The Brigade

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The Brigade Page 73

by H. A. Covington


  “Okay, Becky, next question. Have you ever worn contacts?” asked Jackson.

  “No,” said Annette.

  “I really would like to change the color of your eyes.”

  “Mmmm, if you could wear contacts to make your green eyes brown we could set you up as a mami,” said Stiggs. “Thing is, that would also entail some grease paint to darken your visible skin if we want to do this right. Of course there are light-skinned and green-eyed Hispanic women. Can you do an accent?”

  “Fuck the accent, can you actually speak Spanish?” asked Jackson.

  “No, I took German in school,” said Annette.

  “Then we’d better not get too clever for our own good and try to turn you into a muchacha. The trouble with that is that you might run into a real beaner who tries to speak Spanish to you. In any case, if you’ve never worn contacts before, a sensitive mission like this isn’t the time to start. With black hair and green eyes, you could be a Russian, but the same problem applies. There are enough Russians around, especially Jews, so you could run into problems. We don’t have time to get real complicated with this anyway. You’ll just have to be bimbo Americana. Let’s get the sheet up. Stand here, please, comrade.” Stiggs took a blue sheet from the gym bag, Bresler and Jackson held it up, and Annette stood in front of the sheet wearing the black wig while Stiggs snapped two pictures of her with an Instamatic. “Okay, Stiggsy, in addition to the driver’s license, what else have you got on hand for a second photo ID?” Jackson asked him.

  “Pretty much anything you want, sir,” said Stiggs. “Student IDs from Oregon State and University of Oregon, PSU, UW and Washington State. State employee, city employee, federal employee. I can even make her military or a Portland PB cop if you want. Complete with matching badge.”

  “Mmmm, she’s a bit young for a cop,” mused Jackson, rubbing his chin. “But it would give her an excuse to carry a piece.”

  “Same problem, I might run into a real police checkpoint or stop-and-frisk. Make it a Portland State student ID,” suggested Annette. “I know the campus and I can rattle off conversation about school. Why not make me a journalism major? I can be some bright young thing really eager to break into the business hear all his gnarly Hemingway-esque adventures.”

  “Uh, why does she need false ID at all?” asked Eric.

  “So she can get into any bars or night clubs that may be necessary,” said Bresler. “Only exception to General Order Number Ten, remember?”

  “You’ll have to make me 21, then,” giggled Annette. “Hey, that’s an idea. Make me just turned 21 on June 1st, eager to get my first legal taste of John Barleycorn and the night life with a fascinating older man.”

  “Not bad,” agreed Jackson.

  “You can take your first official drink on a false ID supplied by the NVA while doing duty as Mata Hari,” said Eric with a wry chuckle.

  “PSU it is. She’ll need some credit cards as well,” said Jackson. “Got any for females?”

  “Uh, yeah, one set,” said Stiggs.

  “What’s the name?”

  “Mary Jones, believe it or not,” Stiggs told them. “The real Mary Jones was a nigger who won’t be needing them anymore. But remember, comrade, they’re just for show. If someone has noticed the real Mary Jones is missing, they’ve either been canceled, or just possibly the cops are keeping them live but red-flagged to see if they show up when someone tries to use them. If the cops or Fatties stop you and search your purse and they find nothing but a driver’s license, they’ll be suspicious. You need a lot of junk for it to look normal. I’ll do you up a library card as well, a dry-cleaning receipt, that kind of thing so it all looks kosher, pardon the expression. I need to get back to my crib and get these done, Lieutenant. It will take about three hours. Where do you want me to deliver them?”

  “I’ll text you,” said Jackson. “You’ve got this month’s codes?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d better get going. Good luck, Becky, I mean Mary,” he said as he zipped the bag closed and left.

