Foreign Enemies and Traitors (83 page)

“I don’t
care
if he’s the president—he’s a goddamn traitor!  I’d drop the hammer on that communist son of a bitch myself!”

“You can’t say that!”

“Look, fellows, we’ve served some bad presidents before, and we’ve survived.  We’ve gotten past them.  Look at Dave Whitman: he sold our nuclear secrets to the Chinese!  If that’s not treason, what is?”

“But even Weasel Dave didn’t bring foreign troops onto American soil to massacre American civilians!”

“Only because he couldn’t figure out a way to make money from it.”

“You think this is funny?  You think this is some kind of a goddamn joke?”

“I’m not joking!  You think I’m joking?”

“Come on, think about it!  If we don’t stop these traitors, who can?  Who will?  If not us, then who?  If not now, then when?  Who’s got a better shot at this than we do?  At least we have a chance!  If we can bring General Armstead on board, we have a chance.  If we can get Armstead, we can get the 101st, and maybe the 82nd.  The other Special Forces Groups for sure.  We have the pictures, and the video.  If we do this right, we’ll have a chance to put the evidence straight in front of the American people directly.  We can do it!”

“It’s still treason, no matter how you look at it.  We’ll be a dozen up against millions.”

“The treason is on
their
side!  We’ll be upholding our sworn oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies—and that means foreign
and
domestic.”

“You mean the old constitution, or the new one?  The new guys take the oath to the new constitution.”

“Fuck that—there’s only one Constitution!  We all swore that oath, and it didn’t say ‘except for the president, who is above the law.’  And we won’t just be a dozen; we’ll be thousands, if we’re smart about how we do this.”

“You try to bring in thousands of conspirators, and we’ll all be eating breakfast in Fort Leavenworth by next week.”

“What a mess, what a fucking mess.”

“It’s still treason—”

“Hell yes, it’s treason, but it’s
their
treason!  Not ours!” 

Ira, AKA Dewey O. Lieberman, was not the tallest of the group by any means, but he had an imposing face and a commanding presence when he chose to exercise them.  He held up both hands, looked at each of the men, and they grew quiet.  Carson noticed this rather theatrical turn. In an almost Shakespearian manner Ira quoted, “‘Treason doth never prosper: what’s the reason?  Why, if it prosper, none dare call it treason
.
’  An Englishman named John Harrington said that, all the way back around the year 1600.”

“Ira, what the hell’s the point of that?” asked the muscular black man in the green T-shirt.

“The point is, there’s nothing new under the sun.  There’s an ancient pattern at work here.”

Another man said, “I’ve seen that quote before, but what’s it mean?  Can you interpret that so us mere enlisted swine can understand it?”

Ira replied, “Hey, I’m a mere enlisted swine too, or at least I was until I retired.”

Colonel Spencer spoke next, and they all turned to listen to him.  “It means that if we’re successful, we’ll all be heroes, and nobody will ever say a negative word against us.  We’ll be called the saviors of the republic, and nobody will ever dare call us traitors.” 

The black NCO asked, “Well, what if we’re
not
successful?  I’m just saying…” 

The colonel gave a wry smile and said, “Then they’ll hang us all.  They’ll hang us, and bury us in Potter’s Field, next to Booth and Oswald.” 

“Yeah,” said Donelson, rubbing his neck with his hand.  “I saw that World War Two movie
Valkyrie
.  I didn’t like the ending.  That mission to take out Hitler was fubar to the max.”

“That Hitler op was fubar because it was too big and too complicated.  Small and fast is the way to go.”

“I think this is crazy.  I think this is all beer talk, and you’ll forget it in the morning.”

“Did you think that Predator video was crazy?  You think you’ll forget Boone’s pictures in the morning?  They’re slaughtering American civilians now, and we’re going to do
nothing
about it?  We can’t just sit on this information—we have to use it.  I mean,
really
use it!  Take it just as far as it needs to go.”

“If
we
can’t light the fuse on this thing, who can?  Anyway, look at the aces we’ve been dealt with this video and these pictures.  When will we have a better hand than now?  When will we have a better chance to see this through?  Who can do this kind of thing better than we can?  The longer we wait, the weaker we’ll become, and the more chance of compromise there’ll be.  Keep it small and do it fast—that’s the best way.  Who dares, wins!”

