by Buck Sanders
“At the same time, terrorists cannot kill innocent people in the name of freedom.”
“We are not terrorists; terrorists are confused. We have a plan. Most guerrilla rebels throw bombs without aim, without purpose. We do not plan to hold the United States people hostage.”
Slayton had to buy time. “What is your plan?”
“I’m glad you show an interest. I hoped you would. By your actions over the past week, you measure up as a strong, capable soldier. That strength might serve other ideologies besides imperialist capitalism, if you think so.”
“Every man has his price, if that’s what you mean.”
Bathurst raised his brow. “Spoken like a true American.”
“But what would I have to gain by ’altering’ my ideology to fit yours?”
“The comforts of true freedom.”
“How’s that?”
“The Brigade exists to offer the American people an alternative to capitalist slavery. We will show them how the so-called elected representatives have no real power over them. Capitalism is an abstraction, just as is Marxism . or Communism. There are no true systems; the people must be given a chance to initiate their own future and destiny. No government power can judge the individual’s value of freedom.
“The Brigade has watched America drown in its liberalism. It has uprooted all concepts of individual freedom. The government grows stronger, the bureaucratic bullshit and hierarchy bf the rich engulf’s the common man. I envision a land of equality—that is the future of the United States.”
Slayton turned the other cheek. “I admit there are some inequities.”
“The power structure is warped; history shows us that much. Look to the Romans for a lesson in liberalism and its consequences.”
“Do you suggest anarchy or a police state?”
“There are no labels for our cause. After the misguided bureaucracy collapses, the people will find their own destiny.”
“With The Brigade leading the way.”
Bathurst extended his hand to Slayton. “Guiding the way. We are advisors, not dictators.”
“Can there be no other way to change?”
“Ben, you and I were both in Vietnam. We saw through the injustices of American imperialism. The war was nothing more than sanctioned terrorism. Nowadays look at the lies being peddled: the war in Vietnam was an ’honorable conflict,’ a ’noble failure.’ Mass-scale brainwashing. The people are being jerked around; they’ve always been, and always will be.
“We were buddies in the war. We united in a false cause. May we unite in a true one this time?”
“But all this wealth, these weapons, the men. Who pays for this?”
“We have sympathizers. You must wish a drink, Ben?”
Opening a cabinet door behind him, Bathurst set white wine on the table centering the room. Slayton downed two glasses, stifling his excruciating thirst. They drank from exquisite crystal goblets.
“And who paid for these?” asked Slayton, holding up the glass.
“My own personal collection. Cheers.” They swigged a third full swallow.
“How did you survive after the war?”
“Do you remember the raid on An-Loc, December, 1965? Four planes went down, ambushed by Cong fire. Yours was the only one to get away. Myself and three other men were about to be taken prisoner by the enemy. As the Cong approached each plane, guerrilla troops, Green Berets, appeared out of nowhere to wipe out the Communist detachments. The Brigade was nothing more than a rumor to the other American troops—these were Army deserters fighting the war the way they wanted.”
“But all those civilians massacred when The Brigade attacked villages in the high jungle, what war were you fighting when it came to them?” Slayton noticed his stamina draining; he felt tipsy, a bit drunk from only three glasses of wine.
Ignoring him, Bathurst continued, “All four of us joined these renegade Berets. The Brigade worked its way over into Cambodia, and we did exterminate a few Conginfested villages. They engaged in warfare with us. The Brigade repelled the assaults, each time with success. And we accumulated their weapons as we moved.
“But without a war to fight as we marched through Cambodia, most of us adopted a new theory. We had been trained to kill whomever the commander wanted. On the battlefield, there are no politics, only one-on-one combat, only destruction. We took on a different ideology, one of hope. One of peace.”
Slayton had trouble concentrating on Bathurst. “But why go to China?”