  Jackson sighed. “Okay, guys have a seat,” he said. “Tom, you will be part of the extraction team, and after the pickup your job will be getting Becky out of the area. Becky, you are going to be risking your life and your freedom tonight for our new country in the most dangerous task you have yet undertaken. You both have a right to know why this is necessary, and why it’s such a rush. As I’ve mentioned before, the Benson Hotel is a media barracks now, and so needless to say we’ve got an ear in there to see who comes and goes, who is doing what, who is doing whom, and listening to as much of the reptiles’ drunken ravings as he can overhear. It’s a mine of information. These people are incredibly indiscreet when they’re drinking, which is most of the time. Last night the newshounds and newshens were holding forth at the bar as usual, and the conversation swung around to Zack Hatfield and Third Battalion down along the North Shore.”

  “The Wild Bunch?” put in Eric.

  “The very ones,” said Jackson with a nod. “Dawson Zucchino was several sheets to the wind, which I gather is the normal condition for him late at night. He was coming on to one of his female associates, an anchorwoman for Fox News who was in town looking for on-the-spot dramatic coverage of the war on domestic terror, blah blah blah. As nearly as our guy could overhear, he was promising to let her in on some really big story if she would come upstairs with him and let him drop anchor. When she pressed him for details, he said, and this is the nearest to a direct quote our source can give us, ‘I’m going to be there when that swaggering motherfucker Captain Zack gets his silly hat blown off his head, by Rolly Rollins himself maybe. I’m going in embedded with the ‘Po Boys and watch them kick racist ass, and since my orders could come at any moment and send me into the thick of battle, surely I deserve one last hell-or-glory fuck from a beautiful colleague,’ or some melodramatic babble to that effect.”

  “Sure the guy really knows anything at all, sir?” asked Eric in surprise. “He sounds like a drunken pompous ass!”

  “That’s the hell of it,” sighed Jackson. “He may be just a drunken pompous ass who’s mouthing off to try and get into some TV Barbie doll’s pants, and it’s possible I may be risking your lives and the lives of other comrades for nothing. But we simply can’t take that chance. We do know a few things that make this remark of his disturbing. We know that a large force of FATPO, almost a thousand men, were held back when the main body moved into the Homeland, but were instead sent to Oakland Army Terminal in California. Nor has their Head Nigger In Charge, former U.S. Congressman Roland Rollins, put in his appearance in the Northwest yet. No one seems to know where he is; the media have asked but they’re getting the undisclosed location rap from the White House. Third Section speculates that they’re being held back as a kind of Flying Column of FATPO’s own, who can be dropped in by helicopter or even trucked in as a strike force wherever they decide to open their own front, so to speak. If they’re going into the North Shore area they could even be coming in by sea. We also know that a force of helicopters, both transports and gunships, have been assembled at Fort Lewis for some unspecified purpose. They’re painted FATPO black, so they’re not going to Iraq or anywhere else overseas. They’re going to try and hit us somewhere we don’t expect. We know the régime has always been real nervous about Zack and his boys sitting astride the Columbia, with those two big bridges across the river at Astoria and Longview. Blow those bridges and block those container ships from coming upriver, and the American economy in the Northwest would be hurting, bad. We’ve held off because of the intense hardship it would cause white people here in the Homeland and the potentially bad blowback, but if I were the American general I would make it a priority to secure both shores of the Columbia all the way up to Portland. They may be ready to make their move. We must find out if this asshole reporter actually knows anything.”

  “What, exactly, do you want me to do, sir? I mean how?” asked Annette.

