Foreign Enemies and Traitors (6 page)

Bullard wasn’t nearly as handsome, but he thought he looked pretty good for his age.  Some of the ladies still said he looked like Robert De Niro, and he had been practicing the actor’s mannerisms and facial expressions for so long that they had become second nature.  If he had to dye his hair black, so what? 
You talkin’ to me?

The Kazak leader said, “Ah, General Blair, always with the dramatic appearance.” 

Colonel Jibek knew Bob Bullard only by this alias.  These Asiatics had no respect for titles other than military ranks, so Bullard adapted.  A Kazak colonel would answer only to a general, so Bullard became one, nominally.  In Third World hellholes like Kazakhstan, mysterious “generals” who seldom wore uniforms were standard issue.  This custom was useful when dealing with the foreign military units, under the auspices of the rural pacification program.  He was the director of the program, and he made up his own rules.  He had been hired because he got results.  Besides, Jibek wasn’t a real colonel either, not in the sense of belonging to a sovereign nation’s military.  The Kazak Battalion was really just a mercenary outfit manned by contract soldiers—like most of the foreign units under Bullard’s command.  “
Kontraktniki
,” they called themselves.  Their contracts stipulated that battalion leaders were colonels, so there you were.

“By what grace do we thank the appearance of our general?”  Colonel Jibek spoke with a vague Limey accent, and his English grammar was always humorously mangled.  It was all Bullard could do to keep a straight face.  He guessed that Jibek (if that was his real name, and he suspected it was not) had probably learned the language while listening to tapes made by English defectors to the Soviet Union.  Back in the Soviet era, their special operations officers were trained to operate behind enemy lines and usually learned a foreign language, so it fit his bio.  He was one of only a handful of Kazak officers with any knowledge of English whatsoever.  This language insularity was one of the key attributes of the Kazak Battalion, making them particularly well suited for certain missions.  That and their casual, ingrained brutality.

“Climb down, Colonel, and let’s go for a walk.”

“But we are not completed of our game.”

“Don’t worry; you can finish after I’m gone.  We need to talk.”

“I will bring you horse.  We may riding go together.  I am for certain that you will enjoy.”

“Not today.”  Bob Bullard had not sat on a horse since a county fair pony ride in the third grade, and he did not intend to get on a horse at this point in his life.  “We really need to talk, colonel.  Now.”

The colonel sighed and dismounted his horse, which was immediately led away by an enlisted Kazak soldier, who then followed behind them just out of earshot.  “Would you like something to drink, general?  We have made most excellent
kumis
.”

“Koomis?  What the hell is that?”

“Fermented milk of female horse.  It is tasting very delicious, and increase manly capability with woman.”  The Kazak winked broadly and nudged him with an elbow.

Bullard couldn’t decide if Jibek was pulling his leg.  Well, it didn’t matter at this point.  Jibek could do all the teasing he wanted.  “I’ll pass on it this time.  I’m going to make this brief, and then you can get back to tearing that goat to pieces.  Colonel, I’m worried about your battalion.  They don’t seem to be obeying your orders.”

The Kazak officer shot him a hard look.  “Not possible.  My soldiers are obeying orders to one hundred percent, or they are shot like dogs.”

“Well, if that’s the case, maybe we have a bigger problem than I thought.  Why are all of your men still in Clark County?  Fillmore and Radford County are going to hell in a basket, and last week I asked you to conduct punitive raids.  Those counties should be empty of all unapproved people by now, but they’re still full of rebel holdouts.  I sent target folders and operations plans.  So far we haven’t seen anything but…goat polo.  Your battalion hasn’t moved, not even a platoon.  Even your checkpoints are not manned.”

“Ah, General Blair, winter now is time for my men to enjoy fruits of their work.  They are busy on new farms, with new American wives.  It’s not simple you know, subduing a rebel province.  To win the hearts and brains of the people takes much attention.  As for checkpoints, Mexicans of North American Legion are good enough for checkpoint duty.  It is not for my battalion to do such low work.  My men are all
Spetznaz
, trained for special operations.”

“Have you even read the target folders I sent you?  I made a simple request, and I was ignored.  I don’t like being ignored, Colonel.”

