Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  The electric cart drove past and around the open hangar, and down a sidewalk to a small one-story prefab building. Chain link security fencing extended from both sides of this structure. Their driver parked and hopped out and came to attention again. “Right through there, sirs.”

  The door was opened by another waiting Marine as they approached it. A Marine captain in dress blues saluted the party as they entered. Inside the drab room was a long table, with more Marines standing on the other side. A staff sergeant said, “Please put your briefcases on the table.” These Marines were not smiling, saluting or making small talk. Completely non-ceremonial pistols were holstered on their belts. The captain hovered behind the enlisted men. Two men wearing dark suits, presumeably Secret Service agents, were also standing behind the table. Armstead, Carson and Boone placed their briefcases and binders on the table as directed. There was nothing in them except folders, briefing papers, cell phones, BlackBerries, computer drives, connecting cables and other expected twenty-first-century office clutter. A Marine dug through their cases, even taking out smaller folders and binders and riffling through them. Inside Boone’s briefcase was a binder with a green nylon cover, and its own zipper enclosure. The Marine unzipped the case, looked inside, and zipped it back up again. Satisfied with his visual inspection, he then passed them all through an airport-type color X-ray machine. Another Marine carefully studied each item on his monitor before advancing the belt.

  “Your military IDs, please,” said a Marine sergeant. Their ID cards were already in their top left jacket pockets, according to regulations. General Armstead presented his card first. The sergeant took the ID and held it up, comparing the general’s face to the picture on the card and to the plastic nametag on his uniform. A tiny embossed logo design on his plastic nametag matched the cloth patch sewn to his left shoulder at the sleeve seam. The symbol of U.S. Army North, the Fifth Army, showed a white number five nestled under a capital letter A, on a blue and red field. These nametag logos and shoulder insignias were replicated on the uniforms of Boone and Carson. Satisfied, the Marine said, “Welcome to Camp David, General Armstead.” He leaned down to the table and made a check mark on a computer printout listing the names of the expected conference attendees.

  Phil Carson handed his card across the table next, and the staff sergeant again compared faces, seemingly reading every letter and number in every block on both sides of the card, and studying every line on Carson’s sixty-four-year-old face. Today his officer’s cap concealed the prominent horizontal scar across the top of his forehead. Makeup had masked the scar when the picture was taken with a digital camera at Hugh Rogan’s house. This was because the photo on the predated ID should have predated the obviously rather new scar. Carson was ready with a glib story about a racquetball injury, but it was not needed. His hat did not come off during the security screening, and his scar was not seen. Finally, the staff sergeant handed his card back.

  “Welcome aboard, General Harper.” Another tic mark was made on the printout.

  The process was repeated with Boone, and “Major Paxton” was approved for entry. Next, one at a time they went through a millimeter wave full-body imager, an explosives sniffer, walked past a pair of leashed German shepherds, and were wanded for good measure. There was a considerable amount of metal in an Army uniform, and the Marines had to draw the line somewhere. They were not going to force Army generals and their aide-de-camp to remove their belts, medals, and insignias. There was a line where security needs met military courtesy, and that was it. Today as always, rank had its privileges. Finished with their inspection, the three picked up their briefcases at the other end of the long table.

  The Marine captain in charge of security screening said something about being sorry to inconvenience them and saluted once more. General Armstead gave a perfunctory return salute and made no reply, but swept past him and out the door on the far side of the room followed by his subordinates. The three infiltrators stepped back into the bright sunlight. A white club van driven by a Navy petty officer in a dress blue “crackerjack” uniform was waiting for them. A Marine rolled the van’s side door back, and the conspirators climbed inside.

