Carrington nodded, turned to her aide, and said, “Thank you, Charles! The ambassador and I have some sensitive information to discuss. Would you excuse us please?” The aide nodded and made his way through the door, closing it behind him.
Carrington all but flung herself into her lover’s arm. “Abdul, I’ve needed you!”
“And I, you, Sherrill! But for the moment we must remain the President of the People’s Socialist States and the Caliph’s Ambassador to your nation,” replied Al Zahrani, trying to keep Carrington focused on work for the time being.
“You are being beastly, Abdul!” Carrington said with a pout in her voice and on her face. “Very well, what news do you bring me, Ambassador Al Zahrani?”
“Glorious news, Madame President! The holy warriors of the Islamic Global Caliphate have been arriving in the People’s States faster than anticipated. We are ready to move forward with the next phase of our plan well ahead of schedule!”
Carrington could barely contain her excitement, both sexual and with Al Zahrani’s announcement. “That IS excellent news, Abdul! The reports I have read show that our mindless cannon fodder have fled the cities in droves and are moving towards the borders with those damned conservative degenerates. My loyal forces are securing the cities and purging the remaining dissidents and unproductive dreck. Once our cannon fodder reach the borders, our fighting forces can prepare to remove the barricades along the borders, then the attack on those yokels in the interior can begin!”
Al Zahrani listened to Carrington, curious as to how she had reached her current position with such an obvious lack of how to understand an enemy. A mental blind spot, he imagined. But no matter, her plan will bring chaos to this continent…and the Caliphate’s holy warriors shall use that chaos to conquer this continent…for Allah!
The Arab shifted gears, keeping Carrington off balance. “And now, my darling, with our business complete; shall we retire to some place more private and attend to pleasure?”
Carrington rose from her place on the sofa, stepped over to her large desk, and pressed a button on a small console. She turned another control on the desk and the lights around the room dimmed. She returned to sit beside Al Zahrani. “There! The doors into this room have been locked and we are alone!”
“Sex in the Presidential Office, my dear?” asked Al Zahrani raising an eyebrow. “Not very original…but certainly…acceptable.”
**********
November 11th
People’s Socialist States of America
Tens of thousands PSSA citizens on the East and West Coasts came to the conclusion that their government was not going to come to their aid. In fact, their government seemed to have turned against them and the rest of its citizens. Many came to the realization that their blind faith in a government that could give you everything was, in fact, surrendering their lives to a government that could take everything away from them…to include their very lives!
In ever growing numbers, these people realized that it was no longer safe to stay in the cities and suburbs of the cities of the East and West Coasts. Many had already packed up what they could carry and began to head inland. At first, they used what money they had to buy what food and fuel they could. When money was not an option, some sold themselves for what little they could get in return. Prostitution for food and water was not uncommon. But when even that was insufficient, violence became the answer. Even some of those who were once very much against violence, turned to it in order to provide for themselves or their family members!
And thus chaos spread from the coasts towards the states further inland. Some, a small percentage of the population of the PSSA, retained their civilized behavior and came to the realization that their one hope was to approach their brothers and sisters of the United States of America. To approach them and confide to them that the great socialist experiment that had failed in so many countries before…was in the process of failing upon the North American continent, as well.
It was this revelation and the fact that these people retained their civilized behavior that separated them from the rest of the PSSA. Their civilized behavior would convince the border defenders of the U.S. that these people might be salvageable and could learn to be productive citizens of the United States. These people were welcomed, interviewed extensively, and granted entry…and hope for a new life.
But far too many approached the borders between the U.S. and the PSSA with the intent to break through no matter the cost. A mob mentality existed among them, a hatred for those within the inland states who had so much while they had so little. The poisoned minds of the mob, ever envious because that was what they had been taught all their lives, turned more and more to rage. And that rage was about to be turned loose upon the people of the United States of America.
Chapter 9
November 23rd, 1130 hours
U.S. Border Security Station
Parker, AZ
The tall, strongly-built Marine colonel opened the door to the waiting area, checked the name on the folder in his hand, then called out, “Mr. Davis Owens, please come forward.”
A tall, African-American male in his late-thirties rose from his chair and answered, “I’m Davis Owens, colonel.”
Colonel Lang smiled and stepped aside to provide room for the man to step through the doorway. “This way, please!” Owens crossed the floor and stepped through the doorway. Lang closed the door and invited Owens to follow him to an interview room down the hallway. The Marine colonel gestured the man into the room and, following him, closed the door.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Owens. I’m Colonel Lang.” Lang extended his hand to Owens and smiled as the man accepted the handshake. The two men sat in chairs opposite one another. Lang set the folder down on the table and opened it to the first page. “Mr. Owens, this interview will be recorded for future reference. Do you understand?”
“Yes, colonel,” Owens replied carefully. “I fully understand, sir.”
Lang read from the file before him then glanced at a clock on the wall before talking. “This is a second level interview with Mr. Davis Lee Owens, from San Diego, California, People’s Socialist States of America. The interview is being conducted by Colonel Clark Lang, U.S. Marine Corps. Mr. Owens, I am going to show you the information in the file folder before me. Please read it carefully and completely. While you read, may I get you a cup of coffee, a soda, or some water?”
