Chasm

by James Bruno

  MLAVIC, DRAGAN; COL. BSR SPECIAL OPS. NO DEPENDENTS.

  RAZNATOVIC, ZELJKO; COL. BSR MILITIA. NO DEPENDENTS.

  3. REQUEST CHASM PERSONNEL MEET AND ASSIST. REQUEST CONFIRMATION OF ONWARD PROTECTION DESTINATION. SUBJECTS HAVE BEEN GIVEN STANDARD SECURITY AND LOGISTICAL BRIEFINGS.

  4. SPECIAL REQUIREMENTS: RAZNATOVIC LOST LEFT EYE TO MUSLIM ASSAILANT IN AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT. REQUIRES PROMPT SURGERY AND THERAPY UPON ARRIVAL. MRS. LINA VROZ REQUIRES PSYCHIATRIC TREATMENT RESULTING FROM EXTENDED SHOCK. MLAVIC HAS VIOLENT OUTBURSTS AND DISPLAYS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES; SUGGEST PSYCHOLOGICAL EXAMINATION UPON ARRIVAL.

  KINCAID

  “As you can see, this is a particularly sensitive lot. Important too. Big troublemakers. Couldn’t disengage, adjust to peace and have been in hiding since the end of hostilities. The authorities there told us nonetheless that they were out of control, a threat to the accords. Just couldn’t keep them in line. So, they fall into our lap.”

  Ferret read and re-read the telegram. He slowly lifted his head. “These people are bad. I mean, they’re as bad as they come.”

  “Win. You needn’t tell me what kind of people they are. Our job is to take them in, debrief them, subdue them, hide them, whatever. That’s the program, after all. CHASM undergirds peace. We’re the widget in the mechanism that makes these things work but nobody sees. Without us, the world stays a more dangerous place. We’ve got a role. The President relies on us—“

  “The risks to ordinary folks who live near them. Anything can happen. Have we thought about that?”

  Goldman cocked his head and pulled a face in a gesture of impatience. “Win, we’ve been through this already. If you had any doubts about the program, you shouldn’t have signed on—”

  “I was dragooned into it.”

  “No you weren’t. And you know it. The prospect for a double shot at promotion is quite appealing. No other office can offer that. As it turns out, we’ve got some of the best area specialists in the Department. You happen to have fluent Serbo-Croatian, not to mention German, Spanish and Russian. You’re a genuine asset to CHASM. We all undergo pressures in our jobs. You can look forward to moving on next year. In the meantime, you’ve got a terrific wife and kids to support you. Spend more time with them.”

  “But, my God. Look who’s on this list. Ratkovic. ‘Arkan’ is his nom de guerre. He’s a butcher. He slaughtered 600 Muslim men at Nova Kasaba alone—”

  “Win! That’s enough. Just do your job. Be there at Andrews day after tomorrow, in the morning at 6:00 sharp. Make sure it goes smoothly. Like you’ve done before.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Andrews Air Force Base is little different from other airports. Big expanses of concrete are marked by control towers, hangars and utility vehicles that dart between idling aircraft and squat, gray terminal buildings. The air is unnatural, infused with the burnt odor of jet fuel exhaust; indoors, it is stale and thoroughly inorganic. The argument could be made that, since God did not intend for man to fly, nothing associated with flight should fit comfortably into nature. Andrews is no different. Famous for hosting Air Force One and a fleet of government VIP aircraft, and as the arrival and departure venue for the President, the sprawling base lies, like a blotch on a toad’s back, smack in the middle of prime suburban territory.

  Ferret stood on the edge of the west tarmac at dawn, bundled in a winter parka, and stomped his feet to ward of the zero degree wind chill factor. An Arctic front blasting in from Canada brought winter early to the nation’s capital.

  Also bundled in winter coats and jerking their limbs to keep the blood flowing were three others. The four figures, standing forlornly amid acres of flat landing areas, silhouetted against a timid sun on the eastern horizon, staring heavenward, resembled modern Druid priests awaiting a divine sign, or perhaps even a god.

