The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  “Okay,” said Weinstein.

  In the Subaru Kicky said casually, “I suppose Jimmy and Lavonne will have to do the same if someone knocks on their windows?”

  “Yes,” said Jackson. “Don’t worry, Jimmy’s into you, not Lavonne.”

  “Did he say that?” asked Kicky with a gulp.

  Jackson’s smiles were infrequent, chilly and wintry when they did occur, but Kicky saw one now in the glow of the streetlights. “No, he didn’t say anything, but I make it a point to observe the Volunteers under my command. That’s one of the reasons I took you with me tonight. This is an even more important mission than usual, and I have to make sure everyone stays professional.”

  “And, uh, how would Lavonne feel about getting professional with Jimmy? I thought her and Kevin were . . . I’m sorry, I know that’s a stupid thing for me to say in circumstances like this. I know this is supposed to be a revolution, not a Harlequin Romance paperback.”

  “Kevin is Lavonne’s brother. Lavonne’s man is in prison, doing life without parole for hatecrime,” said Jackson gently. “The only chance she has of getting him back, ever, is for the NVA to win. She has elected to remain faithful to him, and we all respect that. Jimmy would never be unprofessional with her, nor would I allow such a situation to arise.” A dark van slid by them in the dark and Jackson’s phone beeped. He answered it, spoke briefly, and hung up. “That’s Oscar,” he told Kicky. “He’s going in first and then the rest of them.” Kicky stirred nervously; she wondered if Oscar would find the hidden bug-bug?

  Meanwhile, on the other side of town Hector Lopez, Alfonso Cardozo, Manuel Artiguez, and Benicio Rodriguez had just stolen a BMW and were now cruising along knocking back a case of Coronas and smoking some weed. By the time the other vehicles cruised past and turned the corner, to park in the rear of the storefront, the four cholos were in the process of robbing a liquor store and pistol-whipping the owner. In the Oak Harbor van, the Portland detectives and FBI were listening intently both to the conversation going on between Kicky and Billy Jackson, and then when they heard the door of the shop opening, listening to the bug-bug Kicky had planted. There were several minutes of muffled sound of people moving around and low conversation, inaudible, and then the rear door opened and others came in. “Good evening, sir,” came a clear male voice. “How was the trip down?”

  “Evening, Oscar,” came another man’s voice. He sounded older. “Had to dodge some checkpoints coming into Vancouver, but Shane’s a damned good driver. We the first to arrive?”

  “First and Second Brigade commandants are on their way, sir,” said the first voice. “Zack Hatfield may be a bit later since he has further to travel and we have word of some roadblocks he may have to get around.”

  “My God, we can wipe out their whole Portland command structure in one blow, and get Oscar at the same time!” yelped Farley in excitement.

  “We can do better than that,” breathed Weinstein, not daring to believe his luck. “I know that voice from old Party internet broadcasts. We can match it with voice printing, but there’s no need. I know who it is. That’s Red Morehouse!”

  “Holy Mother of Pearl, we’re getting Red Morehouse on digital!” said Andy McCafferty in shock and awe. “This is incredible! We’re recording Red Morehouse on digital audio!”

  “We’ll do better than that! You’ll be talking to him in person before the night’s out, Detective,” said Weinstein. He turned to Lainie. “Sergeant, let’s forget about our usual turf wars, okay? Surely you can see that this is an unbelievable opportunity we can’t pass up? Morehouse, two NVA brigade commanders and the mysterious Oscar. We can cripple the bastards in Portland and maybe throughout Oregon with one blow! To keep the operation going we’ll let the Subaru escape if we can, even if it means losing Jackson, but you have to see that we can’t let this slip by us!”

  Lainie nodded. She understood. She hadn’t planned on it coming down this soon, but she was professional enough to know that Weinstein was right. She spoke into her headphone mike. “Ready Response Team, alert. On your mark, guys. Wait for my order. We’re going to drop the hammer on these racist bastards. Here and now, tonight.”

  “Roger dat, essay!” came the voice of the Mexican RRT commander.

  Ten blocks away, the stolen BMW containing the four gang-bangers roared through a red light at sixty miles an hour, and a McMinnville PD patrol car saw them and gave chase, siren wailing and lights flashing. The cop called in the chase and other units began converging.

