Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

  “Very good, Corporal.” He said it without condescension. “I’ll have to stop quoting French, you know, if I run for president. In America these days, a knowledge of the most beautiful, civilized language on earth is considered a disqualification for high office. Much better to say, ¡Buenos días! and be photographed biting into some revolting burrito. Well, Corporal Cass, shall we commence fact-finding?”

  “Where would the congressman like to fact-find?”

  “I thought we might just poke about. I hate the planned itineraries. Oh, gosh, Congressman, we had no idea you were coming. Then you step into the tent and there’s a banner saying WELCOME, CONGRESSMAN JEPPERSON, and you practically gag on the smell of boot and brass polish. The poor people have been up since dawn getting ready for you. It’s tough enough out here without a bunch of Washington assholes sticking their faces in. There’s a Special Forces camp near here, isn’t there? Camp December . . .”

  “November.”

  “The very one. Let’s see what’s cooking in Camp November. I like the special ops people. They give it to you with the bark off.”

  Cass drove. The congressman observed the landscape in silence. After a while he said, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Preventing World War One from breaking out again.”

  “Good answer.”

  “Not original. I heard a colonel say it.”

  “Well, we don’t have quite as much to worry about this time from Austro-Hungary. But Russia’s always a question mark. You know, I got drunk with Boris Yeltsin once. Remember him? God, that man could put it away. We sang ‘Home on the Range’ in the Kremlin. Took me a week to recover. Can’t stand even the smell of vodka now. And vodka doesn’t even smell.”

  Cass kept her eyes on the muddy road, feeling his eyes on her, not in a lecherous way.

  “So?” he said.

  “So?” she said.

  “What are you doing here? Aside from keeping World War One from breaking out again.”

  “Boring story.” Cass smiled.

  “You’ve got me trapped inside a Humvee in Bosnia,” Randy said. “Go on. Bore me to death. Give it your best shot.”

  She boiled it down, nervous to find herself confiding a family saga to a United States congressman. She left out her mother’s sarcastic comments at the dinner table about the Cessna but included the detail that her father had secretly taken out a second mortgage on their home to finance his start-up, which continued to founder. After that, her mother took the kids and walked out. That part Cass had learned in a letter received halfway through basic training.

  Congressman Randy listened without comment, arms folded over his chest. Cass thought she heard some kind of humming coming from him. Maybe he was bored, singing to himself. They passed the remains of a bombed-out Serb convoy.

  “Well,” he said at length. “What do you get a dad like that for Father’s Day? A hand grenade?”

  They drove on. Cass said, “Why do you have a Humvee? Aren’t you a big environmentalist?”

  “Boring story.”

  “Your turn to bore me.”

  “All right. Now don’t quote me, because I’ll get in a lot of trouble for even talking about it. But there’s this list. You know how the military and Capitol Police and Secret Service love to scare the shit—pardon my French—out of Congress with disaster scenarios? Drives up their budgets. Well, Tom Clancy, you know, the novelist?”

  “I’ve heard of Tom Clancy.”

  “Not as good a writer as Villon. He wrote this preposterous book that ends with a plane flying into the Capitol building. Can you imagine? Like people are going to start flying planes into buildings? Please. But everyone in official Washington reads Clancy—you don’t think they’re reading Proust, do you? Au contraire—and it scared the merde out of them. So they decided, we must have a plan. We must have a—list. So they drew this grotesque list of who gets evacuated in the event Japanese jingoists or deranged Swiss yodelers or whoever start flying jumbo jets into our buildings. It’s called ‘List Echo.’ What Washington drudge came up with that designation? But wouldn’t you know—I’m not on it. It’s all senators. Can you imagine a world repopulated by senators? The living would envy the dead. So I thought, All right, fine, I’ll arrange for my own evacuation when the great dome comes down around us. So I bought this appalling vehicle, the station wagon from hell, and parked it permanently in my space in the Capitol garage with a full tank of gas and all sorts of survival goodies packed in.” He added, “I really do care about the environment. Most of the time I ride a bicycle. Of course, it’s not just being green. It kind of helps with the image thing. The Bicycling Congressman.”