  The woman saw it first. She pointed at a black dot approaching from the south. The C-141 came in fast, the bright landing lights resembled not the eyes of a god, but rather of a huge bird of prey delivering its young to a safe place.

  The plane’s wheels made a thud and spewed smoke as they hit the runway. The aircraft shuddered and then screeched as the flaps were lifted. Like a bird of prey. Big, dark, ominous. Unlike other Air Force planes, this one sported USAF insignia on the camouflaged body and horizontal stabilizer that were so small as to be visible only up close. Aircraft on special ops missions were dressed up this way. And they took off and landed at night. Their cargo, whether made of steel, rare elements, or flesh, were almost always lethal.

  A small bus pulled up behind the Druid sky gazers. A dozen beefy MPs piled out and formed a neat line, winter frocks flapping in the wind, riot sticks at the ready.

  The virtually windowless aircraft taxied halfway back down the runway, turned right into the parking area and came to a halt. After several minutes, the infernal roar of the engines fell silent. The shivering greeting party waited patiently for the starboard hatch to open. A crew member’s head stuck out just as the ground crew wheeled up the ramp stairs.

  The reception party formed a semi-circle around the front of the aircraft. Two crew members scampered down.

  Out of the hatch appeared a stocky, middle-aged, blond man. He was holding the hand of a little blond girl. He paused a moment to survey the environment, filled his lungs with the frigid air, then sauntered down the steps, careful that the girl did not make a misstep.

  Next appeared a thin woman in a bulky wool coat and kerchief on her head. Another crew member assisted her and two more girls down the steps. These were followed by four more men, one woman and two boys.

  The last man to disembark also paused at the top of the steps. Unlike the others, he did not huddle against the cold. Dressed only in a gray, open-collar, wool shirt and jeans, this man took his time. The wind whipped his shock of straight brown hair, but he remained unfazed. Where others were cowed, indeed intimidated by the premature winter tempest, this man appeared to soak it in. His stubbly face cracked a smile, but it was not benign. He was in his element, this man. He may have been in the storm, but the storm was within him as well. He gazed upon the terrain as a victorious general looks upon a new conquest. He looked down. His eyes caught Ferret’s and held them.

  There was a connecting of souls between the two men. Ferret felt suddenly powerful, yet also vulnerable. He knew this man’s face. He knew Dragan Mlavic’s reputation as an effective, yet ruthless soldier. Colonel Mlavic’s three companies of elite fighters called themselves Narodna Obrana — “National Defense,” after the terrorist gangs which, in the struggle for Serbian independence, carried out guerrilla attacks against the Austrian Hapsburgs before World War I. Mlavic’s men wore black uniforms and fought fiercely. They also slaughtered Muslim and Croat civilians just as fiercely.

  The bus pulled up to the plane. The MPs took their positions parallel on each side of the ramp. Ferret hesitated. He was to lead his counterparts from Defense, CIA and the Joint Chiefs of Staff to the ramp to greet the newcomers.

  An Air Force major in his flight suit clambered gingerly down the ramp. At its foot, he looked around impatiently. Ferret’s other-agency colleagues looked at him expectantly, not wishing to make the jump on the lead agency representative.

  Ferret stared at the sun, the cloud-streaked beams of which fought vainly to burst through the winter sky. Again, the ballet of savagery began to play in his soul. Rage vied with the urge to flee.

  “Mr. Ferret,” the man from Defense hissed. “Mr. Ferret!”

  Ferret’s trance was broken. He looked at Menard, from DoD’s CHASM unit. Menard jerked his head toward the ramp and the Air Force major, whose impatience was now turning to anger. Sarah Bramley, the CIA rep, looked at her shoes, then at the sky above in a display of impatience and scorn.

  Ferret saw the major and the huddling Serbs. He still did not move. The major strode toward him in broad paces.

  “You in charge here? Are you the State rep?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” Fer
ret replied simply.

  “You got a name?”

  “Yes. It’s Ferret.”

  The Air Force officer pointed to his passengers without breaking eye contact with Ferret. “I’m Major Donald Bennett. They’re yours now, Mr. Ferret. Delivery accomplished, Free on Board. Sign these. I’ve got other things to take care of.” He thrust a ream of papers at Ferret.

