After America

by John Birmingham

  Marine One powered higher above the Manhattan skyline until they were well out of reach of everything short of a decent surface-to-air missile. The marine detail eased back from the windows and returned to their seats, allowing Kipper to refocus on Jed. He sighed heavily, trying to gather his thoughts. It was more a protracted grunt of annoyance, really, and he rubbed his eyes, which were hot and gritty with a lack of sleep.

  “Why, Jed? Why now?” he asked over the ringing in his ears from the gunfire. “Don’t you think I have enough on my plate out here without starting another fight down South? Mad Jack loves it when I get on his case. He fucking lives for it.”

  Culver reached into a briefcase on the floor between his legs. It was a battered old brown leather satchel that he carried with him everywhere, and Kip was certain it must be a relic of his former life as an attorney. It was out of character, because Jed Culver was a man who even now dressed in only the finest clothes and still wore expensive aftershave, but in Kip’s experience most people liked to keep something of the old days close to them, and he assumed that the briefcase was a talisman of sorts for his chief of staff.

  Jed passed across an unmarked manila folder that Kip opened to find three sheets of paper and a couple of poorly focused low-res color photos. The printout was a long list of place names and dates followed by notations that made little sense to Kipper. The first read:

  • Baker Lake/Madison/14-March-07/Pieraro/TDF-Bravo 2/14 …/13CC

  “I’m sorry, Jed. What does all this mean?”

  Jed tapped the top of the sheet Kipper was holding.

  “What it means, Mister President, in the first case there, for instance, is that soldiers from Bravo Company, Second Infantry Battalion of the Texas Defense Force, entered the property of one of our homesteaders, a Miguel Pieraro, three months ago. There they found fourteen members of the Pieraro clan dead. Killed by bandits, according to the TDF report. The state authorities then seized the property and reallocated it to their own settler program under the agreement we signed with them to ensure the Federal Mandates did not lie fallow.”

  Kipper found himself grinding his teeth together. He felt a sick sort of anger curling tightly in his stomach.

  “Bandits, they reckon? And three months ago?” Kipper asked. “Why so long to let us know?”

  Culver shrugged. “Travel time required to get the dispatches back to Corpus Christi, according to Fort Hood.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Of course.”

  Kipper fought to get his temper under control. He looked at the name on the file again. Pieraro. It didn’t ring a bell, but he did recall a clear blue day more than two years ago on the deck of an aircraft carrier filled with homesteaders down at Corpus Christi. The photo op included pressing the flesh and handing out warrants for homesteads throughout Texas. A delegation from Fort Hood had been there, watching the ceremony and promising that they would protect the new homesteaders. Governor Blackstone had been notably absent.

  “Want in one hand, shit in the other,” Kipper muttered.

  “What’s that, Mister President?” Jed asked.

  “Never mind. The fourteen dead homesteaders. Was that all of them?”

  “No, sir. Pieraro himself and one of his children, a girl called Sofia, were not found. That doesn’t tell us anything, though.”

  Kipper examined the sheet of paper again. There were dozens of entries, some with subtle differences that he picked up after a moment. He held the report up to Jed, pointing at a word he didn’t understand.

  “What does ‘ivet’ mean?”

  “Involuntary transfer,” Jed replied. “Deportation. The Pieraro homestead was attacked and emptied out by bandits, according to Fort Hood. But some of those other cases detail settlers in the Federal Mandate who’ve been evicted by Texas Defense Force personnel on Blackstone’s orders. Usually citing disagreements over the extent of the Mandate.”

  Kipper felt a world-class headache sharpening itself up for an assault on his skull. He rubbed his forehead irritably, continuing to read the report. “And K.I.T.O.P.?”

  “Killed in transfer operation,” Jed said flatly.

  That sick bilious taste was rising in his gorge again. “I see. And when did we get this information?” the president asked.

  Culver essayed an apologetic dip of the head.

