by Robin Cook
“What I think we should do,” Curt said, “is go up and talk with your wife. She’s the new problem. We have to know what she knows.”
Yuri closed the door. “I’ll get these locks back in order tonight,” he said. He then led the way back upstairs. While Yuri went to Connie’s bedroom door, Curt and Steve returned to the sitting area but stayed on their feet. Each fireman took a healthy swallow from his drink while they watched Yuri lean into the room beyond. They could hear him talking, but not clearly enough to make out what he was saying, although judging by his tone, he was apparently getting angry. Finally,
Yuri turned back to them. “She’s coming,” he said. “It just takes her a year and a day.”
Curt and Steve exchanged a disgusted look. The situation was going from bad to worse.
“Come on, woman!” Yuri yelled impatiently.
Finally, Connie’s silhouette filled the doorway. She was dressed in a monstrous pink bathrobe trimmed in sea-foam green. Her feet were stuffed into backless slippers. Her left eye was dark red and swollen shut. A dried trickle of blood came from the corner of her mouth.
Curt’s jaw dropped. Steve mumbled an expletive. Both were dumbfounded, and their expressions reflected their stunned bewilderment.
“These men want to ask you a few questions,” Yuri snapped. He then looked expectantly at Curt.
Curt had to clear his throat as well as organize his thoughts. “Mrs. Davydov, do you have any idea of what’s going on downstairs? What your husband is doing?”
Connie eyed the two strangers defiantly. “No!” she spat. “Nor do I care.”
“Do you have an inkling?”
Connie looked at Yuri.
“Answer!” Yuri yelled.
“I thought he was making vodka,” Connie said.
“But you don’t think that any longer?” Curt asked. “Even though those big silver tanks were borrowed from a brewery.”
“I don’t know about that,” Connie said. “But those other little glass dishes. The flat ones! I’ve seen them at the hospital clinic. They’re used for bacteria.”
Curt nodded imperceptibly to Steve, who returned the gesture.
“That’s enough,” Curt called over to Yuri.
Yuri tried to shoo his wife back into her bedroom, but she stood her ground. “I ain’t going back until you bring me your TV.”
Yuri hesitated. Then he ducked into his room. He reappeared moments later carrying a small television with an old-fashioned rabbit-ear antenna. Only then did Connie back out of sight.
“Can you believe this?” Curt mumbled.
“Yeah, I can,” Steve said. “And you wondered why I was voicing some concern this morning before we went into the federal building. This guy’s worse than I thought.”
“At least he did build a lab,” Curt said. “Obviously he knows what he’s doing scientifically.”
“That I’ll grant,” Steve said. “And the lab setup is more impressive than I’d imagined.”
Curt exhaled loudly in frustration. In the background the sudden sound of a TV sitcom burst from Connie’s bedroom. The volume was turned down immediately to be barely audible. The next minute Yuri reappeared. He closed the door behind him and came over to the living area. He sat down, took a drink, and eyed his guests self-consciously.
Curt didn’t know what to say. It had been one thing to learn Yuri was married, but quite another to find out he was married to a black woman. It went against everything Curt believed in, and here he was doing business with the man.
Curt had grown up in a tough, blue-collar, white neighborhood with a physically abusive construction-worker father who continually reminded Curt that he wasn’t as good as his popular, football-star brother, Pete. Curt found solace in hatred. He embraced the bigotry so prevalent in his neighborhood. It was comforting and handy to have a readily identifiable group to blame rather than examine his own inadequacies. But it wasn’t until he’d joined the Marines and moved to San Diego that his rather parochial bigotry was transformed into racial hatred with a particular abhorrence of miscegenation.
The transition had not happened overnight. It stemmed from an attitude that had its origins in a chance meeting with a man almost twice Curt’s age. It was 1979. Curt was nineteen. He’d recently finished boot camp, which had provided a dramatic boost to his self-esteem. He and several of his newfound colleagues, which included several African-Americans, had left the base to visit a bar on Point Loma. It was a bar frequented by armed forces personnel, particularly navy divers and Marines.