  31

  The van drove them northward along the central road of Camp David, making several turns. The retreat was covered with trees, but except for some evergreens, they were almost devoid of leaves this time of year. The conference center, called the Laurel Lodge, was at the northern end of the residential lodges where foreign leaders often stayed. Even at barely more than a walking speed, the trip took less than a minute. Today was clear and crisp, but it was easy to imagine what a dreary place it would be in a downpour, so the ride made sense. The van drove around a small traffic circle and stopped beneath a covered portico extending across a wide sidewalk. The Laurel Lodge conference center was a one-story building with a high and steeply pitched roof, almost like a church or a chalet.

  Navy Sailors in dress blues welcomed them. There was some kind of invisible line of demarcation between the Marines and the sailors. Boone surmised that the jarheads were in charge of security and the squids were the cooks, butlers and handymen. Driving fell somewhere in the middle as a shared duty. Glass double doors were opened for them, and they walked inside. Sailors wearing white gloves took their hats and placed them onto numbered shelves behind their checked-items table. The main hall in the conference center was about eighty feet long. The walls on two sides were made of glass panels from knee level to well above head level, and looked out over a down-sloping hill through a forest of bare trees A massive red brick fireplace occupied the inside corner of the room, where the ceiling rose to its highest point. The interior walls were decorated with framed oil paintings, mostly pastoral scenes by early American masters.

  Boone stayed close by General Armstead, while Carson flanked the three-star general on the other side. Armstead paused and assessed the tactical situation. There were damned few friendly forces in view. Most of the conferees had already arrived, because they were operating on the Marines’ schedule. They had been shuttled from Washington to Camp David on the shiny green and white “Pimp My Ride” VIP Whitehawks parked down on the LZ. These waxed and polished helicopters and the three Marine Ones all belonged to HMX-1, the president’s own Marine aviation squadron. From the Middle East to the United States, American military helicopters were falling out of the sky due to a dire lack of maintenance funding, but these birds and entire fleets of other VIP aircraft were as lovingly cared for as any billionaire’s Rolls Royce.

  The Chinese delegation was obvious, standing at the far end of a table laden with small pastries, canapés and light hors d’oeuvres. They were obvious because they were Chinese. Boone recognized the Russians, because there were two officers in Russian uniforms among a handful of diplomats. The Russians were clustered near a silver tea samovar on its own carved mahogany stand. The Saudis and other Gulf Arabs were also obvious, and were standing near the Pakistanis. The various Turks, Kazaks and other Central Asians were in a large group by a bank of coffee and espresso machines, manned by Navy Sailors in white dress uniforms. Some of the foreigners and other civilians were harder to categorize. General Armstead had told them that besides diplomats, cabinet officials and military brass, there might also be a few mysterious think-tank “academics” and U.N. High Commissioners in attendance.

  General Armstead spotted the lonely American Army outpost and headed over, with his two subordinates behind him. Three Army officers were already huddled in a corner of the room by the tall windows. Each of them was standing next to a briefcase, which was placed against the wall. In this setting, with foreign officers and diplomats all around, you could not leave your briefcase anywhere for one second. If it was not in your hands, you stood over it like a mother elephant guarding her offspring. To lose or even temporarily misplace one’s briefcase containing laptop computers and classified documents could be a career killer.

  The waiting two-star general appeared relieved to see the ar
rival of reinforcements. He said, “Lieutenant General Armstead, good to see you. I was getting worried that you might not make it. Actually, I was afraid that I was going to have to brief the military options.”

  “Good morning, Major General Delaney. Where is Lieutenant General Terry?” Armstead made a pretense of looking around the main hall, but in fact he already knew that Terry was going to be a no-show today. Armstead had his own sources at the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “Oh, I’m afraid that General Terry has the flu,” said General Delaney. “He wasn’t able to be here today.” Armstead and Boone towered over Delaney and his two subordinates. Even Carson was taller. The general was accompanied by his intelligence officer, a Colonel Kaminski, and his aide-de-camp, a Major Fitzgibbon. You never needed to ask names when meeting military officers in uniform. Their nametags were pinned to their chests above their right pockets, opposite their ribbons or medals.