  Jackson pulled out several sheets of paper. �
�Got this off the internet. This is Dawson Zucchino, from his column in the newspaper.” The photo showed a man of about forty with dark wavy hair and some hard wear already on his face, bags under his eyes and cheeks beginning to bloat and sag from too much alcohol and junk food. Then Jackson pulled out a yellow legal pad. “It’s going to be tricky. I don’t like pulling any tickle downtown anymore, what with Fatties roaming the streets like packs of wild dogs. I’ve done a couple of sketches for you, of the Benson Hotel and the streets surrounding it. If possible, I want you to intercept Zucchino somewhere outside the Benson, because if you have to approach him in the hotel bar or one of the restaurants inside, you won’t be able to get in without showing your ID, going through a metal detector which means you can’t go in strapped, and you can’t avoid being filmed by the CCTV cameras. I really would like to keep you off Fattie’s silver screen. But if that’s not possible, then you’ll have to go into the Benson itself, pick him up, chat him up with all kinds of journalists and security around, and lure him outside with the promise of a sexual encounter so we can bag him. That’s important: get him to come out of the hotel. If he’s inside the Benson, he’ll want you to go up to his room with him, and there’s no way we can get in and get him out without shooting and casualties. The hotel itself is guarded by private contractors, Blackwater corporation mercenaries, some of whom are almost as nasty as the Fatties themselves, and there will be plainclothes Fatties inside the hotel as well assigned to the more major reporters under the buddy system they’ve worked out. If they tumble to you in there, you’ll have as much chance as a mouse at a cat convention. No one questions your courage, comrade. You’ve proven it often enough since you came to us, but that’s all the more reason I want you to come back from this one. We need you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Annette.

  “Now, I have an idea. I want you to try to get him into another bar down Broadway from the Benson Hotel, about here,” said Jackson, pointing to the impromptu map. “Paddy Grogan’s Shamrock Pub.”

  “I know where that is,” said Annette.

  “It will be crowded, but a different kind of crowd, one you can get lost in rather than stand out in. We will have two vehicles, a van for the extraction and a second car for backup and interference if necessary. You and Tom will have to exit the area on foot, and make it to a third vehicle, your own, during which time you must remove your disguise and resume your own identity, with some suitable reason for being downtown in case you’re stopped and questioned. Do not be caught with Stiggsy’s false ID on you; possession of false identification is now a Class A terrorism offense and can expose you to the death penalty.” The two of them bent over the paper. Bresler spoke up behind them.

  “Billy, do you think we should notify Zack?”

  Jackson thought a moment. “Call the commandant and see what he thinks, but my feeling is let’s wait and see if there’s anything to this. Zack has contingency plans, I know, and it would be hard for him to be too much more alert than he is already. Even if they’re coming down on him, they won’t catch him by surprise. That much we can take to the bank.”

  * * *

  The sun was setting as Post helped Julia carry her luggage up the boat slip and onto the River Walk at 31st Street in Astoria. Now she stood on the River Walk, and she was home again. The town looked quiet and peaceful, in a sense too quiet and peaceful for June. There should be tourists all up and down the River Walk on a sunny summer night in June. She couldn’t see the red and yellow trolley that usually ran up and down the riverside, its bell clanging. “Crap, now I’ll have to see if I can find a cab,” said Julia. “Wait, there’s one.” To her surprise the dusty blue taxicab pulled into the gravel lot beside them, and the cabby got out. He waved at her. “Ben!” she called.

  “Hey, Julie, welcome home!” called Ben Svensson. “Your mom sent me to get you!”

  “How did she know I was coming down the river?” asked Julia.

  “I made a couple of those calls I mentioned while we were on the way down,” said Post, loading her bags and her laptop into the cab’s trunk.

  “Uh, okay,” said Julia dubiously. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Post with a chuckle. He handed her a card. “You’ll be all right from here on in. Here’s my cell phone. I’ll hang around here until you’re ready to go back, but do me a favor? Check in with me once or twice a day so I’ll know you’re okay? I don’t get you back to Tinsel Town in one piece, Mr. B. doesn’t give me my bonus.”

  “You’re a cabbie now?” Julie asked Svensson as they sped up the hill to the home of Julia’s mother.

  “Yeah, after five years on unemployment and welfare, I’m actually working again now,” said Ben with a chuckle. “Amazin’, ain’t it! Jobs in town going begging and glad as hell to hire us middle-aged white boys, whereas we useta practically got spat on if we dared to put in an application anywhere. I inherited this cab from a Hindu fella. ’Bout three years back, he got a sudden urge to go back home and see the Taj Mahal or whatever. Left kind of sudden-like. Along with all the Mexicans and drug dealers and all them damned fruit flies from California who moved in on us. No offense.”