The bar was dark and smoky. The only light emanated from low-wattage bulbs inside old-fashioned, hard-hat diving helmets. The music was mostly from a band Curt later learned was Skrewdriver, and the man who was feeding quarters into the jukebox was sitting next to it, at a small table by himself.
Curt and his buddies crowded in at the bar and ordered beers. They swapped war stories about their recent boot camp experiences and laughed heartily. Curt was content. It was the first time he had felt at all like part of a group. He’d even excelled during training and had been selected as a squadron leader.
Eventually tiring of the thudding, monotonous music, Curt drifted over to the jukebox. He’d had several beers and was euphorically mellow. He looked over the selections and fingered a handful of quarters.
“You don’t like the music?” the man at the small table asked.
Curt looked down at the stranger. He was of moderate size with close-cropped hair. His features were sharp with narrow lips and straight, white teeth. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a T-shirt and ironed jeans. There was a small American flag tattooed on his right upper arm. But his most striking attribute was his eyes. Even in the semi-darkness, they had a piercing quality that Curt found almost hypnotic.
“The music’s all right,” Curt said. He squared his shoulders. It appeared as if the stranger was sizing him up.
“You should listen to the words, friend,” the man said. He took a pull on his beer.
“Yeah, what would I hear?” Curt asked.
“A message that might save the goddamn country,” the man said.
A wry smile crept onto Curt’s face. He glanced over at his buddies, thinking they should hear this guy.
“My name’s Tim Melcher,” the man said. He pushed an empty chair out from his table with his foot. “Sit down. I’ll buy you a beer.”
Curt looked at the beer in his hand. It was down to the dregs.
“Come on, soldier,” Tim said. “Take a load off your feet and do yourself a favor.”
“I’m a Marine,” Curt said.
“It’s all the same,” Tim said. “I was army myself. First Cavalry Division. I did two tours in Vietnam.”
Curt nodded. The word Vietnam made his legs feel rubbery. It meant real war instead of the playacting Curt and his friends had been doing. It also reminded Curt of his older brother Pete, the Bensonhurst football star. Eight years older than Curt, he’d had the bad luck of being drafted. He’d been killed in Vietnam the year before the war was over.
Curt turned the chair around, threw a leg over it, and sat down. He leaned on the back of the chair and drained his beer.
“What’ll it be?” Tim asked. “The same?”
Curt nodded.
“Harry!” Tim called to the bartender. “Send us over a couple of Buds.”
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Curt Rogers.”
“I like that,” Tim said. “Nice Christian name. It fits you, too.”
Curt shrugged. He didn’t quite know what to make of the stranger, especially with his intense eyes.
With a fresh beer, Curt began to relax again.
“You know, I’m glad I met you,” Tim said. “And you know why?”
Curt shook his head.
“Because I’m forming a group that I think you and a couple of your buddies ought to join.”
“What kind of a group?” Curt asked skeptically.
“A border brigade,” T
im said. “An armed border brigade. You see, the regular Border Patrol who are supposed to be protecting this country from illegal aliens are not doing their job. Hell, the Mexican border just ten freaking miles away is like a giant sieve.”
“Really,” Curt said. He’d not thought much about the border. He’d been much too preoccupied with the rigors of boot camp.
“Yes, really,” Tim said, mocking Curt’s response. “I’m telling you, this is a serious situation. You and I and the rest of our Aryan brothers and sisters are soon going to be the minority around here.”
“I’d never thought about that,” Curt said. It was the first time he’d even heard the word Aryan and had little idea of what it meant.
“Hey, you’d better wake up,” Tim said. “It’s happening. This country is on the brink of being taken over by niggers, spics, slanty-eyes, and queers. It’s going to be up to people like you and me if our God-fearing, self-reliant culture is to survive where people work for a living and queers stay in the closet. I tell you, not only are these other races seeping in here like water through a sponge, but they’re reproducing like flies. This is one hell of a problem. We just can’t sit around on our asses anymore. If we do, we only have ourselves to blame.”