  Major Bennett waved for the group to approach. Obligingly, they did. Except for Mlavic, who lingered behind while smoking a cigarette.

  “Hey! Shithead!! Get the fuck over here and I mean now!” Bennett shouted. “Whaddya want, a formal invitation?”

  An MP promptly knocked the cigarette out of Mlavic’s mouth and yanked him over by his collar.

  “This dude thinks he’s something special. Acted like our Starlifter was his personal VIP jet and the crew his servants. Watch him closely,” Bennett said.

  “His name’s Mlavic,” Ferret muttered.

  “His name’s mud to me, pal. I’ve got two teenage daughters and I shudder to think that we’re turning scum like this loose in this country after what they did over there. You got kids, Mr. Ferret?”

  “Uh, yah. Three boys.”

  “You love ‘em?”

  Ferret stared blankly at Bennett.

  “I said, do you love your kids, Mr. Ferret?” The major was in Ferret’s face.

  “Why, uh, sure. Of course.”

  Like most of his fellow officers, Bennett just couldn’t brook wishy-washy civilian bureaucrats. “Aw hell. Just take them off my hands, Ferret.”

  Ferret quickly signed the documents and signaled for the group to get on the bus. Six MPs also boarded. He and the other officials entered a small van. The vehicles, with a Humvee in the lead, sped off. Ten minutes later, they arrived at a squat, bunker-like building surrounded by a high, razor wire topped cyclone fence in a remote cul-de-sac overlooking the golf course in the southwest sector of the base. Four sentries, batons on their belts, stood waiting at the front gate. They took positions flanking the door of the bus containing the Serbs and the MPs. Each adult male disembarking the bus was escorted by one MP. The women and children were taken off last. The little girl of the blond man and dark-haired woman clung to her mother’s coat as she stared with fright at the gargantuan MPs. In single file, they were marched into the cinder-block structure. Wafts of heat enveloped them as they walked through the door and past a plexiglass-enclosed security cubicle manned by a Marine. It was a world of white. Too many fluorescent lamps illuminated hospital-bright walls. A perky female Navy lieutenant greeted them with a smile.

  “Hi! I’m Rachel. Welcome to America. Would you please follow me?” A short, dour Army corporal translated into Serbo-Croatian. With the smile still fixed firmly, Rachel sashayed down a corridor cuddling a clipboard to her chest. She could have been a guide at Disney World. She led them to a small, bare-walled conference room. They took seats around a table. Ferret and his counterparts sat facing them.

  Rachel jauntily handed a packet to each Serbian adult. “These are your welcome kits. You’ll find information on all fifty states — including vacation spots — our currency and measurements, an English phrase book, American food, tipping as well as a copy of our Constitution.”

  Ferret looked at Rachel in disbelief. He spoke up. “Lieutenant uh …?”

  “Patterson, sir.”

  “Yes. Um. Can we dispense with the travelogue? These people aren’t here care of Thomas Cook. These people are…” He fell silent as they looked at him, waiting for him to complete his sentence.

  “Well, they’re tired. You can leave the packets in their quarters for perusal at their leisure, okay?”

  Menard leaned over and whispered, “Be easy on the girl. She’s new to the program, Win.”

  Ferret would not make eye contact with his charges, except for the little girl. Her innocent doe eyes were identical to those of countless Bosnian Muslim girls who lost their childhoods or lives to the fathers and brothers and uncles of Serbian lasses just like her. He kept his gaze alternately on the far wall and on the conference table.

  “My name is Ferret, from the State Department. With me are Mr. Menard, Department of Defense, Ms. Bramley, of the CIA and Lt. Col. Jones, Joint Chiefs of Staff. Our mission is to resettle you in this country and to monitor your well-being and behavior. As you know, you may not move from your new homes unless we give you permission. You may not return to the former Yugoslav republics for any purpose without the explicit permission of the governments of the United States and Serbia. In fact, you may not leave the U.S. for any purpose without receiving advance permission from us. A team will oversee your settling into your assigned communities. Should any questions arise of an emergency nature, call me or Captain Rasheed.” Ferret gestured toward a tall, young black Marine officer.

