by David Gullen
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘So we can go through if we want to?’
The soldier still chewed his gum but he’d stopped smiling. ‘I’d say that would be unwise.’
The sound of a vehicle driven at speed came from the Canadian side. A flatbed pickup, heavily laden with packing cases and furniture under a tarp, rounded the long bend in the opposite lane. The vehicle slowed through the barriers then accelerated away. A family of five were squeezed into the cab. The children looked across at the soldiers, their parents looked straight ahead. One corner of the tarp snapped in the wind as the pickup sped by.
‘Looks like the smart Canadians would rather be in America too,’ the soldier said. ‘You think they know something we don’t?’
‘I don’t know,’ Novik said.
‘Of course you don’t, sir. There’s nothing to know.’
Moments later a low rumble of heavy traffic came from behind them. The soldier spat out his gum. ‘Pull onto the verge.’
‘Yes, sir.’ In his haste to comply, Novik forgot the handbrake. The car lurched, the engine stalled.
Up ahead, the armoured car blocking the road coughed black exhaust smoke and roared into life.
The soldier swung his rifle off his shoulder. ‘Get your ass in gear, citizen.’
Novik saw the first vehicles of a military convoy appear in the rear-view mirror, a dozen APCs travelling at high speed.
‘I got it.’ Sweating with tension Novik restarted the engine and drove onto the verge.
The armoured cars roared by, followed by dozens of troop trucks, three abreast, gearboxes whining. The incurious faces of bored young soldiers looked out from every tailgate.
Low-slung transporters followed, each carrying a massive battle tank. Behind them were more troop trucks, then self-propelled artillery, comms wagons, and yet more troops. Six open-sided semis raced by. Robo-canines with 30-cal mini-guns stood in silent rows. Engineer-handlers worked their way unsteadily between them with diagnostic consoles and patch kits.
Finally, silence.
The armoured platoon redeployed across the highway.
‘Get us out of here,’ Marytha said.
Novik put the car in gear and turned it round. He drove along the verge until there was a gap in the median barrier, crossed to the far side of the road and drove back into the USA.
Take a Gander at Gackle
Gackle, ND, is the self-proclaimed duck-hunting capital of the world. As if that weren’t incredible enough, it also lies on Highway 46, the road which boasts the longest straight run in the USA – an unbelievable bet-your-little-sister’s-triple-cherry one hundred and twenty three miles. Straight.
Early this morning, something went through sleepy little Gackle like a supersonic Senna pod. Listen to eye-witness and local historian, 86 years old Walther Szymyck:
‘I got this problem that makes me need the can. About 5 am I heard a big “WOOSH!” and the sound of breaking glass. I got my gun and went out front. Most of the store windows were gone, sucked out onto the sidewalk. West on 46 a dust cloud headed into the distance.
‘A few minutes later, I saw the dust cloud hurtling back into town. I hunkered down behind the old water trough, there was another “SWOOSH!” and this huge car went through like Satan was on its tail. Lou-Em’s kitten went whirling by like a leaf, I snagged the little critter in my hat.
‘I’ll tell you something else, – there wasn’t no driver.’
Cool name, Walther, it made our spell checker gibber like an over-caffeinated weasel. And thanks for the update on your prostate, we’ll let your health insurance know.
Folks, here’s where it gets spooky – FedMesh speedcams show nothing at all. Either we really have got a ghost car or it was moving faster than the sensors can fire. For that to happen it would need to be moving in excess of four hundred and eighty miles per hour.
Makes you feel kind of tingly, don’t it? Watch this space, peeps.
– Editor’s blog – BFBM magazine.
- 43 -
Now he was back on foot, Gould was starting to enjoy himself.
Up at the edge of the trees Ayesha was talking to LeBlanc, the leader of the Canadian crew they’d rendezvoused with. LeBlanc was short, muscular and energetic, his hair thin on his neat, round head.
Like Gould, Ayesha was dressed in navy cargoes, hiking boots, a black jacket, and carried a framed backpack. LeBlanc wore a felt jacket of muddy red, blue and brown check, and trousers of brown cord. To Gould’s mind LeBlanc’s clothing, like that of his men, looked loud and amateurish.