“How are you going to arm the border brigade?” Curt asked. “If you got some crazy idea that people like me could help, think again. We can’t take our ordnance off the base.”
“Weapons are not a problem,” Tim said. “I’ve got a goddamn arsenal in my basement, including fully automatic M1s, machine pistols, scoped sniper rifles, and Glocks. I even have uniforms for us ‘cause I already got about ten navy guys involved. We’ve already been on patrol.”
“Have you come across any aliens?” Curt asked. Awed by the firearms Tim described, Curt’s estimation of the stranger soared.
“Bet your sweet ass,” Tim said. “We’ve interdicted almost a dozen.”
“What do you do with them once you catch them, turn them over to the Border Patrol?”
Tim laughed scornfully. “If we did that, they’d be back the next night. The Border Patrol’s idea of interdiction is to slap their wrists, scold them, and then turn them loose.”
“Well, then what do you do with them?” Curt asked although he sensed the answer.
Tim leaned over and whispered. “We shoot ‘em and bury ‘em.” He wiped his hands rapidly as if brushing off dirt. “That way, it’s over and done. There’s no second chance.”
Curt swallowed. His throat had gone dry. The idea of shooting illegal aliens was both arousing and scary at the same time.
“I got some copies of a magazine here in my briefcase,” Tim said. “I’ll be happy to give them to you if you hand them out to people like you and me. You understand what I’m saying when I say people like you and me?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Curt said. “What kind of magazines are they?”
“The one that I happen to have today is called Blood and Honor,” Tim said. “I’ve got others, but this one is particularly good. It’s from England, but it talks about the stuff we’re discussing. Western Europe has the same problems we do. I also have a novel you can read. Do you like to read?”
“No, not much,” Curt admitted. “Except gun manuals and stuff like that.”
“Maybe this book will turn you into a reader,” Tim said. “Reading is important.” He bent over, unsnapped his briefcase, and lifted out a sizable paperback. “It’s called The Turner Diaries.” He handed it to Curt.
Curt took the book. He was skeptical. He’d only read one novel since high school: a pornographic story about a college call girl from Dallas named Barbara. He cracked open The Turner Diaries and read a few lines. He couldn’t know then that it would become his favorite book.
Curt ended up taking six copies of the magazine Blood and Honor in addition to The Turner Diaries. After reading both he became progressively excited and concerned about the issues Tim had brought up. Curt made it a point to get the reading material to people Tim thought were appropriate. Soon he had amassed a cadre of like-minded Marines that began to share meals.
Curt’s relationship with Tim Melcher blossomed. He spent a good deal of his free time with the man, helping to organize the border brigade, which he himself joined. Several Marines Curt had recruited joined as well. When Curt eventually got to see Tim’s arsenal in his basement, it aroused him erotically. He’d never seen such a collection of guns and ammo outside of live-ammo Marine maneuvers. Tim even had a stash of Kalashnikov AK-47s. They weren’t as technically good as the fully automatic M1s, but they had a romantic appeal.
Curt’s first operational border brigade excursion had been disturbing. It had started auspiciously with lots of laughter. Everyone was drinking beer from ice chests in the back of the SUVs as they drove south in a convoy of three vehicles, hop-skipping down Interstate 5. Each vehicle was playing Skrewdriver cassettes, which Tim had gotten from England, at high volume. It was a festive atmosphere.
North of the border they’d turned east into the desert. At a site preselected by Tim, they stopped and bivouacked. They put up tents and started a fire. As night fell, they cleaned up their dishes, doused the fire, and set out toward the border. Dressed as they were in desert camouflage, they blended in except for their drunken hilarity.
Curt was having the time of his life. Finally he was truly a part of a group that was, according to Tim, racially pure and of like mind. He also felt they were doing something important, although he doubted they could sneak up on anyone. If nothing else they’d scare any aliens back the way they’d come.