Owens smiled. “Colonel, a cup of coffee would be terrific about now! I haven’t had any in a very long time.”
“Excellent,” replied Lang. “I’ll have some coffee brought in for us. Please, get comfortable and review your file while it’s being prepared.”
Owens began to read the file, pausing to thank the individual who brought in the coffee service. He tasted the coffee and was pleased to find it quite tasty. Unlike anything we’ve had in the PSSA for more than a couple of years, he thought. He returned to reading the file, taking a sip of coffee from time to time.
As he read through the file they had on him, he had to admit, whoever had assembled the file had done a thorough job. Much of the information came from his school, juvenile court, and military records prior to the breakup of the old United States. As he neared the back of the file, the information post-breakup tapered off to what he had written down upon his arrival at the border security station. Finally, he closed the folder and pushed it gently across the table to Colonel Lang. The Marine Corps officer smiled at Owens and raised an eyebrow.
Owens smiled back and said, “It’s an accurate record, colonel.”
Lang leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers, then rested his chin on his fingers. “So, Mr. Owens, why were you in the PSSA? You were a highly decorated Marine Corp Gunnery Sergeant, then you got out of the Corps and got into some pretty dicey politics.”
Owens hung his head for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. Finally, he looked back up and directly into Lang’s eyes. “I fell in love with a w
oman. She was pretty, young, and…a devout Progressive. She felt I should use my rank and position to further social causes. I told her I couldn’t…regulations wouldn’t allow it. When she threatened to leave me, I took an early separation and got involved in her political activities. Some of it was pretty shady; support the party no matter what effect it had on the people we were supposed to be helping. No matter what we did, it seemed like the rich got richer and the poor just got poorer. Only the party elites were doing okay.” Owens paused and checked his coffee cup, which was empty. He looked over to the carafe and Lang poured him some more coffee.
“Thank you!” Owens said to the colonel. “When the breakup occurred, I was in California. I stayed there with my girlfriend and watched as things got worse and worse over the past few years. When Carrington openly allied herself with the IGC, I knew things were building to some kind of end game, with America…both of ‘em…in grave danger. When I voiced my concerns, my girlfriend and her friends cursed me. Some of her pals tried to rough me up.” Owens chuckled at the memory of the two perpetual Progressive losers trying to beat him up. He quickly turned the tables on the two and it was they who suffered the worst of the damage from the fight.
“So I figured we were through,” the man said softly. “I walked out the door and to the nearest store. I bought a few available items: a large bottle of water, some jerky, and such; then started walking east.”
“Walking?” Lang asked. “Why not take a car?”
“Couldn’t afford one any longer; couldn’t buy gas if I needed it, anyhow,” answered Owens. “What little there is…well, it’s rationed and very expensive.” Lang nodded, this much he knew from intel reports he’d read about conditions in the PSSA.
Owens took another drink of coffee then continued. “So I lit out with pretty much the clothes on my back and a very limited supply of food. I got out of San Diego just before all hell broke loss there. Kept moving east, catching rides when I could, getting a meal from an occasional farmer or rancher that could use a day worker. I could see the glow of flames in the nighttime sky whenever I looked to the west; the cities were burning. More and more people could be seen spreading out into the countryside. Trouble followed them. Finally, I decided it was time to press on and get here as quickly as possible.”
“So, Mr. Owens, what do you want?” Lang asked.
Davis Lee Owens, former USMC Gunnery Sergeant, sat upright in his chair, looked Colonel Lang straight in the eyes, and replied in a clear voice. “I want to come home, sir! I want to return to the United State Marine Corps. I want to atone for turning my back on my country and fellow citizens. I want to be free…again!”
Colonel Clark Lang sat quietly for a moment, carefully studying the man seated before him. Lang had talked with many veterans who had served in the old U.S. military forces who had chosen to go with the PSSA following the breakup of the old United States. Over the years, many of them had come to the new U.S. asking for the opportunity to “return home and live free once more”. Each of them had been as good as their word and had become model citizens in whatever line of work they had entered.
Colonel Lang looked at the quiet man sitting across the table from him. With a serious look on his face, Lang said, “Things have changed here in the U.S. since you left. Everyone who is capable of working is expected to work and to be responsible for themselves and their behavior.” Lang paused to let this sink in. Owens nodded his understanding. Lang smiled and said, “Well then, Gunny, I’d say this is your lucky day!”
Davis Owens looked up at Lang in shocked disbelief, then smiled and accepted the hand being held out to him to him in friendship. “C’mon Gunny, we need to get you processed. Then we need you to take the Oath of Enlistment again and put you in some new uniforms, Marine!”
**********
November 23rd, 1325 hours
U.S. Border Security Station
Cape Girardeau, MO
Border Patrol Agents Joe Forsyth, (US Army) and Abigail Saint entered the interview room. The man they were to interview, one Jackson Pike, was from Chicago, Illinois. The tall, blond haired man was in his early thirties and dressed in ragged clothes. He had the look and swagger of a street tough.