Further into the glade Morgan and Black, still in their dark suits and overcoats, shared smokes and gossip with some of LeBlanc’s men. Some had crossbows as well as guns. The Old-fashioned Boys inspected the composite recurved prods, electric winches and high-power scopes with interest. They might be slow-firing weapons but were completely silent and in the right hands utterly deadly.
Morgan and Black drew on their smokes and smiled and looked around. One of LeBlanc’s men said something and they laughed in the polite, respectful way of experienced people sizing each other up.
The trek north from New Orleans had been a dangerous slog. DNA scans made air travel impossible, Gordano’s strutting incompetence a serious and growing liability. Gould pulled the device he had taken from the dead agent from his pocket and gave an amused grunt of disbelief. Even now the two punk hippies who had ripped him off were still heading north.
Black had gone ape when Ayesha suggested the device was some kind of money tracker, tuned to the stash they had lost on the way to Vegas.
‘They knew all the time. The damned Feds knew,’ Black raved. ‘This can’t be the only one, they’ll come at us again.’
Morgan was pale as milk but kept it together. ‘Live with it. We’re the Old-fashioned Boys and we play the hand we’re dealt.’
‘If there is a next time, we have this,’ Gould displayed the handgun the agent had used. ‘That agent was right from the top, the best they had.’
Gould loved the gun. Utilising some form of neural linkage from palm to optic nerve, the bullets flew towards wherever you were looking when you pulled the trigger, then followed the target as it moved.
‘The eye and palm of the hand are packed with nerve endings. The gun must be co-opting a tiny fraction of them to communicate,’ Gould theorised.
‘It sounds about as plausible as micro-changes in air currents,’ Ayesha said.
Gould didn’t mind her scepticism, the gun made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time: powerful and in control – just how gun tech was supposed to make you feel. You picked it up and it worked, no need for an interface, though Gould would not have minded taking a bio-mod for something this cool. He hoped it was home-grown tech, his country still led the world in arms design and it felt like there was a pedigree behind this weapon deeper than the Arabtech gadgets like the money tracker. In his own odd way Gould was a patriot, an entrepreneur who made money any way he could. From criminal overlord to government assassin he was a businessman.
The money tracker showed his cash scattered in a ragged, north-bound line. A few huge splurges, followed by a steadily reducing trail. Gould soon realised they were heading in the same direction. It had led him to Halifax and his wannabe gang brominating legal pharma for a longer buzz that was addiction-free. Amateurs.
Now that had been sweet. Revenge always was. Even second-hand.
Ayesha and LeBlanc walked over.
‘We should be on our way, monsieur,’ LeBlanc said. ‘It is quiet now, and later on your government soldiers will cross in many places.’
‘Then let’s go.’
LeBlanc eyed their dark clothing critically. ‘Too much black, mes amis. Reds and browns are better, the black leaves a hole in the shadows.’ He shrugged extravagantly. ‘We shall do something later.’
They had been walking a few minutes when Gould said, ‘Don’t you mind the Amer
icans invading?’
LeBlanc beamed happily. ‘Not at all. They bring chaos and in chaos there is opportunity. People like you and me, why should we care who thinks they are in charge?’
The trek took them deep into difficult territory of thorny scrub, deep mossy ravines and jagged scarps of crumbling rock.
Late in the clear cold night they paused to rest under a stand of ancient hemlock. Ayesha and Gould sat a short distance away from the rest of the group.
‘Are you warm?’ Gould said.
She kissed him. Her slender body felt distant under the layers of clothing. ‘I’m fine.’ She touched his cheek. ‘Mitch, this could still be a trap.’
Ayesha, always alert, always thinking about his interests and his safety. And when he wanted it, her body, without question. She’d saved Manalito from the female agent, something the Mexican would never forgive her for. One day Manalito would want to take her far out into the desert with his knives. Out there, all alone, they would play a dreadful game. Gould knew a hard choice lay in the future, one he suspected he already knew the answer to. He also knew exactly what Ayesha was doing, that there was little genuine affection behind her actions. The idea of him actually having that thought made him laugh silently. The thing was, she did it all so very well.