Tim divided the group up into twos. He positioned the pairs at set intervals spread out about a quarter mile back from the border. He chose Curt as his partner, a fact that made Curt proud. It was also good because Tim had made sure he and Curt had the best location. They were on top of a mesa-like rise that was the highest point of the whole area.
They hunkered down on a patch of sand with the sandstone conveniently jutting up behind them. Leaning back against the rock, they broke out fresh beers from their portable thermos pack. The metallic snap of the tabs as they broke in unison was a delicious sound in the dark, arid wilderness.
The night was gorgeous and mild as the rock radiated its stored warmth. Above, the Milky Way appeared as if strewn with a million diamonds. A soft wind blew in from the Pacific, just strong enough to be felt on open skin.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tim commented. He unhooked his communicator from his belt and placed it on a flat rock. He used the radio to keep in touch with the other teams.
“It’s unbelievable,” Curt said. “When I grew up in Brooklyn, I never knew something like this existed.”
“It’s a great country,” Tim said. “Too bad it’s going to the dogs because of the freaking government.”
Curt nodded but didn’t say anything. As mesmerized as he was by the surroundings and numbed by beer, he didn’t want to get into another discussion about the Zionist Occupied Government.
A few minutes passed in silence. Curt took another sip of his beer. “Have you ever been to this location on previous sorties?” Curt asked. At Tim’s insistence they used military terms whenever possible.
“Several times,” Tim said.
“Did you see any action?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tim said. “The enemy was very cooperative.” He laughed. “It was like a turkey shoot.”
“Where did you see them?”
Tim pointed. “Coming along that gully that looks like a notch on the horizon.”
Curt strained his eyes in the darkness. He needed a bit of imagination to believe he was looking at a ravine end on. There was no way he could see anyone approaching until they were practically on top of them. Curt wondered what it would be like if a group of men did suddenly spill out of the darkness. By reflex, his hand dropped down to his holstered Glock automatic. He unsnapped the cover. He didn’t want to be fumbling with it if a need for the gun arose.
“I know what you’re thinking
,” Tim said. “Let me show you something.”
Tim unzipped his canvas gun bag that he’d put on the ground next to him and pulled out a weapon. Even in the darkness Curt could tell it was one of Tim’s that he’d never seen.
“This here’s my favorite,” Tim said proudly. “I don’t take it out except for real ops, like tonight.”
He extended the weapon toward Curt. Curt took it and held it up close to his face. He recognized it immediately although he’d never held one. It was a Marine-modified Remington .308 sniper rifle.
“Where the hell did you get this?” Curt asked with awe.
“You can buy pretty much whatever you want from the survivalist mags like Mercenary. All you have to do is look in the ads in the back.”
“But this is Marine issue,” Curt said. “How could someone get one in the first place?”
“How should I know?” Tim said. “I suppose someone probably stole it at some point or maybe somebody traded it for something else. You’ll learn that there’s a lot of bartering going on in the military.”
“They modify these things at Quantico,” Curt said. He ran his hand affectionately along the stock.
“Yeah, I know,” Tim said. “It’s got a floating barrel and fiberglass bedding. And the trigger pull has been adjusted to one pound.”
“God, it’s fantastic,” Curt said. He could only dream of owning one. He’d come to love guns of any sort but especially high-tech ones.
“The best thing is the scope,” Tim said. “Notice its size. It’s a night-vision scope. Give it a try.”
Curt lovingly lifted the weapon to his shoulder and sighted through the telescopic sight. The black night was miraculously transformed into a hazy green transparency. Even at a distance of several hundred yards Curt could make out details of the arid environment.
All of a sudden Curt’s eyes caught movement and he turned the rifle slightly to his left. In the center of his field of vision were two men picking their way through the darkness, heading toward Curt on the diagonal.
“Holy crap!” Curt exclaimed. “I got two wetbacks in my sights. I can’t believe it.”
“No shit!” Tim said excitedly. “Don’t take your eyes off them. You might not be able to find them again. Tell me: what are they wearing? They’re not uniforms, are they?”