“I am not ignoring your wishes, but we are, you might say, in a period of reformation and regrouping here.  When we are ready—”

“Your men will never be ready, not if they think they are going to turn into farmers and land owners here in Clark County.  I’m telling you Colonel, that’s not how this is going to work.  No way in hell.”

“My men were promised land.  I was promised land!  Land, and citizenship.  What are your government’s promises, empty wind?”

“You were never promised land in Tennessee.  This county is not the end of your mission tasking, Colonel.  We have more important missions for your battalion before you will receive your permanent land titles.”

Jibek made a sweeping gesture with his riding crop at the hundreds of acres of rolling fields and woods surrounding them.  “So this estate, the horses…are not mine to keep, as I was understanding?  Pity.  I’ve grown, how do you say…rather fond of the place.” 

“I’m sure you have, but it’s not going to be yours for much longer.  Your battalion has been tasked with population evacuation and relocation operations in Western Tennessee.  Once this region is pacified, your battalion will be heading far to the west.  The Mexicans will be adequate to hold what you have gained for us in Tennessee, but your mission here has not yet been finished.  You need to bring your men back into fighting form.  You need to get them back into training for war, not games.  You need to get them ready for more operations now, not sometime later.”

“Ah, my dear General Blair, you must understand…that is not Kazak way.  Kazak men must see rewards along path.  I promise you, we will be ready for more operations in spring.  Until then…”

“Listen Colonel: don’t forget who provides the fuel for your trucks and your generators.  Don’t forget who provides you with the overhead images and videos that let you know where to find the rebels, and the helicopters that allow you to catch them.  I don’t think you understand your position—”

“Nor do
you
understand my position!  I have told you, my battalion will be ready for new operation—
in time of spring
.”

“That’s not soon enough; we have a schedule of operations to keep.  I’ll stop your fuel allotments; I’ll stop your helicopters.  And I’ll let the
Mexicans
have this farm.”

Colonel Jibek stood face to face with Bullard, slapping his riding crop against his leg.  “We don’t need your supplies or your helicopters; we are capable of sustaining ourselves.  We are not soft like you Americans.  My men are hard like steel.  They can take whatever they need, or do without.  As far as
Mexicans
taking this farm, well, send them—and
let them try
.”

Bullard contained his reaction to the Kazak’s rising anger.  “That’s your final answer?  You need a few months of rest and recuperation before beginning a new phase of operations?”

“Yes, that is correct.  I have many friends in Washington, very high in Department of State.  They have given me explicit guarantee that my battalion will not be overtasked with missions.  In fact, the Assistant Secretary of State gave me such as promise in writing on paper before even we came to Tennessee.  Would you like to see document?  We have already performed above our part of agreement.”

 “The State Department, huh?  Well, why didn’t you say so?”  Bullard put his hands up in apparent resignation.  “Well, I guess I know when I’ve lost an argument.  Okay Colonel, you win, have it your way.  Keep me informed, and let me know when your battalion is ready.  But in the meantime, if I send you some small mission taskings, the occasional ambush or rebel farm liquidation, do you think perhaps you could work them into your training schedule?”

“Well, of course, General Blair, I am a reasonable man.  Are you sure you won’t try cup of fresh
kumis
?”

“Maybe next time.”  Bullard turned and walked back to his helicopter, still surrounded by his bodyguards.  Colonel Jibek hissed an order to his trailing adjutant, and another lackey brought his white stallion up by its reins.  Jibek mounted with a flourish, whipped his mount, and tore off at a gallop to where dozens of his men were still tossing the remains of a dead goat from rider to rider.

****

By 2:20, Phil Carson could see a distant sign by the road,
and beside it a tent colored desert tan.  The sign was a sheet of plywood, horizontal.  It read MISSISSIPPI in hand-painted letters.  As he walked closer, he could make out a subscript: “No entry without official permission.”  Beyond the sign the road doubled in size, from two lanes to four, with a median strip between the eastbound and westbound lands.  A handful of figures moved around the tent as he walked onward, and they paused to study him as he drew near.  They were soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms, carrying M-16s.  They finally reacted when he was a hundred yards away.