‘What?’ Ayesha smiled, puzzled.
‘You’re incredibly useful, you know that?’
She tried to hide it but she preened, more pleased with his remark than if he had said ‘I love you’.
‘I’ve been paid. If this is a trap it’s an extremely expensive one.’
Ayesha’s gesture took in the whole party. ‘They’re using us. This is all part of the war, we’re government agents, mercenary forces paid to do a dirty job.’
That surprised Gould. ‘And now this bothers you?’
‘Come on, Mitch. I just want to know why. I can understand swatting Mexico, but Canada?’
She had a point. ‘I guess they became too much of a pain in the ass.’
‘So if they’re prepared to do this, why leave us alone in New Orleans? Why not reclaim the Southern Littoral?’
A nauseous tension filled Gould’s guts. Why not indeed. A case of preserving a resource until required? ‘Then we have even more reason to be here.’
They went back to where the others crouched in the lee of a dense thicket of sapling-like suckers around one of the trees. It was getting colder, a deep chill Gould felt on his face.
Morgan and Black had their hands cupped around cigarettes.
‘You two are the only Americans I know who still smoke tobacco,’ Gould said.
‘Yeah?’ Morgan drew deep and exhaled. ‘You should try it. The chicks love it, it gets them wet. They think it’s cool.’
‘Two billion Asians can’t be wrong,’ Black said.
‘Are they cool?’ Gould said.
The three men laughed.
Gould took a satisfied breath. ‘I like this, compadres. It is like the old days in Birmingham when we put the heat on the Bloods.’
‘Not so many trees,’ Morgan said.
Black coughed and thumped his chest. ‘Warmer too.’
LeBlanc appeared at their side. He regarded Morgan and Black’s maroon scarves, navy cashmere coats and polished brogues with amused respect. ‘A timeless elegance, gentlemen. It becomes you.’
‘We’re the Old-fashioned Boys,’ Morgan told him. ‘Style never goes out of date.’
‘Of course. And now it is time to move again, monsieurs.’
Black indicated his half-smoked cigarette.
‘Let’s go, gentlemen,’ Gould said.
LeBlanc waited while Morgan and Black pinched out their smokes, then picked up the butts and put them into a plastic bag.
The stars were fading in the east when LeBlanc called another halt. He conferred briefly with his men and two of them silently moved forwards.
‘A problem?’ Gould said quietly.
‘Au contraire, all is well,’ LeBlanc said. ‘We are careful.’
Ten minutes later the men returned and they advanced again. The sky was lighter now but the canopy was dense, the trees close together.
A light flickered ahead. LeBlanc used his flashlight and waved everyone forwards. A dozen men waited in a clearing with three long wheelbase Land Rovers and two windowless black vans.
The cold reached through Gould’s clothing, chilling his thighs and shoulders. His knees ached. Beside him Ayesha walked easily, surefooted over the roots and fallen branches.
Gould’s thoughts clarified in an instant. He’d do this then bail, liquidate his New Orleans assets and disappear. He’d have dermal engineering and live Stateside, a new life. It was time to call it quits.
LeBlanc’s men handed out sandwiches and coffee. Gould cradled an enamel mug in his hands and savoured the heat sinking into his palms.
LeBlanc took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘Well, monsieur, here we are. Welcome to Canada.’
- 44 -
So it’s regime change. It’s been tried before and the list is long. Ecuador, Vietnam, Iran, Iraq, Nicaragua, Guatemala, United Korea, Syria, Libya, Great Britain. Sometimes, and y’all excuse my French here, it’s a total fucking disaster, and sometimes it’s merely a cock-up of epic proportions. Leaving aside the theory that the first letter of each country spells ‘Elvis is King’ (although it would confirm Afghanistan was a mistake) this one does feel a little different.
Regime change. Who for whom? The Canadian opposition? Get real, folks. There’s only one explanation: our government for theirs. This is annexation.