  Inside the storefront Oscar was saying, “So this federal goon squad looks to be a sure thing, sir?”

  “Yes, rather like the Black and Tans in Ireland, and they’ll be just as useless, probably actually counterproductive from the enemy’s viewpoint,” said Morehouse. “My guess is that they’ll be the absolute scum sweepings of every federal military and police agency, and they’ll end up committing atrocities against the white population of the Northwest that will turn the people against the régime in D.C. as none of our propaganda ever could.”

  “There seems to be some local police activity in the area, ma’am,” spoke up a Portland detective who was monitoring the radio.

  “That’s always been one way in which tyrants lose,” chuckled Morehouse. “They become frustrated, and they turn loose goons to intimidate and oppress the local populace, and . . . what the hell?” The listening cops heard the crash of a high-speed collision from both their listening devices and also on the street outside of them. A McMinnville police car had pulled into the intersection just past the storefront and the drunken and doped-up Mexican gang-bangers in the BMW plowed right into it. Several police cars with sirens screaming followed close on their heels. The police jumped out of their cars, the Mexicans staggered out of theirs, and everybody whipped out automatic pistols and started blasting at one another, bullets whizzing through the air like electrons. The events of the next few minutes were later accurately recounted to Second Batt XO Gary Bresler by Oscar.

  In the Subaru Jackson stared at the carnage, started the engine, roared out of the parking place, hung a left around the corner and pulled up behind the storefront just as the NVA party, weapons at the ready, were evacuating the building. Hill ran over to the Subaru. “What the hell?” he yelled. “I saw Mexicans out the window!”

  “I think that’s it, sir,” Jackson shouted back. “Looks to me like a bunch of cholos breaking bad on the cops, but we need to beat feet!”

  “I’ll call you!” Oscar replied, and then vanished into the darkness. Jimmy and Lavonne were also able to break contact with the scene and the whole NVA party scattered into the night.

  The recriminations over the muffed operation lasted almost two weeks, and delayed the transfer of Operation Searchlight to federal control while Weinstein complained to his superiors in Washington, and Linda Hirsch used every ounce of influence at her command to retain control of Kicky and the whole project. By common consent Kicky was kept out of this inter-agency turmoil; both Portland cops and FBI had sense enough to maintain a united front to her. To her surprise, after one lengthy debriefing conducted jointly by Lainie Martinez and Elliot Weinstein, she wasn’t called in again for several weeks, during which she did several runs for the NVA, one involving a fatal bombing of a homosexual bookstore wherein she delivered the explosive device, and yet she was not subsequently interrogated about these tickles. Kicky wondered what was going on, but she dared not ask questions. She did notice when she checked her inaccessible bank balance with her ATM card that her pay had risen to a thousand dollars per week, for all the good it did her, so she assumed the FBI was winning the battle for possession of her.

  Then one morning in early April she got a call to meet Wingo, who picked her up and took her to a split-level suburban home in Milwaukie. Billy Jackson came in as she was sitting in the living room. “Comrade Jodie, since you came in with the Army we’ve been pretty impressed with your performance,” he told her. “We want you to drive for a very special comrade today.�
��

  The door opened behind him and a lean and handsome young man with auburn hair and devil-may-care blue eyes stepped into the room. He was wearing a polo shirt and cradling a huge rifle with a telescopic sight under his arm. Kicky knew him before he stepped up to her and shook her hand. She had seen him before. “Comrade Jodie? I’ve heard some good things about you from Jim and from your company commander here. I’m Jesse Lockhart. I was hoping you might give me a hand today.”

  At her side, her cell phone vibrated. They heard.

  XV

  Ragnarok On Flanders Street

  Strike, fellows, strike! This is the man I seek!