“There was a revolutionary training ground in the western mountains. The Brigade captured it. We controlled an arsenal skimmed from the Cong in raids all through Vietnam and Cambodia. The Soviets were an easy target for more sophisticated weapons, and the arsenal grew. Other groups dedicated to our cause, some Palestinians, other Arabs, even Russian and Japanese revolutionaries, abandoned the uselessness of ineffective urban terrorism to join The Brigade. We are several hundred strong now.”
“That can’t be right,” said Slayton. The wine! It was drugged, he thought. Dropping on one knee, he pointed at Bathurst, “You bastard!”
“It was necessary, Ben,” came the reply.
Slayton did not lose consciousness; the drug immobilized him. Two soldiers held him up, feet dragging, and led the Treasury agent to another room. There he was strapped into a reclining seat, placed in front of a large video screen, and given a shot.
Slayton opened his eyes, barely able to contain his awareness. Men in white suits weaved about, carrying electronic equipment to his side. The pain from the needle was empty, transitory; a rush of delirium entered his brain. He imagined being able to see through his eyelids as he slept, concurrently gifted with the ability to converse amiably with the white-coats, convinced that he was not awake.
The television flickered. The room dimmed. Scenes of torture, incarceration, interrogation, execution flashed before himo a woman was beheaded; two actors portraying American military generals discussed the need to control population in Third World nations via sterility; a child talked of his family in America; a child spoke of the life of his poor Afghanistan family. The images were cruel, harsh, unflinchingly biased, and militant. Slayton held onto hrs sanity. The drug threatened to make him scream; the pictures and sounds whipped him into a frenzy. He was sickened. The experience brought out nightmares from his subconscious—death and famine and genocide, nuclear weapons and Armageddon visualized before his eyes.
The screen went dark. A voice, soothing, relaxed, repeated the same line over and over: “The future is the end, the future is the end.”
Slayton tried kicking through the leather straps. “No! Not the end!” he cried.
The lights went up, slowly.
He awoke in bed. A guard saw his eyes open and left the quarters, returning seconds later with Bathurst. Was it seconds? Perhaps a half hour? The drug’s effects hadn’t worn off. A tingling apprehension still flowed through him, and those horrible images on the screen were still blinking in his mind.
“The experiment worked out positive in your case.” It was Bathurst, smiling and bending over the weak Slayton. “I’m sorry if the experience unnerved you. I heard from the technicians you’d gotten quite upset. There’s no need to worry now, though.”
“What did you do to me?”
“Technology has expanded our appreciation of the human mind. We’ve been conducting tests in the area of subliminal perception. The TV screen plays back a series of emotionally charged pictures. The injection heightens reality and allows the viewer a wide interpretation of what he sees.”
“A powerful device.”
“Not perfected, but useful. Verbal reactions are immediate, once the drug takes over. We use it to test new recruits, to make sure they accept our politics.”
“Did I pass?”
“We gave you a half-dosage. I wanted to see if you were lying about your interest in The Brigade. The process unlocks emotions and thoughts usually retained automatically by the subconscious. You verbalized those feel
ings.”
“And…”
“You actually don’t care much for the bloody Establishment or the capitalist hierarchy, do you?”
“Like I said earlier, inequities exist within the system.” “That attitude makes you more accessible to our way of thinking.”
Slayton bit his tongue. “Perhaps.”
“We must discuss this further at some *other time.”
Sitting up in bed, Slayton commented, “Fair’s fair, right? You got some answers you wanted from me; now I’d like a few answers from you.”
Bathurst sat in a wicker chair at the foot of the bed. “Okay.”
“The weapons were shipped overseas to various ports. Workman dispatched the trucking companies on his payroll to move the guns to this location.”
“Mr. Workman had a system of forged bills of lading. Names, addresses, and bill numbers were changed after the merchandise reached us. He controlled the trucking companies’ files—I’m not sure exactly how Workman accomplished this feat. I imagine he has these carriers transport other goods for him.”
“How did Senator Parfrey fit in?”
“Willard was an easy catch. He was greedy. His ship
ping company moved the guns to New Orleans’ docks. Workman took care of the rest.”
