone.  “Out of the box, it’s set up to receive only.  There’s no reason for it to be modified to transmit a homing signal—the American traitor that Jenny killed wasn’t on that kind of a mission.  He had the radio for sending out his position.”

Boone knew that Doug was right to ask about the GPS.  It was an old Special Forces trick to leave weapons, radios or other gear with electronic trackers secretly embedded in them, where guerrillas would “find” or “capture” them.  The Americans could then use these covert tracking beacons to locate the enemy base camps.  Boone had done this himself, in Colombia, Peru, Iraq and Afghanistan.  Removing batteries provided little assurance of safety.  A tracking device could be concealed anywhere, even within the backpack’s frame, or for that matter in the boots that Jenny wore.  The bugs could then lay dormant, not turning on and emitting any detectable signal for days or weeks. 

The only assurance he had that no tracking devices were being carried by this girl was the fact that she had killed the previous owner to acquire them.  That is, if he accepted Jenny’s story at face value.  But it was just too far-fetched to believe otherwise.  The infant was the deciding factor.  Jenny’s arrival with a baby was too elaborate and bizarre to be a planned operation, designed to locate his tiny resistance cell.  Her story of being Hank McClure’s niece fit what he already knew.  Finally, he told Doug, “I suppose anything’s possible, but it’s a chance we have to take.  I need this GPS for what I have in mind.  Okay, here’s the new plan.  Can you find Charlie Two without me?”

“Yeah, I think so…”  Doug sounded less than certain.

“That’s not good enough—can you, or can’t you?  Be sure, one way or the other.  You’ve made the trip with me a few times: can you find it at night, without me?”

“With night vision goggles, yes.”  Doug pulled the new NVGs from their case and turned them on.  A single light amplification tube in the center split into two images and poured green light from both ocular lenses.  He held them to his face and adjusted the straps around his head.                “You’d better—you have to.  Okay, here’s what we’ll do.  I’m taking the GPS and the cameras, and I’m going to find Jenny’s ravine.  No pack, and no long weapon—I’ll be moving fast, and I might have to move in daylight.  The bodies were left uncovered in the open, and that was a big mistake by the Cossacks.  We need to take advantage of it.  I’m going to take pictures and try to collect some forensic evidence.  Wallets, ID cards, that sort of thing.  Hair for DNA, maybe.  Solid, undeniable proof.  If they’ve massacred hundreds of the people from around here, then they’ve crossed a big red line and they can’t go back.  They’re taking their counterinsurgency to another level: total scorched earth, no holds barred.  This changes everything.  After this, it’s a whole new ball game, with new rules.  But I need to get the proof, so this is our new top priority.”

“I’ll go with you,” offered Phil Carson.  “I can cover your back.”

“No, this is a solo mission.  No offense, but I’ll be traveling too fast, and I can’t risk your getting injured and slowing me down.  That area will be thick with enemy soldiers, and one man means fewer tracks and less chance of compromise.  I’ll be at the cave before dawn, day after tomorrow.  If I’m not, well…it’s over.  What I mean is resistance in Radford County is finished.  We can’t operate here any longer, not if Mannville was wiped out.  If I don’t make it to the cave, head for Mississippi, to Corinth.  But with a little luck, I’ll see you at the cave by tomorrow night, or Monday morning at the latest.  Doug, make sure this place is squared away.  Sweep your tracks behind you as best you can on the way out, and around the cave.  We can’t do anything about the car tracks back behind us, but you don’t want to leave footprints leading from here to the cave.  Don’t rush it, be careful, but don’t waste any time either.  Doug, listen to Zack and Phil, they’re both good in the woods, right?  But you’re in charge.”  Boone looked at each of their faces.  “Right.  That’s it then.  I’ll see you tomorrow night, or by Monday morning at the very latest.”

Boone quickly did a rapid mental inventory of what he was already carrying, and what he needed to take from the car.  Night goggles, and both digital cameras.  Two frag grenades, with trip wire rigs for hastily setting across his trail in case he was pursued.  A small bag of beef jerky and his camelback full of water.  His mini escape and evasion kit, as always.  For close, quiet work, his .45 caliber Glock 21 pistol, with a threaded barrel ready for its suppressor.  His backup weapon was another Glock, the compact version without a threaded barrel.  Both weapons took the same ammunition and magazines.  He considered carrying an M-4 carbine, but decided that its advantages in range would be outweighed by its lack of concealability.  No matter how he was armed, he could not win a firefight against a squad of Cossacks armed with Kalashnikovs and belt-fed machine guns.  The key to survival on this solo operation was keeping a low profile, and that meant using only fully concealable weapons, in case he was forced to cross open ground or skirt the edge of a village.

The camouflage parka hung nearly to his knees, completely covering his pistol holster.  This was an advantage to winter fighting: he could never hide his combat vest, gear and weapons on his body when dressed for summer.  The tradeoff was that in the summer, the far thicker foliage and the leaf-covered woods kept him better concealed, even while dressed more lightly and carrying weapons on the outside.  Boone didn’t need to carry much, because he was operating practically in his backyard, and he had secret caches of necessities, including firearms, located around the county.  It was impossible to walk a mile without crossing a source of water that he could drink through his charcoal filter straw.  He could live off the land practically forever in this country.  Boone pulled his NVGs down over his face and punched the GPS unit’s backlight down to its dimmest night vision–compatible setting.  He clicked the map to the trackback mode and set off at a brisk pace, following Jenny McClure’s GPS trail.  Her footprints were also clearly visible in the bright green snow.