  “I’ve been on at the FBI to collate the figures for about five months now, sir. They have a field office in Corpus Christi, but as you can imagine, it is understaffed, overwhelmed, and mainly dedicated to fraudulent salvage contracts. They finally put someone on this full-time when we got confirmation of the first kitops.”

  Kipper frowned at the ugly acronym.

  “Murder,” he said. “The first murders, you mean.”

  Culver nodded at the photographs behind the printout. “A bureau agent managed to get coverage of a transfer in progress just outside a town called Groveton in Trinity County.”

  Kip examined the photographs properly for the first time, and his face twisted into a contorted mask of disgust. The images were poor, probably shot from a great distance, but there was no mistaking the story they told. A small group of men, women, and children were being beaten by a larger number of uniformed men. One of the photos appeared to show one of the victims being shot.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he breathed. “How extensive is … this …”

  Words failed him, and he simply waved the folder at Culver.

  “We’re still compiling data, sir. And you have to remember that we don’t control the south any more than we control Manhattan. Less so in some ways because we’re not challenging Blackstone down there like we are challenging these bastards up here.”

  Kipper ignored the tone of rebuke that Jed had allowed to creep into his delivery.

  “But as best we can tell,” Culver continued, “over six hundred of our homesteaders have been driven off their land. Only a hundred and twelve have made it back to a federal facility. Now,” Culver added hurriedly, “that doesn’t mean the TDF killed them. Texas in particular is crawling with genuine bandits and freebooters. There’s also the road agents, outlaw gangs, but the FBI believes they are operating with the tacit assistance of Fort Hood. Chances are that most of our people fell afoul of these agents. But it is undeniable that there have been instances where lethal force has been used by the TDF when transfer was resisted. And as terrified as the refugees were of the TDF, they were even more frightened of any encounters with the road agents.”

  Kipper pressed his lips together and took a moment to calm himself. He gazed around the cabin, taking in the crouched, watchful posture of Corporal Peckham at his door gun and nodding to Agent Shinoda, who was drinking from a water bottle while hanging on to a grab bar near the marines at the back of Marine One.

  “Lets not dress it up any fancier than need be,” he said, turning his attention back to Jed Culver. “Lethal force, involuntary transfer. It’s all bullshit, Jed. We’re talking about murder and ethnic cleansing. And you’re right. I’m sorry. We do need to do something about it.”

  16

  Salisbury Plain, England

  The large faded yellow and red poster read: WARNING TO THE PUBLIC. DANGER FROM UNEXPLODED SHELL AND MORTAR BOMBS. The words in the middle of the sign were faded beyond legibility, but the last sentence, IT MAY EXPLODE, didn’t leave much room for doubt that a world of hurt lay around them. The effect was lessened by the pole to which the poster was affixed leaning over at thirty degrees, creating a definite air of neglect, but Caitlin could hear the distant thud of munitions and, occasionally, when Dalby’s little car crested a ridgeline, she could make out the dark, heavy shapes of armored vehicles maneuvering through the mist and rain in the distance. Some of them were still painted desert tan, most likely former U.S. Army Abrams and Bradley tanks given to Britain as collateral for her matériel support since the Wave. A mountain of U.S. military equipment and more than a few personnel to maintain and operate it had been “permanently loaned” to a
handful of allies in a variation of the lend-lease arrangements from World War II. Although the signage appeared to be neglected, Salisbury Plain itself was alive with thousands of troops training in the wet, filthy conditions.

  Dalby didn’t spare the warning sign a glance as he sped along the winding country road. They had seen dozens of such posters since entering the restricted military area but Dalby appeared to know his way around, skirting temporary roadblocks and turning down laneways and roads in defiance of the direst warnings.

  “Do you come through here a lot, then, Mr. Dalby?” Caitlin asked.

  “The last few years, yes, Ms. Monroe. And I spent a lot of time here as a young squaddie many, many years ago. It’s a miserable place, truth be known. But convenient.”