“So who’s in?  It’s time to stand up and be counted!” 

“Oh, man, I don’t know—the president!  You’re talking about the
president
!  I don’t know about that…”

“If we don’t take this thing on now, we never will.  How will we be able to look at ourselves in the mirror if we can see what we just saw and just go home and do
nothing
?  What will we tell our grandkids when they ask us why we didn’t act when we had the chance?”

Phil Carson listened to their discussion while continuing to examine the objects around the room.  The den was practically a museum of militaria, a decorated veteran’s “me room” commemorating the highlights of his long career and many adventures.  In a position of honor on a mahogany shelf, inside a custom-made triangular glass-topped shadow box, was an American flag, tri-folded and showing only the blue field of white stars.  A small brass plate on its front identified the flag as having been given in honor of one Lt. Chester G. Donelson, USA, 5th SFG(A), 1941-1967.  The mahogany-trimmed glass top of the case was mounted on small brass hinges. 

In the shadow box, on top of the flag, rested a faded Green Beret, with the old black-and-yellow unit flash of the 5th Special Forces Group.  On the same shelf, not far from the shadow box, lay a book with a cracked green vinyl cover, made to snap all the way around the open side to protect its pages.  It had been decades since Phil Carson had seen one of them.  It was a Vietnam-era Soldier’s Bible, made to fit into a pouch on a rucksack. 

Carson hoped that Lieutenant Chester Donelson, wherever he was resting, wouldn’t mind the imposition.  Unnoticed by the men arguing behind him, Carson unlatched the shadow box’s glass lid and removed the tri-folded flag and the Green Beret.  Then he picked up the small Soldier’s Bible and placed it on top of the beret.  It was time to end the discussion.  It was time to put this debate to rest.  He remembered another similar dispute, seven years ago in another house.  It had worked then, and it might work now.

The men were standing around the poker table, still arguing.  Carson put the flag, the beret and the Bible in the center of the table.  His unexpected placement of those three items hushed the room to abrupt silence. 

He said, “Men, it’s time to stop debating
if
we’re going to do it, and start planning
how
we’re going to do it.  It’s time, right now, to decide.  Who’s in, and who’s out?  If you’re in, you’re in all the way, to the bitter end.  If you’re out—just leave now.”  Then he leaned over the table and placed his hand on the Bible, the beret, and the flag.  “Who else is in?”

Sergeant Major Donelson looked at Carson across the table, met his eyes, and then placed his own right hand over Carson’s.  His fingertips traced the edge of the old felt Green Beret.  “Boone says you served with his father.  That’s good enough for me.  I’m in for the duration.  All the way.  No matter what it takes, no matter where it goes.” 

CW4 Rogan’s three-fingered right hand went down next, over his friend’s.  “Count me in too.  All the way to the end—Night Stalkers don’t quit!”

All the right hands went down in seconds, crossing one another’s over the holy book.  The men leaned in together like a football huddle, shoulder-to-shoulder and staring from face to scarred and weather-beaten face.  No one balked, hesitated or refused.  After perhaps half a minute, the men slowly withdrew their hands from the Bible, but they remained clustered tightly around the table, staring at the little stack of sacred items almost resonantly glowing between them.

While they were still close together, Colonel Spencer turned to each of them and quietly said, “Gentlemen, we might not come out of this too well…but that’s nothing new for any of us.  Only God and history will be our judge.  And I’d rather lose my life, than lose what’s left of my honor.  I’ve stayed on board with this…this disgraceful situation we find ourselves in for much too long already…and I suspect you all feel the same way.

“Men, we’ve fought our country’s wars all over the world for many years.  That’s nothing new.  What’s new is that this time, we really are fighting for our country, and for the very survival of our republic.  This time, we’re not ten thousand miles from home.  This time, we
are
home.  This time, our oath is going to mean more than just the words we say when we re-up.  This time, we’re actually going to defend the Constitution, against enemies both foreign
and domestic
.  So let’s get to work.  I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to share.”