  Troilus and Cressida—Act V, Scene 8

  From Sergeant Lainie Martinez’s point of view, up until then it was a quiet morning in the Operation Searchlight command center. Elliott Weinstein and the rest of the FBI crew who were in the process of moving in and assuming control of the daily handling and monitoring of Kicky, were absent on a VIP security detail that was giving the government a lot of worry. A major political figure was doing a drop-in, a swift descent into the Pacific Northwest for a photo op, similar to those that D.C. big knobs had been doing for years in Middle East combat zones. It would be a quick in-and-out wherein the VIP would show his face for the assembled media entourage, schmooze some diverse and carefully selected service people and colorful locals, and do a closely chaperoned walkabout in some allegedly terrorist-infested area to show that it wasn’t really terrorist-infested. The accompanying huge phalanxes of bodyguards, troops and SWAT gunmen, bomb-sniffing dog teams, armored transport convoys and hovering helicopter gunships were always neatly edited out in the media’s broadcast sound bytes.

  Feds and local cops in the Northwest hated these visitations; there was too much that could go wrong in a career-smashing way if just one Volunteer got within gunshot range or managed to plant an IED. This one was so secret that no one in the Portland PB even knew who was coming, when or where; all they knew was that all their Rapid Response Teams had been commandeered by the FBI and were on standby and ready to roll when and where told. Weinstein had been especially jumpy for the past several days, and he had been assiduously monitoring every word picked up on Kicky’s body mike for any indication that the NVA knew anything was up. But nothing jumped out at him, and he had been able to give his superiors in Washington an assurance that this time they would catch the spuckies napping.

  Lainie and Jarvis had been going over some printed transcripts at one of the tables when suddenly Andy McCafferty, who was monitoring Kicky on the headphones, turned around and yelled one word: “Lockhart!”

  “Shit!” hissed Lainie between her teeth. “You’re sure, Andy?”

  “Affirmative!” replied McCafferty.

  “Well, I guess that means we’re done with this gig,” said Jarvis philosophically. “Had to happen sooner or later.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Lainie with determination. “There may be some way that we can take down Lockhart and still maintain her cover!”

  “But you know you gonna have to call de Chief?” queried Jarvis.

  “Yes, I know!” she snapped back angrily.

  “Yeah, I know who you are,” said Kicky back in Milwaukie, her heart in her throat as she stood up to shake Lockhart’s hand. He was cool and calm, wearing Chinos and a polo shirt, smiling at her. Kicky understood that within a short time he would be dead, and she would be responsible for his betrayal. It was all she could do not to reach up and touch the small, pellet-sized bump in the interior of her left bicep just below her armpit, not to claw at it. “I saw you once in a place called Jupiter’s Den. Plus I see you on the news at least once a week. It’s, uh, an honor to meet you, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir. I’m not an officer, just a Volunteer like yourself, troop,” replied Cat-Eyes with an easy laugh. “You can call me Cat. Everybody else does.”

  “What’s that weapon you’re carrying?” asked Kicky in curiosity. “It looks like something out of Star Wars.”

  “Barrett M82, .50-caliber rifle,” Lockhart told her. “I usually pack an M-21 rifle, which is a lot lighter, but this is going to be a complicated shot today, and I’m going to need a lot more range and striking power.”

  “We’ve got a really special run today, Jodie,” explained Wingo. “Three vehicles, ten Volunteers in the attack group, and more will be in the area to give us support and run interference if necessary. We called you because we need a boy-girl team for front seat visibility in the main vehicle, with Cat here. This is something that just came up within the past twenty-four hours, and we had to slap together a plan pretty quick.”

  “Looks like this secret VIP of Elliott’s ain’t so damned secret no more,” commented Jarvis back in the ops room.

  Lainie was on the phone with Chief Hirsch. “Yes, ma’am, it’s confirmed. Looks like they’re going after our VIP visitor.”

  “You know what I told you,” snarled Hirsch. “We move in and take that racist motherfucker down now!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Should we notify Special Agent Weinstein?”

  “Negative on Weinstein!” yelled Hirsch. “He’s not grabbing this from me as well as the shiksa. The Cat bastard is mine! I’m going to pull two RRTs for you, and if Weinstein asks any questions, you tell him nothing! And you hold up on leaving the Center in pursuit until I can get my flak jacket and check out a weapon for myself! I’m coming with you!”

  Lainie hung up. “Weinstein’s out, and the Chief is coming with us,” she told Jarvis.