  “So you spin literally.”

  “Very good, Corporal. Yes. I spin. That’s it. An occasion of spin.” He yawned. “Do you mind if I doze off for a bit? Didn’t get much shut-eye on the way over. I don’t want to nod off in front of Special Forces. They’ll probably think I’m a big enough wimp as it is. Wake me if we come under attack or anything really thrilling happens, would you?”

  Chapter 4

  “Funny,” Congressman Randy said as they drove down the muddy road from the Special Forces camp.

  “What?”

  “World War One. It finally ended in November. We were just at Camp November. And the war began right here in Bosnia. So in a way, we did a full historical circle in just a few hours.” He was quiet for a while and then said, “They were very gung ho, weren’t they.”

  “Special Forces tends to be.”

  “Did you do all the normal things in basic training? Or do Public Affairs people get a break from the foxhole stuff?”

  Cass gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t join the army to issue press releases and . . .”

  “Escort jerks from Congress.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Ah, but you thought it. Well, Corporal, believe me, I may not be a fan of our mission here, but I’ve never had less than full respect for the military. Do you know what I was doing when I was your age? Snorting cocaine in Peru with the Peace Corps and pretending to be with the CIA.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Cass said.

  “Guilt.” He winked at her. “With liberals it’s a sacrament. I do admire the military. Though thank God I never had to be in it. Wouldn’t have lasted two minutes. Do you think they were, you know, laying it on thick for me back there? Spinning? What with me being on the record against our being here and all?”

  “To be honest,” Cass said, “I think they have better things to do. Like keeping warm. And not getting blown up.”

  “Touché, Corporal. Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do or die. Onward rode the six hundred. Had to memorize that at Groton. Suppose these days they have you memorize Maya Angelou. Such drivel.”

  “You don’t sound very liberal. You drive a Humvee, admire the military, prefer Tennyson to politically correct poetry.”

  “On paper I’m pretty pink. My ADA rating is through the roof. But I know what you mean. You know what the French say: ‘Think left, live right.’ Would you like me to recite the whole of ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’?”

  “No, thank you. It’s a good thing you didn’t do that back there. They might have opened fire on us.”

  “Recited it once during a late night filibuster to block a school lunch cutback. I can do ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee,’ too. Don’t worry. I’ll spare you.”

  “What was she like?” It just came out. Cass regretted it instantly.

  “Who?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  “Ah—the Tegucigalpa Tamale.”

  “It was out of line. I’m sorry.”

  “Well . . .” Randy cleared his throat. “She can be very nice. I think she just thinks it’s more interesting not to be. We were actually engaged at one point. Mother . . .God, that was a night never to repeat. I tremble at the memory.”

  Cass heard the humming sound again.

  “Is that a—”

/>   “It’s called Tourette’s. Just a mild case. Came with the genes. My father had a not mild case. He chirped like a South American cockatoo. Rather awkward in the middle of a Chopin nocturne at the Philharmonic. As children, we would cringe.”

  “I don’t mean to laugh.”

  “I’ve heard worse, believe me. Say, I’m famished.”

  Cass reached behind the seat and handed him a Meal Ready To Eat. The wrapper indicated “ITALIAN STYLE. Spaghetti with M/Ball. 1200 calories.”

  Congressman Randy stared at it on his lap, glumly. “Oh, yum.” He threw the MRE back. “Mind if I drive?” he said.

  It was against all regulations.

  “Uh—”

  “Oh, come on. Please? I never get to, back home. You’re always being driven. Driven—in so many ways. Please?”

  Cass used to let her younger brother take the wheel when he was fifteen. Congressman Randy, nearly forty, suddenly sounded like a teenager.

  “I could get in serious trouble,” she said.

  “If you don’t let me drive,” Randy said in a serious tone of voice, “I’ll recite the whole of ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ And you’ll go mad. And run off the road, and we’ll both die.”