The Border Patrol agents he had turned himself into earlier that morning had taken him to a holding area and asked him to empty his pockets. Initially, Pike had argued with the agents, rather vulgarly in fact. When they offered to return him to the eastern side of the Mississippi River, Pike had quieted down and began removing items from the pockets of his trousers, shirt, and jacket. The agents were shocked to see two switchblade knives, a shank, a loaded .38 revolver and a box of .38 ammunition, two sandwich bags filled with assorted pills, and other drugs and paraphernalia. Not wanting to take a chance, the two agents had used a metal detector wand on Pike and found more weapons hidden in his clothing!
Forsyth and Saint had read Pike’s barely legible, hand-written entry application and had just finished reading the background file that the Combined Bureau of Intelligence and Investigation had on the man. The CBII file had data going back to Pike’s youth and the man’s rap sheet covered more than a few pages. Petty theft, dealing drugs, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, attempted rape, and the list went on and on.
Pike had been in and out of juvenile detention facilities, minimum detention facilities, and more secure facilities most of his life under his own name and a short list of aliases. Still, he’d been released numerous times due to overcrowding in prisons and copping pleas for lighter sentences by rolling over on some of his criminal buddies. None of this compelled Forsyth and Saint to feel obligated to offer Pike asylum in the United States of America.
“Jackson Pike,” Forsyth began, “I’m Agent Forsyth and this is Agent Saint. We’re with the Border Patrol.” Neither moved to sit in the chairs opposite Pike, instead choosing to remain by the door and away from the rather foul smelling man.
Pike snorted a short laugh. “Yeah, hullo. Like we need Border Patrol agents in the middle of the fucking country.”
Agent Saint responded, “Well, the ‘country’ as you called it went through a little breakup a few years ago. You may have heard of it?”
“Yeah, whatever!” snarled Pike. “This is still America and I want to get away from all the fightin’ in Chicago…move somewhere new.”
Forsyth glanced at Saint, as if to tell her to relax. “Mr. Pike, whether you realize it or not, this side of the river is now a different America from what you may remember. Things are done much differently here and now. Why, based on your application, do you feel you should be allowed to move into the United States from the People’s Socialist States?”
“What?!?” asked Pike. “How is your government any different than the one back east? Your job is to take care of people like me, who have been screwed over by the system. My dad split on us, so I hadda take care of my ma and brothers and sisters anyway I could. I mean, I didn’t even get to finish high school because I was in juvie. Couldn’t get a job when I got out so I joined a gang. Not my fault.”
Agent Saint held up her right hand and said, “Stop! You’re not helping your case in the slightest. Let me ask you something. How do you expect to make a living here?”
Pike kicked back in his chair and smiled. “Aw, that’ll be easy. I got some friends in Tulsa said they let me work with ‘em.”
Forsyth looked at the application on top of the file. “Are those friends Joey Jankowski and ‘Silk’ Adamson?”
“Yeah, them’s the ones. Knew ‘em in Chi-Town several years back before they blew town,” answered Pike, thinking he might have a chance now.
“Well, Mr. Pike, I hate to tell you,” Forsyth began. “But Jankowski is dead and Adamson is in a maximum security prison in Oklahoma. They attempted to rob a store in Tulsa a few weeks back. The store owner’s wife shot them. You’ll need some better references than those two.”
“Well, I wrote down several others,” Pike responded.
Forsyth nodded
. “Yes, you did. And of those, two are dead, three are in prison and on death row, and one appears to have returned to the PSSA of his own volition. Surely, you’re not hanging your hopes of coming into the U.S. on the likes of these…criminals, are you?”
Pike’s bravado began to deflate. “Aw hell, don’t ya see. Things are gettin’ bad…real bad in Chicago. Half the city’s burnin’ and the other half is gettin’ shot up. I barely got out of there with the clothes on my back!” Pike was beginning to look desperate. “Come on! Ya gotta take me in, ya gotta help me! That’s what the government does right? Takes care of people like me that don’t have regular jobs?”
“Maybe before the breakup, Mr. Pike. But not anymore,” answered Agent Saint. “We figured out that any government big enough to give you stuff is also big enough to take your stuff away…and give it to people who vote for a living instead of work for one! The new U.S. doesn’t operate that way. Our citizens won’t allow it! Now, tell us…why should we let you, a man with your rap sheet, into this country?”
Now, Pike was indeed desperate. Obviously, he hadn’t thought this through well enough. His eyes darted around the room as he tried to think of what to do next. He sure as hell didn’t want to get sent back across the river. There was very little food over there and far too many people who had been too long without something to fill their bellies. That farmer and his old lady that he’d spent a night with had shared what they had; pitiful little after their place had been raided and ransacked while they were away. Pike thought it was a real shame that he’d killed the old woman before he could screw her. She’d jumped at him when he shot her husband.
Pike leaped from his chair, diving forward towards Agent Saint. Unfortunately for Pike, Saint was well trained in several martial arts. The young, female agent pivoted as the assailant drew near her. Her right hand caught him by his right wrist and pulled him off balance. Pike fell forward and crashed into a wall.
The Arizona State Guard Trilogy Page 46