  She nodded in an abstract way, staring at the fresh brown scars of tank tracks that crisscrossed a gently sloping hill to their left. She’d seen paratroopers drop onto a similar rise from a flight of C-17s shortly after they’d entered the Plain an hour earlier and had immediately thought of her husband, who had once run around jumping out of perfectly good aircraft for a living, perhaps even around this very part of the countryside. Her anger flared again. Bret had done a great job protecting Monique, but he had been very badly injured in doing so, losing half of one finger to a bullet and sustaining a fracture from the impact of another bullet on his right leg, along with a badly chipped elbow and a broken wrist from where he’d fallen and rolled. It was a mercy that Monique had come through unscathed, but a cold fury still washed over Caitlin when she thought about how it so easily could have turned out differently. Thinking of Monique, she suddenly realized how heavy and painful her breasts felt, the awareness arriving along with an unexpected moment of grief. She knew she would not be seeing either of them very soon, possibly not for weeks.

  She would never breast-feed her daughter again.

  She pressed her lips together tightly and stared out the window, trying to disconnect herself from any feelings that might dull her edge or distract her. Grief and mourning were not what her family needed.

  “Dear me, here comes some ’appy campers, then,” Dalby muttered as they rounded a blind corner and found themselves driving toward the rear of a double file of soldiers, heads down, tramping along the roadway in the cold rain. Dalby slowed and eased over to the side of the road, keeping a few feet of clearance between them. The troops were on Caitlin’s side of the car, and she tried not to stare openly at them as they inched past. There looked to be about two platoons’ worth of riflemen carrying a mix of SA-80s and M16s, most of them very young, very wet, and very, very disenchanted with the world.

  “Conscripts, I’ll wager,” Dalby said. “Probably first few weeks in by the look of them.”

  She nodded without comprehension. They did look young, but apart from that, why they’d be draftees rather than volunteers was beyond her. She assumed Dalby had an eye for such things, however, having been there himself.

  “And this’ll be the slave driver in chief.” He grinned, as another young man, tall and seeming to revel in the unpleasant conditions, peeled away from the head of the column and stepped into the roadway in front of them, holding up his hand. The other men kept trudging forward.

  “Pass me the clipboard, would you, Ms. Monroe?” Dolby asked as they pulled up alongside the officer. “In my experience, there’s no situation a fellow cannot handle with a clipboard and a sense of entitlement.”

  The lieutenant in dripping wet battle dress twirled one finger to signal to Dalby that he should roll down his window. A pair of Warrior infantry fighting vehicles passed by, drowning out the officer briefly.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant. Not a bad day for it, eh?” Dalby chirped as he passed over the clipboard without being asked.

  The lieutenant wiped a stream of rainwater from the brim of his helmet, only to see it reappear moments later. He leaned forward, dangerously close to dripping into Dalby’s vehicle. “An excellent day for it, sir, and what would you be doing driving around my firing range?”

  “Well, if you’ll read the top sheet, you’ll see it’s not all yours, Lieutenant … Hunter. We do have to share, you know.”

  The officer, who spoke with the polished accent of the English upper class, turned down the corners of his mouth as he inspected the travel pass and Home Office authorization.

  “I see,” he said somewhat despondently, almost as if he’d been looking forward to roaring through somebody other than his own men. “So it’s the village you’re off to, Mister Dalby and … Miss …”

  “Monroe,” said Caitlin, sitting forward slightly. “Caitlin Monroe.”

  “A consultant to the Home Office,” Dalby offered.

  The lieutenant frowned. If he cared about her American accent, he gave no indication. “She’s not listed on the authorization. You’ll have to wait here while I check with my superiors.”