  She pulled over. They exchanged places and drove off, smoothly enough.

  “Handles a bit heavier than mine,” he said.

  “It’s armored,” Cass said.

  “Of course. Brilliant. Are there any buttons I shouldn’t touch? Missile launchers, ejection seats, smoke machines? There’s a village.”

  They were in a valley. There was smoke rising from a small town a few miles in the distance.

  “They’ll have something to eat,” Randy said.

  “Negative that,” Cass said. “This road we’re on is the perimeter of our area of operations. That town is outside of it. We can get something back at Turdje.”

  “I bet you that village is the very epicenter of gastronomy in the region. Indeed, the Lyon of Turdje.”

  “I don’t believe there is an ‘epicenter of gastronomy’ anywhere around here,” Cass said.

  “See here, Corporal, I’m here to find facts. And the facts I’m most interested in right now include a bit of roast chicken, some fresh cheese, crusty bread, and a bottle of the local plonk. How’s the wine here, by the way? Pretty grim? Um . . .probably better off ordering beer.”

  Against Cass’s protest, Randy turned the vehicle off the main road onto a smaller one that led to the village. Cass had visions of Serb snipers popping up from behind hedgerows. She reached for the radio.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “Informing them back at base that I’m being kidnapped by a U.S. congressman.”

  “Good idea. You never know.”

  Cass alerted the duty officer of their position. He expressed concern, but Randy was as focused as a pig intent on truffle. A few moments later, they pulled into the village.

  There was something resembling a small town square and a few locals. Cass saw a sign that seemed to indicate it might have something to do with food. They went inside. It was steamy and warm inside and smelled of stale pickles. Cass exchanged a few rudimentary words with the apparent proprietor, a large elderly woman with a mole.

  “What did you order?” Congressman Randy said.

  “Kulen pita.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Tripe pie.”

  “Oh,” Randy said. “Yum, scrum.”

  It wasn’t bad. Congressman Randy drank a bottle of the local beer, which he pronounced “a bit hoppy.”

  As they ate, three rough-looking men entered and sat at a table. They stared at Cass in her uniform and her congressman. Randy gave them a friendly look and wave. They returned cold scowls.

  “Must be Republicans.” He shrugged. He ordered another beer.

  “My great-great-et-cetera ancestor,” Randy said, suppressing a hoppy belch, “knew Thomas Jefferson. Knew him quite well. They—awkward point—used to buy their slaves from the same dealer. You won’t hear me speechifying about that on C-SPAN. There are letters between them about it. ‘I think I overpaid for Hezekiah. Didn’t much like the look of those gums.’ Wait till I run for president. How the media will feast. Sorry, I’m rambling. Tripe pie does that to me. Anyhow, to the point. In 1815, Jefferson wrote a letter to someone. I’ve had it entered it into the Congressional Record so many times I know it by heart. Don’t worry, it’s shorter than ‘Sam McGee.’ He wrote, ‘The less we have to do with the amities or enmities of Europe, the better.’ This from someone who’d been our minister to France. He wrote, ‘Not in our day, but at no distant one, we may shake a rod over the heads of all, which may make the stoutest tremble. But I hope our wisdom will grow with our power, and teach us that the less we use our power the greater it will be.’ Damn good stuff.” He leaned back, gave the brutish-looking men a glance, and said, “And here we are once again—here you are, Corporal—smack dab in the center of Europe’s enmities.”

  “Speaking of enmities,” Cass said in a low voice, “I think we ought to leave. Those men over there—they’re making me kind of uncomfortable.”

  Randolph gave them an appraising look. “Not nature’s most gorgeous specimens, are they, the Bozzies? Why linger? Will you ask Madame Mole what we owe?”

  He pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. The cash did not go unnoticed by the three men. Cass winced. The men got up and left.

  When they were outside, Randy said, “Care for a stroll on the Rialto? Walk off our three-star meal?”

  “Get in the vehicle.”

  Randy walked over to the driver’s side.

  “I need to drive,” she said.