– Slobodan Jones, KUWjones.org
Josie leaned back in the white leather seat and stretched her arms. The smell of the new automobile was all around her. ‘Nice car.’
Novik had changed vehicles again, cutting a fast trade with a dealer torn between a cash sale and getting out of town. The new ride was a high-end Lexus executive saloon, fast, comfortable and stylish, with puncture-proof tyres and armoured glass.
‘We need to up our game,’ Novik explained. ‘Turning up at Crane’s pad in an old rust bucket is a shake-and-bake recipe for an interview with law enforcement.’
At first Novik had been filled with nervous energy – he’d planned and prepared, he was going to get this right, he was going to keep them safe. Now, in the down-time of the long wait before action, he felt exhausted, light-headed, and totally wasted.
Dealing with the car salesman had been hard; the stress of the failed border crossing had taken its toll on everyone. Fear was exhausting, the cold, dead-certain knowledge of what they all had to do next did not bear thinking about. Sprawled across the spacious rear seats, Benny and Marytha were locked together, head to tail, their faces buried in each-other’s groins, naked in a tangle of blankets.
Novik envied them the ability to lose themselves in erotic pleasure, that they could take such comfort in the physical. He watched them, and wished he could stop thinking, stop worrying, that he and Josie could have sex too, make love tenderly or like lions as the mood took them, then fall asleep in an afterglow tangle of entwined limbs.
Beside him, Josie said, ‘What do you call it when a guy Deep Throats a woman? I know that’s not what’s really going on but you know what I mean.’
Novik rested his head on the steering wheel and shut his eyes. ‘I don’t know, the Romans probably had a word for it.’ He started the engine. ‘I need to crash, babe.’
The western Canadian border wasn’t open and it wasn’t closed. There were dozens of postings from people who, like Novik and Josie, had not exactly been turned back, but discouraged from making the crossing. Yet the great eastern hubs were still operating. The lakes and Chicago were operating normally.
‘We saw the troops go in,’ Novik said. ‘It’s an invasion, undeclared war like Pearl Harbour.’
Josie looked out the side window and chewed on a nail. ‘What do we do? Head east, cross over and swing back?’
‘There
’s not enough time. Crane’s estate is a hundred miles north of here. By the time we arrive it will be completely enveloped.’
‘Is this what it’s all about? Palfinger Crane?’ Josie said.
Novik couldn’t see it. ‘Whole divisions against one unarmed man? It doesn’t make sense. There are no cities, no defences. They can split the country in two unopposed, divide east from west.’
Muffled conversation came from the back seat, languid and indistinct. Marytha sat up and pulled down her top. Beside her, Benny buttoned his shirt and finger-combed his hair. ‘Whatever you do, it’s now or never.’
The car’s GPS route planner and satnav photo overlays gave them detailed views of the border. Maps annotated by tourists and local inhabitants showed crossing points and roads in detail. Streaming data gave a semi-real-time view from 5,000 feet effective. Everywhere was the same: mobile infantry held the crossings.
Novik didn’t like it at all. ‘We’ll be running a blockade.’
‘Then let’s cross over on foot through the woods and pick up transport on the other side,’ Marytha said.
It sounded sensible and a lot safer. Novik wasn’t sure. Driving up here, spending the money, filling the warehouses, they had built momentum.
‘That convoy had robo-canines,’ Josie said. ‘What if they’re on patrol? At least you can surrender to the soldiers.’
Novik remembered the gum-chewing, constantly smiling platoon leader, and the way he’d looked at Josie. He wondered just how good an option that would be.
Marytha’s voice shook. ‘So we just go for it?’
‘The same route again, tonight,’ Novik said. ‘Only the outbound lanes are blocked. I’ll take us through on the wrong side.’
‘Is the car up to it?’
Always, the implicit question. Mr Car would have hurtled them through at a zillion miles an hour, Novik would have to drive the Lexus himself.
‘We should wait another day,’ Benny said. ‘I’ll have my upgrade–’
Novik broke in loudly, ‘It’s a good car, hardened for urban crime.