  “Oh, for—well dat’s just fuckin’ wonderful!” said Jarvis in disgust. “Now alongside havin’ these crackers shootin’ at us, we got to worry about watchin’ de Chief’s wide ass!”

  Back in Milwaukie, Wingo handed Kicky a blue steel .38 snub revolver with a speed loader of six extra rounds. “This is just pro forma. You shouldn’t have to do any shooting, just concentrate on your driving,” he said as he took her out into the large suburban garage. There was a large maroon SUV parked inside. “Here’s your wheels for this tickle.”

  “Cadillac Escalade!” said Kicky approvingly. “The Army really has some cool rides.”

  “This one’s a custom job our quartermaster made up, just for special missions like this one, when the lads and lassies really want to ride first class. Armor plated doors and body, special souped up engine, even a nitro injector if we need to outrun somebody. Hell on gas mileage, but long on security.” Wingo looked at his watch. “We need to roll. We’re headed downtown, and it’s a long drive. We need to be in place by noon, which means a lot of traffic, lunch hour rush and also more congestion due to this special event. It’s in Waterfront Park. The target will be there. We think. We hope.” He opened the rear of the SUV; the back seats had been folded down. He took out an AK-47 with a folded-up stock and slapped in a double magazine, two banana clips taped together in reverse, give him immediate access to the second magazine. Over his shoulder Wingo slung a pouch with several extra magazines, and Kicky noted several hand grenades on his belt.

  “Going in loaded for bear today, are we?” commented Kicky.

  “Big game,” replied Wingo with a nod. The back seats of the Escalade were folded down, and Lockhart got into the back and stretched out, laying the long .50-caliber sniper’s weapon beside him. “We ride up front, Cat in the back, concealed. We’ll pick up the other two vehicles along the way. Here, wear these,” he said, handing her a blue Sonics baseball cap and a pair of wrap-around sunglasses. “You need a bit of disguise for this one, in case anyone remembers seeing you behind the wheel. Also, here’s a shirt for when we have to beat feet. Don’t put it on yet. That tank top’s okay going in, it’s a nice spring day and people expect casual dress, but later on you’ll want something to cover your tats while we do a fade.” Wingo himself donned a black cowboy hat and amber shades of his own. “You’d be amazed what headgear and dark eyewear does to break recognizable profile and prevent casual recognition.”

  “Now if only the both of us could o
nly do something about these damned tattoos,” remarked Kicky dryly.

  “Errors of a misspent youth,” said Wingo with a shrug. “We do advise kids we bring in not to get any. Let’s roll. I’ll fill you in on the way. Take McLoughlin into town and then cross over the river on Powell Boulevard. We need to go into the Pearl, but approach from the west. We’ll pick up our two escorts somewhere over the river on Powell.”

  On the way into Portland, Cat took over the briefing. “With any luck, Jodie, this is going to be a historic hit,” he told her from where he lay on the carpeted rear bed of the SUV. “Portland is getting a visit by a major suit from Washington, D.C. The Vice President of the United States in person, no less.”

  “And you’re going to take him out?” whispered Kicky, stunned. “Jesus!”

  “If I can. The problem is that Oscar’s people just picked up yesterday on the fact that it’s even happening at all. We’re light on details, but we know that he’s making a surprise descent on the Earth Day festivities in Waterfront Park. Going to give a little pep talk about the glories of saving the environment and the wonders of diversity and multiculturalism, all the colors of the rainbow, the usual crap. I’ve never understood just why the hell white people should save the environment just so billions of mud people with skins the color of shit can befoul it. One unique thing about white people, we’re the only ones who actually seem to give a damn about the environment. Anyway, we know the Vice President is going to be coming in by chopper direct from the airport, and if our information is correct, he should be on the ground in Waterfront Park sometime around noon-ish, but that’s about all we know. No more details. This one is going to be pretty much a float, ad-libbed, so to speak. We’re going to have to look for a window of opportunity and I’m going to have to take it in a split second, hence this piece of major ordnance, since I have no idea what kind of distance or angles I’ll be dealing with. This baby kills at well over a mile, and I’ve got her zeroed down to the inch. These armor-piercing BMG rounds can punch through three inches of steel plate. If that snake in $5000 threads shows his head, it’s coming off. Literally.” Cat chuckled.