  “None taken. California is indeed known for its fruit flies,” agreed Julia, feeling a slow freakout building. The streets she suddenly remembered so well were peaceful and golden in the sunset, and here and there she saw white children playing, running up and down, and white people out in their yards. The sudden absence of a sea of black and brown and yellow faces she was accustomed to was strange, disorienting. She was so used to being a minority in her own land that she could not understand the feeling she was experiencing. It was like a great weight lifting off her, but she could not understand why.

  Then she was standing on her own porch and hugging her mother. A minute later she was inside the familiar kitchen watching a huge meal of meat loaf and potato salad being set down in front of her. For the next half hour she ate and talked about movies and Los Angeles and the weather and no, no young men in her life yet, everything except what she had come for. Yet all during that time, she somehow understood that through some process she could not fathom, her mother knew why she had come home. Finally she took a deep breath and said, “Mom, I need to talk to Ted. I was kind of expecting to see him here, but I can imagine what with the, situation and all, his schedule is pretty hectic these days. What would be the best time to see him? Should I go to his office? Go to his house? I mean I will anyway, I want to see Rhodie and the kids, but I need to kind of get some private face time with Ted. I’d rather not get into it, so let’s just say it’s work-related. I need him to find somebody for me.”

  Mrs. Lear smiled. “Dear, why don’t you take your bags up to your room, your old one, and come back down and I’ll see if I can get him to come over?”

  “Okay,” said her daughter. Julia picked up her suitcases in the hall, put the strap of her laptop up to her shoulder, and mounted the stairs. She went into her old room, which she was glad and yet somewhat saddened to see that her mother still kept the very same as it had been the day she left for college, including the posters of rock stars no one remembered anymore and her stuffed animals on the bed. She tossed the laptop onto the bed, turned to the closet with the suitcase, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw a tall man with a weather-beaten face and a broad-brimmed, feathered hat on his head sitting in the corner armchair. A Winchester rifle leaned in the corner.

  Zack Hatfield rose and politely took off his hat. “Hello, Julia,” he said.

  * * *

  At about the same time, Annette Ridgeway was sitting down the street from the Benson Hotel on South Broadway, in the passenger seat of a green Toyota Tundra, the NVA’s backup vehicle for the evening. It was still full light out. Lieutenant Billy Jackson sat beside her, watching down along Broadway for an armored bus bringing journalists back to the hotel. They had been attending and presumably reporting on an official welcoming banquet for FATPO officers, hosted by the
Portland Better Business Bureau and Chamber of Commerce. Annette had been concerned because by virtue of his prominence in the financial community, her father was one of the attendees. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to hit the banquet,” Jackson assured her. “Not enough notice to scout the location properly, and the security would be too heavy. We have to be a lot more careful and prepare a lot more elaborately now whenever we do anything here in the city, with all these new ZOG guns that can be brought to bear on us.”

  Annette was now Mary Jones, according to the multiple items of ID in the purse in her handbag. She was wearing her black wig and much more makeup than she normally used, including eye shadow and a bright lipstick, along with a sleeveless blouse with the top three buttons undone to reveal a black lace bra, and she wore a pair of hip-hugging jeans. They had let her select her own outfit. “Remember, you’re a journalism student and this is supposed to be a casual and unscripted encounter,” Gary Bresler had told her before she went home to change. “I don’t know if you have any slinky cocktail gowns or garments of that kind, but if you show up wearing something like that and dolled up to the nines, it might make Zucchino suspicious. He has to feel comfortable with you, comfortable enough to leave the shelter of his own herd in there in the Benson Hotel bar. Your attire should be understated, but sufficiently revealing to give him a preview of coming attractions, so to speak. Your manner when you interact with the target has to make it clear that you’ve got both the time and the inclination, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to nail a college girl tonight. It has to be believable from the get-go.”

  “Maybe if we can get Erica Collingwood assigned to First Brigade, she can give all our female comrades acting lessons,” suggested Eric with a chuckle.

 

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