  At a glance, it was apparent that the portly General Delaney struggled to meet the Army’s height and weigh standards. His hair was still black, but he was bald on top. Two-star Major General Hiram Delaney was from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations and Plans, or the DCSOPS. He was saying that his boss, the CSOPS, had bailed out on the Camp David conference at the last moment.

  No Army general wanted to be here. At the Joint Chiefs level, this conference was as welcome as a brain tumor. To the greatest extent possible, the Joint Chiefs were pushing responsibility for it off onto NORTHCOM, meaning General Armstead. NORTHCOM was the most politicized command in the U.S. military, because of its close relationship with the Department of Homeland Security. Lieutenant General Terry from the JCS was senior to Armstead by date of rank. In Terry’s absence, General Armstead was now the highest-ranking American uniformed military representative at the conference. NORTHCOM had been tossed the hot potato. The Joint Chiefs clearly wanted Armstead to be the point man for Operation Buffalo Jump, and, if necessary, to fall on his sword for it.

  “I’m so disappointed to hear that General Terry is…feeling poorly.” said Armstead.

  “Yes. And General Brewster was quite disappointed that you didn’t make it to Washington yesterday. He had some final updates to the CONPLAN that he wanted to convey to you in person. Some…nuances.” Four-star General Lance Brewster was the Army chief of staff, and he was getting nowhere near Camp David in person. Nobody in uniform wanted to be here today. All of the principals who were able to muster an excuse were sending their deputies or other underlings.

  “I understand,” said General Armstead. “And I really wanted to make it to Washington for the final planning meeting, but regrettably, a family emergency came up at the last minute. I didn’t think my absence yesterday would affect today’s briefing, because of course I assumed that General Terry would be here to present it. Fortunately, there are still a few serviceable helicopters at Fort Campbell, so I was able to fly here directly.”

  “Hoo-ah,” General Delaney said drolly. “That Screaming Eagle esprit de corps must be rubbing off on NORTHCOM. That’s a long trip on a Blackhawk.”

  “Yes it was. So, who’s here from the civilian side? I see Henrietta over with the Chinese. Who’s she with today, anybody I should be aware of?” Henrietta Bramwell was the secretary of the Army. She had never served a day in any branch of the military, but had been an undersecretary of education. In the Tambor administration, this made perfect sense, because it was widely believed that her primary mission was to re-educate the military. Her creased wedge of a face was the most militantly frightening thing about her, leading to her nickname, Battle-axe Bramwell.

  “Just her staff,” said General Delaney. “I can’t stand even to look at them. They’re a bunch of old hippies. I might be going bald, but at least I don’t have a ponytail.”

  “Who’s here from State?”

  “Thornedike himself, but he hasn’t arrived yet. I expect him to be fashionably late, or to walk in with the president.”

  General Armstead turned his head a few degrees toward Boone and made a slight cough.

  ****

  Boone said, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” and left the circle of generals and their staff officers, carrying his briefcase with him. He returned to the portico entrance, retrieving his blue combination cover as he passed the sailors at the checked-items table. A lone Marine major in dress blues stood by the traffic circle. The USMC’s distinctive red “bloodlines” ran down the seams of his blue trousers. A line of scar tissue ran up the back of his neck, from the high collar of his dark blue tunic to the black band of his white officer’s cap. Boone sidled up to him. The Marine officer turned and glanced at Boone’s nametag. “What can I do for you, Major Paxton?”

  He was not a big man, only about five feet nine and 180 pounds, but he looked extremely tough, like a college wrestler or boxer with a few more years on him. Boone scanned the Marine officer’s nametag in return. The major had a Spanish surname, but he looked like one of Geronimo’s sons, with eyes like obsidian flakes. Boone guessed that he was at least half Apache or Navajo. “I need a big favor, Major Acorzado.”