“And Howard Westphal?”
“An accountant. Inventory checker. Workman sent the guns through Chicago to confuse anyone interested in tracing the merchandise. Howard made certain that Workman wasn’t skimming weapons for himself.”
“Are there others in Washington who—”
Rising to leave, Bathurst -shook his head. “No more questions, Ben. You’re supposed to be resting.”
The door opened and Bathurst’s devoted aide Donati entered, saluting his commanding officer and looking stern and unemotional. Donati did not think Slayton should be trusted with any information regarding The Brigade’s operation, and appealed to Bathurst that the “capitalist spy” be executed. “We must dispatch the Treasury agent,” he said, while Slayton listened.
“You have something to report?,“answered Bathurst, obviously annoyed by Donati’s ill-timed interruption.
“He was sent to infiltrate and betray us.” Donati cast a disbelieving eye toward Slayton. “He is your old war buddy—that’s fine—but he’s working for the enemy now.”
Bathurst was adamant. “You have something to report, Lieutenant? We will discuss all other matters at another time.”
“Sir, one of the female captives will not eat food. She complains of Arab Dick beating her.”
“Let her starve, then.”
Slayton assumed that Wilma was here, but lad no idea of where the jail was. “You have woman prisoners here, Bathurst?” he said. Then, apologizing, “I couldn’t help overhearing.”
Donati turned to_Bathurst. “You see what I mean? He wants to know everything about us so he can destroy us.”
“Donati,” Bathurst reassured him, “Mr. Slayton is not going anywhere. Be patient. Trust me. As for the woman, I will speak with her.”
“Stronger security measures must be taken against this man.” Donati refused to let the issue drop.
Bathurst walked Donati over by the doorway, preventing Slayton from hearing their conversation. Donati did most of the talking, punctuating his argument with gestures. Bathurst nodded in acceptance, to speedily end the discussion. Donati left, and Bathurst returned to the chair.
“I’m sorry, Ben,” he said, “I have to take Lt. Donati’s opinions into consideration. I’ll have to place you under custody until you’ve proven some kind of commitment to The Brigade.”
“And if I eventually refuse to join?” said Slayton.
Bathurst turned to go, his voice harboring a faint vindictiveness. “You have no choice. I can’t let you go unless you come in and be one of us. My friend, I appeal to your sense of reason. See it our way.”
“It’s a serious consideration, Dave. I’ll need a few days to think it over.”
“Have it your way, but I’m placing two guards by the door, as a favor to Donati. He has a point, you know. We really can’t afford to trust you yet.”
Slayton spent a brief two hours locked in the little room. From a small transom window he could watch the Brigade soldiers walking the campgrounds, changing shifts—all handled silently, efficiently. This was a well-run, organized military base, very much like his and Bathurst’s boot camp, or the Army installations he toured while training with the Treasury Department.
As he recalled, David Bathurst had joined the Air Force as the choice between “other evils.” Bathurst had been a sensitive, impressionable eighteen-year-old when Uncle Sam drafted him. Next to the Army, Marines, and Navy, both he and Slayton understood the relatively high adventure of the Air Force.
Bathurst trained with Slayton in Arkansas, then later at a base in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where they became close friends. Slayton was the rebellious, politically aware junior-officer-on-the-rise; Bathurst retained an apolitical dedication to the American way. They once argued heatedly over the legitimacy of America’s involvement in Vietnam. Slayton was convinced that the advisors sent to Saigon in the early 1960s would soon be replaced by fighting troops; Bathurst argued that rights of the Vietnamese would be upheld, and America’s military leaders would not insist on escalating the war. The eventual combat and no-holdsbarred o approach of American field commanders, attempting to wipe out the Communist menace by turning their heads and letting soldiers destroy anything that moved, had probably tipped Bathurst over the brink. He was an activt.,participant in the violence. But to him the war was immoral, so he ran away from it.