****

It was already after midnight.
  For the last six hours, the two teenagers had been hiking for twenty minutes and resting for ten, when the terrain allowed it.  Zack walked ahead of Jenny, his bow strapped to his pack,
his new AK-47 across his chest.  He held it in both hands at the ready, its sling behind his neck.  He would walk a few yards, then stop and look around, so it wasn’t hard for her to keep up with him.  When he wasn’t sure of the route ahead, he left Jenny in temporary hiding places and scouted forward while she rested with the baby.  When he found the way, he returned and they continued on.

They had left their hiding place beneath the camper shell when it grew dark.
 Thick fog had rolled in with the night.  The three-quarters moon was up just before twilight, so even with the fog, the night was less than black.  The fog meant that visibility was short, less than a hundred feet, but without visual references, distances were just a guess.  The moon lit their immediate surroundings so that they could walk quickly, without fear of tripping over unseen roots or stumbling in holes.  It would be a perfect night for covering serious distance, at least until the moon set.  Unless they had the bad luck to stumble right into a Cossack patrol, they’d make it across into Mississippi before dawn. 

Boone had marked their map with a route and the best places to cross the state line.  When dogs growled or barked, they backtracked and circled around.  Homes sometimes loomed up in front of them, and if no dogs barked, they skirted close by them and continued quickly on their way.  Most houses were fenced in, often with primitive wooden palisades or plain barbed wire.  They were becoming experts at climbing over or wriggling through every type of fence.  Most of the houses they encountered appeared deserted, but their inhabitants might have been hiding inside, and certainly nobody was showing lights of any kind.  As they walked further south, they came across fewer and fewer homes that had been recently torched by the Cossacks.  Some homes had obviously been burned down long before, probably during the period of chaos after the earthquakes.  Many other homes were windowless and gutted.

They crossed several paved roads, but without being able to see road signs, they could only guess if they matched the ones on the map.  They used Boone’s map until they concluded that they were completely disoriented, and then they just followed the compass, heading south.

The baby had become a veteran traveler, nestled against Jenny’s chest between the parka and her pack’s straps.  The pacifier was clipped to the collar of her “onesie” outfit, so it would not be lost.  She’d had one bottle before leaving the camper shell, and there was one more staying warm against Jenny’s skin, above her belt.  She travels like an Indian baby in a papoose, thought Jenny.  She wants to live.  She’s a determined survivor, like us.

In this part of Tennessee, streams were even more common than roads, and just as random and confusing in their twists and turns.  Zack walked along them until he could find a crossing, either over a log or on rocks.  But try as they might, they were both soon soaked up to their knees and Jenny’s feet were almost numb.  The air wasn’t as cold as on the previous nights, but this was a mixed blessing, because the ground was soft and frequently muddy.  Bogs and marshy areas were as common as the streams.  But if they could just get safely into Mississippi, all of their present soreness, fatigue and discomfort would matter for nothing.

One creek was much wider than the others, and they walked along its bank for at least a mile before Zack found a homemade pedestrian bridge to cross it.  A roughly nailed wooden ladder took them up between two thick trees that grew a few feet apart.  The trees were the support columns for a wire cable suspension bridge.  From the two long cables hung a shaky bridge deck of wooden planks laid lengthwise, wide enough for just one person at a time.  Jenny was wearing gloves, and gripped the two rusty wires at shoulder height as the boards bounced and swayed beneath her feet.  At its lowest point in the middle, it was just a few yards above the rushing water.  She’d seen these do-it-yourself hillbilly bridges before in rural Tennessee.  Farmers often constructed them so they could walk over creeks and streams on their property and avoid long trips around.  This was a big one, easily over a hundred feet long. 

In their shroud of moonlit fog, just the bridge and the immediate area around them were visible.  They could pass a Cossack patrol only a few dozen yards away and never see them.  Or they could stumble right into an ambush.  It didn’t bear fretting over.  There was nothing you could do to change the reality.  You could only be thankful for the fog and the moonlight and press on, grateful that Zack had proven to be a sure woodsman.  Now he even had an AK-47, besides his bow.  If he could kill a mounted Cossack soldier with just an arrow, what could he do with thirty bullets?  And this rifle had a strap, so he wouldn’t lose it.