  “She wouldn’t be,” Dalby said, letting some of the pleasant tone drop out of his voice. “If you took the trouble to read the note, you’d see that I’m authorized to transport whomever I damn well please wherever it takes my fucking fancy, Lieutenant. If I feel like driving this vehicle right up your ass and parallel parking it in the voluminous spaces there within, then that’s exactly what I shall do. And I believe your superiors would concur with that assessment. Luckily for you, however, I’m not so inclined. I just want to carry on to Imber.”

  Lieutenant Hunter, who looked like he was chewing on a particularly sour dog turd by that point, sniffed in distaste. A drop of rain hung on the tip of his patrician nose. He wiped the brim of his helmet again, spattering a bit of misery onto Dalby’s coat.

  “Imber. I see. Well, no need for attitude, sir. This is a dangerous part of the country, you know.”

  “Everywhere is a dangerous part of the country nowadays, laddie. So if you don’t mind, I’ll have those papers back and be on my way.”

  The rain was thickening, and the soldier contrived to get quite a bit of water into the warm, dry interior of the little Mercedes as he tossed the clipboard back into Dalby’s lap.

  “Drive carefully, sir.” The lieutenant smiled. “Accidents do happen.”

  Dalby snorted and shook his head as he raised the automatic window and placed the travel papers on the floor behind Caitlin’s seat.

  “There’s a big puddle up ahead,” she said. “If you time it right, you could give him a hell of a dunking.”

  Dalby smiled.

  “Childish but as satisfying as that would be, Ms. Monroe, I shall resist. I do have to pass through here quite a lot, and although Imber is our patch of the manor, it doesn’t do to get the tin hats offside. A simple life, Caitlin. I crave a simple life. Do you mind me calling you Caitlin, by the way? That was rather presumptuous, wasn’t it?”

  “No, you’re fine,” she said, trying to inject some warmth into her voice. It was difficult with the chill she felt settling around her soul. A killer’s cold detachment. “And thank you for looking after Bret and Monique, by the way. I was a bit out of it back at the hospital. I didn’t really think to say thank you for all you’ve done. I’m sure it must have been a hassle organizing everything on such short notice. And I know that resources are always an issue these days.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said as he drove carefully past the army officer. “Things are always tight; you’re correct. Those poor bloody squaddies of his, the conscripts at least, they wouldn’t be earning enough for a decent punt on ciggies and pints at the mess. No wonder they look so bloody sorry for themselves. Bloody Russians pay their troopers better than that. But there’s money for some things, and our little operation remains flush.”

  Caitlin wondered why he never mentioned Echelon by name. It wasn’t as if the network of agencies, all of them based exclusively within the English-speaking world, was a state secret. Even Monique, the French girl after whom her daughter was named, had known something of it, gleaned from the pages of the French press before the Disappearance and the intifada.
Perhaps Dalby was just an Old World kind of guy.

  “Not too far now,” he announced a few minutes later as they drove past a plain white two-story building. It had no windows or doors, just empty spaces letting in the weather. She assumed it must be the first of Imber’s ghost buildings. The village had been taken by the army way back in 1943 to be used as a training facility for the invasion of mainland Europe, and although the inhabitants of that time had been promised they could return to their homes, the army had kept the place for itself.

  “So this place has been off limits for what, sixty-three years now?” she asked.

  Dalby made a gentle left-hand turn toward a thin stand of elm trees sheltering two more boxy-looking buildings like the one they’d just passed. Without windows or any of the usual signs of habitation, the empty shells looked entirely forlorn, although Caitlin assumed the army must have spent some time maintaining them. Structurally they appeared very sound, which should not have been the case after more than half a century of exposure to the elements.

  “Back in the old days,” Dalby said, “before the Wave, the army opened the village up to sightseers quite a bit. After things changed, though, the Imber Range went dark again. Army still uses the village hulks for specialist training, but we have our own reception facility here, in the old pub, and first dibs on the rest of the place. It’s well away from prying eyes and secure naturally, being stuck in the middle of sixteen thousand hectares of live firing range space.”