But how could The Brigade’s revolution make positive changes in American society? Slayton discounted the plan entirely. The Brigade deluded itself much the same way all terrorist guerrillas rationalize their actions; their intention to bring about change through violence, without rebuilding constructively, was ideologically untenable. Slayton recognized their chief aim was to topple the government and replace it with anarchy. It was apparent that The Brigade would impose a martial autocracy if their plan worked and the American population refused to take them seriously.
Slayton had two days to get word to Winship and to warn the President. The Brigade’s insane paranoia did have a chance if the element of surprise were retained. One all-out assault on the Capitol could place Bathurst and the twisted, warped military rejects in command of the largest world power. He had to escape.
Attracting the guards’ attention would be a futile ploy. The door opened directly on the well-lit compound veranda, past that to an open court. From the limited visual access of the overhead window, Slayton counted five soldiers. Each was equipped with a full load: submachine gun, holstered pistol, and shiv.
The interior of his quarters was sparsely furnished; besides the bed, three chairs and a teakwood dresser complemented the empty barracks look. Slayton made a close inspection of the hardwood floor. Tearing through the indoor-outdoor carpet, he discovered a series of three-byfive plywood strips held in place by slats running about four feet apart. He pulled the bed across the room, ripping off the mattress and loosening a metal spring support. Using it to pry the floor apart, Slayton forced an opening large enough to fit through.
Donati approached the guard stationed outside, requesting to see the prisoner. The door opened.
Slayton moved quickly. He returned the bed to its corner position, and soon he was “asleep.” The darkness shielded the torn carpet. Satisfied by what he saw, Donati left.
“Has this one made any strange movements or noises while you’ve been on duty?” he asked the guard.
Shaking his head, the guard looked into the room, “All has been quiet,” he said.
Donati flashed a sadistic grin. “If he makes any attempt to escape, aim for the head.”
The guard bowed; Donati closed the door loudly and continued his rounds.
Despite Bathurst’s cordiality and patience, Slayton knew the feeling of the soldiers. They wanted
to see him dead as soon as possible—perhaps there would be an attempt on his life tonight. The tenuous and unconvincing line that Bathurst fed his men, that the Treasury agent might join their Brigade, couldn’t erase the menacing attitude of, say, Donati, who saw no point in keeping Slayton around. Bathurst’s weakness was in allowing his old friend the opportunity to join before Donati and the other men got their way.
That made Slayton’s escape imperative. After pulling the carpet away from the floorboards again, he set the planks against the wall. Slayton slipped between the support timbers, dropping two feet onto a slanted foundation rock. A scatter of dirt and small stones did not make enough noise to alert the guard.
Reaching up through the opening, Slayton maneuvered the floor planks into position over the hole, but he was afraid the carpet would have to remain disengaged from the floor. He had very little time—no telling when Donati or the sentry would check in on the room again.
A narrow crawl space separated the ground floor from a deeper basement section. The foundation rock curved around and dropped steeply into a subterranean wall constructed of heavy wood. He came to a crack in the timber, made noticeable by a single sliver of light leaking in from the adjacent room.
The other side of this wall bordered an immense storeroom, stocked to the ceiling with boxed ammo, guns, grenades, boxes marked “dynamite—explosives” and the like. Assuming the wall continued past this area and to an adjoining passage, Slayton was surprised to find his path blocked several feet ahead. Having to backtrack, he investigated the crack in the wall. It had been caused by poorly aligned plywood studs, fractured and split by the settling of the building.
The lower half of the board gave way without much effort, although Slayton had to pound with his shoulder for a while before it fell apart.
The arsenal room spilled into another, larger compart
ment, which in turn led to a locked entrance to the dungeon.
Attracting the arsenal room guard was simple. Slayton whistled a few bars of “Happy birthday to me,” drawing the man’s immediate inspection. He was a young, cherubic soldier, who inquired “Who’s there?” Slayton answered with a karate blow to his neck. The guard staggered forward and collapsed. Slayton took his knife and pistol, shutting off the light as he crept out the door.