  Camp David was a formal place, at least during a conference of high-ranking military officers and diplomats. This was no place for two officers even of the same rank to get chummy and go to first names right out of the gate. Acorzado was in charge of the elite company of Marines guarding Camp David. Boone knew that he didn’t win this plum assignment by being slipshod. It was as close to a guaranteed path to general’s rank as there was. The officer in charge of the Marine Security Company, Camp David was on one of the fastest of fast tracks in the military. Previous Commandants of the Marine Corps had held this billet.

  Company Commander was typically a captain’s job, but not here. Each Marine in the Security Company was a handpicked top performer. Boone glanced at his ribbons, and Acorzado glanced at the ribbons belonging to the genuine Major Curtis Paxton. Boone had needed to learn Paxton’s biography, including his education, career, assignments, deployments and awards, in case he was asked about them. Paxton had silver Army jump wings, while Acorzado wore the gold Navy version, as well as a silver SCUBA helmet. These two devices meant he was a recon-qualified Marine. Boone had the Army’s Combat Infantryman’s Badge, and Acorzado the Marine equivalent, the Combat Action Ribbon. Both men had a Bronze Star with the combat “V,” and the Purple Heart. Major Acorzado’s medals trumped Major Paxton’s with a Navy Cross, the nation’s second-highest award.

  Boone did not know that this was typical in Acorzado’s family. Marine Corps service was a family tradition. His grandfather had served on Okinawa, where he was a Navajo-speaking “code talker.” His father had won the Congressional Medal of Honor at the Battle of Hue City in 1968, during the Vietnam Tet Offensive. By tradition, the children of Medal of Honor recipients were offered service academy appointments, and Major Acorzado had attended the Naval Academy. His mother and father had pinned on his second lieutenant’s bars at Annapolis.

  “What favor?” he asked. The major had a ceremonial-appearing white leather holster with a pistol-covering flap on the white belt around the waist of his tunic.

  “I left some briefing papers on our helo. I’m toast if I don’t have them. I’d really appreciate it if I could get a ride back.” The landing zone was less than a half mile away, but you didn’t go strolling around Camp David unescorted.

  “That’s your Pavehawk on the LZ?” Major Acorzado glanced at the “Screaming Eagle” combat service unit patch on the Army officers’s right shoulder seam.

  “That’s affirmative, that’s ours. Well, we borrowed it for the trip up.”

  “What’s the matter with it? Why is it still here?”

  The major was tuned in to their scheduled movements. Boone knew he would have to be careful. “Some kind of sensor trouble. Not a big deal.”

  Acorzado nodded just slightly. “So, you want to get to your helo without a lot of fuss, is that it?”

  “I’d greatly appreciate it.�
��

  Major Acorzado nodded again, and spoke a few words into his walkie-talkie. “No problem. We grunts have to stick together.”

  “Fuck the pogues, right, Major Acorzado?” Boone was giving a hat tip to the Marines by using their vernacular. In Marine-speak, pogues were rear-echelon troops who never left the safety of well-defended American bases.

  “Damn right. Fuck the fobbits.” A fobbit was a Forward Operating Base Hobbit. Like pogues, they never went “outside the wire” on actual combat missions. “Don’t think that this is my permanent gig,” said Acorzado. “But I couldn’t turn this job down.”

  “I understand,” said Boone. “Hell, I’m a general’s dog-robber these days.” This was a slang term for an aide-de-camp, who was expected to do anything for his general, including steal a dog, or even steal from a dog.

  The two majors laughed quietly, sharing a private joke. Both men were combat leaders turned into glorified bellhops in order to advance their careers.

  Major Acorzado asked, “So, where were you, over in the sandbox?”

  Boone was ready, having memorized Paxton’s deployment history. “Oh, Najaf, Mosul, Sulamaniyah…some other places. Nothing special,” he said, with typical Army understatement. “How about you?”

  “When I wasn’t in Afghanistan, I was mostly in Al Anbar Province. Ramadi and Fallujah. The Battle of Fallujah, not just during the occupation later on.”