  The Serbian men took notes, except for Mlavic, who sat back, ankle across a knee, and glowered at Captain Rasheed.

  “This week, we will conduct intensive debriefs with you—” Bramley began.

  “When can we go back home?” Col. Zinovic blurted.

  Ferret made eye contact for the first time. “I told you, not without the explicit permission of the U.S. and Serbian governments,” he replied stiffly. “It was deemed by the policymakers that your absence would make the peace more viable.”

  Zinovic pointed to his two young sons. “I want them to grow up in their own homeland as Serbs, not as Americans. Your country is powerful, but your society is immoral.”

  Vroz quickly added, “I have three beautiful daughters.” He caressed tenderly the blonde tresses of two of his pre-pubescent girls. “In Serbia, they respect their parents. In America, we hear about drugs and teenage pregnancy. Runaway kids and gangs.”

  A thermal storm roiled inside Ferret. His face flushed and his heart raced. He leaned forward on his elbows and looked straight at Vroz. “You were stationed in Prijedor, weren’t you?”

  “Why, yes,” he said uncertainly.

  “You were in charge of secret police operations there.”

  Vroz blinked nervously. “I was chief of law enforcement.”

  “Let me ask you this. Does ‘law enforcement’ involve mass rapes? Does your so-called law mandate sexual molestation of young girls just like your daughters? Of slaughtering innocent civilians and unarmed soldiers?” Ferret’s eyes, wide and agitated, blocked out everything but the Serb sitting in front of him. Sweat glistened on his face. His breathing accelerated.

  Vroz’s daughters became petrified. One, then the other two began to cry.

  Bramley braced Ferret’s forearm with her hand. “Win, calm down. We’ve got work to do,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Ferret gathered himself and took a deep breath. “We’ll now break up for debriefs and resettlement counseling.”

  The session broke up and the Serbs were escorted out of the room to meet individually in smaller rooms. The children were taken to a small child care facility on the premises.

  Bramley turned to Ferret. “Do you know what you’re doing?! These people are nervous enough as it is without you turning on them.”

  “We’re letting war criminals into this country and placing them into law-abiding communities,” he shot back. “Don’t you see?!” Fists clenched, eyes focused somewhere inside his soul, Ferret looked desperate, like a man about to lose everything and helpless to do anything about it.

  It was clear to Bramley that Ferret was overwrought. In a gentle voice, she said, “Win, calm down. You know the score. This is the price of peace. Remove them from the scene. Keep them under wraps under new identities. They’re a fount of valuable intelligence. A gold mine of information.”

  “Like Wernher von Braun and those other Nazis we took in after the war.”

  “That’s history. The White House, CIA, Pentagon and your State Department find CHASM useful. At the very least, what these tell us can save the lives of NATO troops.”

  “What about Mr. and Mrs. Joe Blow back here? These terrorists m
ove into their neighborhood and they’re none the wiser. Pederasts get reported. Alien mass killers don’t. Jesus.” He ran the fingers of both hands backward through his blond hair in a gesture of utter confusion and frustration.

  Bramley watched him carefully. “All I can say, Win, is get

  with the program, or get out,” she said in a low, even tone. She grabbed her purse and attaché case and left the room.

  Ferret interviewed each Serb individually. The last was Mlavic. They sat in a tiny, windowless room with only a small table and two folding chairs. The ambience too was fluorescent white.

  Ferret reviewed the special ops colonel’s dossier. “You’ve got marketable skills. Should be easy to place you with a pharmaceutical firm or lab somewhere, what with a graduate degree in chemistry.”

  Mlavic sat back relaxed. A smirk creased his face, which was covered with a week’s growth of dark stubble.

  “Did you think I was some kind of uneducated barbarian?”

  Ferret did not lift his eyes from the file. “I’ve long known of your reputation as well as your background. We have good information,” he stated evenly.

  “Yes. Your CIA. They have spied on us for decades. And now they help the Muslims kill our people.”

  “Tentatively, we plan to place you in one of the Rocky Mountain states — Idaho, perhaps Montana.”

  “I wish to go to New York, or San Francisco.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why impossible?”