“Hold it right there!” came the shouted command.
  “
No further!  Put your hands up and kneel down.” 

The simple checkpoint consisted of a canvas Army tent, with all four sides rolled up, and a porta-john.  A green military pickup truck was parked by the tent.  This checkpoint was about what Carson had expected.  He did as he was ordered, and dropped slowly to his knees.

A pair of soldiers approached to within twenty yards.  Both were clean-shaven Caucasians in their twenties, wearing matching camo patrol caps.  These were similar to ball caps but flat on top, with a shorter bill.  The taller of the two asked, “What were you doing over there?  Couldn’t you read the sign?  That’s a prohibited zone.”  Both carried their rifles across their chests on slings, but they were not wearing body armor.

“I think he’s a looter,” suggested the smaller troop, leveling the barrel of his M-16.  “Look at that pack—it’s probably just crammed with loot.”

“What prohibited zone?” asked Carson.  “I don’t know anything about a prohibited zone.”

“Are you blind?  Can’t you read?  This sign says it’s a prohibited zone—you can’t just go strolling on into Alabama.”

Carson looked at the crude four-by-eight plywood sign, and back at the soldiers.  “I can’t see what it says on your side.  I just see Mississippi, and I guess I’m here asking for official permission, like it says.  I don’t know what the sign says on the other side.”

“How’d you get in there, then?” asked the squad leader smugly.  “Coastal Alabama’s a prohibited zone.  It’s a no-go area.  Nobody can cross the state line without a special permit.  So how’d you get over there if you didn’t sneak around us?”

At least they were keeping their distance, Carson was grateful for that.  They weren’t making him lie face down on the asphalt.  “I don’t know, I was just
there
, that’s all.  I’ve never been here before in my life.  I’ve never seen your sign before.  At least, I don’t
remember
any of this.”

“You don’t
remember
?  What is that bullshit?  What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure what
anything
means.  I woke up back there somewhere.  That’s all I know—I don’t remember anything else.” 

“Where’s your ID badge?” demanded the squad leader.

“ID badge?  I don’t know, am I supposed to have one?  I don’t remember anything about ID badges.”

“Oh, bullshit!  What’s your name and social security number, then?”

Carson feigned a helplessly bewildered look, alternately staring at each of the young soldiers.  “You know, I can’t remember that either!”

“Well, you just can’t remember
anything
, can you?” stated the shorter soldier.

The squad leader asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?”  He had a strong Southern accent.

“Where’s here?” asked Carson, seemingly perplexed.

“Here’s Jackson County, Mississippi, that’s where.  So you’re not from Alabama then?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I can’t remember.  My head hurts real bad, that’s about all I’m sure of.”

The shorter soldier spoke to his squad leader.  “If he came all the way from Florida, he might be carrying the bird flu or the monkey pox…”  Both soldiers backed away.

“You just stay right where you are,” ordered the squad leader.  “I’m going to call higher and get a QV team down here ASAP.  I’m not taking any chances.  No sir, I’m not.”            

“What’s a QV team?” asked Carson timidly.

“Huh?  QV—Quarantine and Vaccination.  If you don’t have an ID and a vaccination card, then you have to go to QV.  They’ll sort it out.”

Both soldiers eased further away from Carson, back toward the rest of the watching squad.  The taller of the two spoke into a walkie-talkie.  Carson shifted from the painful position on his knees to sitting Indian-style on the asphalt.

****

Bob Bullard instructed the pilot
to maintain 4,000 feet of altitude above ground level for the flight from Clark County back to his headquarters at Fort Campbell, on the Tennessee-Kentucky border.  This was above effecttive small-arms range, but low enough for him to give the land a good looking over.  He had a paper air map unfolded on his lap, and he made notes directly on it with a felt-tip marker as he watched the ground slide beneath.  He had already put a giant red X across Colonel Jibek’s confiscated thousand-acre estate.  The helicopter flew a straight track above the gently rolling countryside.  It was still a beautiful region, in spite of the widespread points of destruction.  Clark County was horse country, with many farms dedicated to equestrian pursuits.