  But there was no arguing. He had the key. She climbed in her side. They drove off. Cass watched nervously in her rear mirror. The three men emerged from the café, got into a car, and followed them.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Randy said, “it was pretty awful.”

  “Not the food. Those men. They’re following us.”

  Randy glanced in the rearview mirror. “They’re probably going home. Home to their poor wives. The prospect of sex with those three . . .the mind boggles. . ..”

  “They’re following,” Cass said with a trace of anger. “That wad of cash you flashed back there.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t look like they took American Express.”

  Cass got on the radio and reported the situation.

  “Did you just call in an air strike?” Randy said. “Not very sporting.”

  “They don’t screw around here. They’re tough.”

  “Well, I’m tough, too,” Randy said with jutted jaw.

  Wonderful, Cass thought. Bertie Wooster Goes to War.

  The car was now close behind them. Suddenly Randy jammed on the brakes. The car almost slammed into them.

  “What are you doing?” Cass shouted.

  “Seeing if they pass.”

  They didn’t. Two men got out of the car and approached the Humvee on either side. The one approaching Cass’s had something long in his hand.

  In the next instant, her door window spiderwebbed from the blow of the iron pipe.

  “Hang on!” Randy shouted.

  Cass felt herself thrown forward against her seat restraint as Randy slammed the Humvee into reverse and floored the accelerator. The Humvee smashed into the Serb car with a loud crunch. He shifted back into forward and drove off.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Bit sudden. You all right?”

  Cass was already on the radio, reporting that they were now officially under attack. In her rearview, she saw the two men rushing back to get in the car. It took off, following.

  “I’d have thought that would have put them out of action,” Randy said. “So, do we have any guns on board?”

  “No.”

  “A military vehicle with no guns?”

  “We weren’t supposed to be operating in hostile territory,” Cass snapped.

  “Well, I wish we had some al
l the same. I’m rather good at skeet.”

  “That’s so reassuring.”

  Randy turned the vehicle sharply off the road and onto a field.

  “What are you doing?” Cass screamed.

  “Let’s see them follow us through this muck!”

  “Randy, there are mines! Mines all over this country!”

  Congressman Randy took his foot off the accelerator.

  “Aha. You may be on to something there, Corp—”

  Chapter 5

  U.S. CONGRESSMAN WOUNDED IN BOSNIA

  Military Escort Also Hospitalized in Mine Incident

  Cass stared groggily at the headline. An obliging nurse had brought her USA Today’s foreign edition. She’d been in and out of consciousness for the last two days, so the paper was indeed bringing her news. At some point—was it this morning?—she had opened her eyes to find her bed surrounded by uniforms, uniforms of impressive rank. She dealt with the unwelcome discovery by closing her eyes and feigning a coma.

  She read:

  Representative Randolph K. Jepperson and his military escort were injured yesterday when their Humvee went off a main road near the Bosnian village of Krkyl and hit a land mine. They were evacuated by helicopter to the NATO base in Turdje and then flown to the U.S. Army medical center in Landstuhl, Germany.

  A NATO spokesman said both are in “serious but stable” condition.

  Massachusetts Congressman Jepperson is a ranking member of the House Armed Forces Overseas Projection Oversight Committee. He was on a fact-finding mission at the time of the incident. An ancestor was a signer of the Declaration of Independence.

  His escort, Corporal Cassandra Cohane, is with Army Public Affairs, based at Turdje as part of the NATO peacekeeping deployment.

  It was unclear what their Humvee was doing in the middle of a posted minefield.

  Sometime later—was it that same day?—Cass heard a grave, urgent voice.

  “Corporal. Corporal Cohane.”

  She opened her eyes. The uniforms of impressive rank had returned. She saw a colonel, a major, a captain—no, two captains. None bore flowers, magazines, or “get well soon” cards. Cass closed her eyes again, but the voice, blistering with authority, summoned her back from her hiding place behind lids. She was momentarily grateful that her head was bandaged and her left arm encased in plaster. It might make them just the teensiest bit sympathetic. Okay, she thought, here goes.