Read Online Foreign Enemies and Traitors by Matthew Bracken - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew Bracken
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man was black, or perhaps his corpse had turned black after his death. A single word was printed on a cardboard placard fixed to his shirt: COUNTERFEITER. Carson moved from the side window to watch the surreal scene through the chain-link rear doors, until the man disappeared in the distance behind them.
Roadside billboards, instead of carrying commercial advertisements, were devoted to government announcements. The messages alternated between boasts of public services restored and stern warnings to potential lawbreakers. A billboard featured a cheerful multiracial group all giving the thumbs-up sign. The text above them gave thanks that electric service had been restored to 82 percent of Mississippi. Other signs featured portraits of a military officer, a stern-faced but rather handsome Creole-looking man. Beneath his portraits were slogans such as “Together we will finish what we have begun!” and “We will rise together, or fall apart!”
A half hour into the drive, the QV truck made several detours through residential areas consisting of badly dilapidated mobile homes and shacks. Many nicer homes were in ruins, roofless and open to the elements, with tattered blue plastic tarps lifting above them in the breeze. Almost every inhabited dwelling had some type of makeshift fence surrounding it, made of rusty chain link, wood slats, or simple iron rebar posts woven with barbed wire. Simple wooden crosses marked graves in many yards.
People holding an assortment of water containers lined up at a communal spigot. Barefoot children played in the dirt while around them pigs, chickens and goats competed for what fodder they could find. Mississippi seemed to have regressed to Third World standards. All except the smallest children wore the black-and-white ID badges clipped to their shirts.
The land was a checkerboard of small farms, woods, villages, residential areas and open space. Carson could see that it would have been impossible to hike overland without being detected. Every other mile he would have been forced to cross a wide creek, a road, or somebody’s field or backyard. Without an ID badge, he would have been spotted and reported before he made it ten miles, and he felt a little better about his chosen strategy.
The orange pickup crossed an ancient two-lane bridge over a sluggish brown creek, then wound its way back up to the main road, and continued at higher speed. The truck entered a posted National Forest and soon was driving along a fenced military base. It slowed as it turned past a cement guardhouse and was waved ahead by the soldier on duty. Carson read “Camp Shelton” on a sign by the open gate. The fence around the perimeter of the base was chain link, topped by multiple strands of razor wire.
Camp Shelton covered a vast expanse, miles and miles of forests and ranges and training areas. The truck drove past barracks, offices, housing areas, warehouses and motor pool lots full of military trucks and humvees. Most of them appeared to be out of commission, rusting and cannibalized for parts.
Beyond a series of unmowed sports fields they came to another fenced enclosure, more chain link and razor wire, and another vehicle gate. A waiting soldier opened the gate at the approach of the orange pickup truck. A painted plywood sign attached to the gate read “QVC 5.” The truck passed a row of general-purpose tents, old olive drab canvas relics, which stirred long-dormant memories of Vietnam in Phil Carson’s mind. They finally stopped by a U-shaped cement structure that resembled an open-air handball court. The driver and passenger stepped from the truck, dropped the tailgate and opened the cage. The black soldier carried a green medical bag on his side. Both men now wore filter masks over their noses and mouths.
“See the baskets?” the medic asked. “Strip down to your skin and put everything in there.” A stack of white plastic
Roadside billboards, instead of carrying commercial advertisements, were devoted to government announcements. The messages alternated between boasts of public services restored and stern warnings to potential lawbreakers. A billboard featured a cheerful multiracial group all giving the thumbs-up sign. The text above them gave thanks that electric service had been restored to 82 percent of Mississippi. Other signs featured portraits of a military officer, a stern-faced but rather handsome Creole-looking man. Beneath his portraits were slogans such as “Together we will finish what we have begun!” and “We will rise together, or fall apart!”
A half hour into the drive, the QV truck made several detours through residential areas consisting of badly dilapidated mobile homes and shacks. Many nicer homes were in ruins, roofless and open to the elements, with tattered blue plastic tarps lifting above them in the breeze. Almost every inhabited dwelling had some type of makeshift fence surrounding it, made of rusty chain link, wood slats, or simple iron rebar posts woven with barbed wire. Simple wooden crosses marked graves in many yards.
People holding an assortment of water containers lined up at a communal spigot. Barefoot children played in the dirt while around them pigs, chickens and goats competed for what fodder they could find. Mississippi seemed to have regressed to Third World standards. All except the smallest children wore the black-and-white ID badges clipped to their shirts.
The land was a checkerboard of small farms, woods, villages, residential areas and open space. Carson could see that it would have been impossible to hike overland without being detected. Every other mile he would have been forced to cross a wide creek, a road, or somebody’s field or backyard. Without an ID badge, he would have been spotted and reported before he made it ten miles, and he felt a little better about his chosen strategy.
The orange pickup crossed an ancient two-lane bridge over a sluggish brown creek, then wound its way back up to the main road, and continued at higher speed. The truck entered a posted National Forest and soon was driving along a fenced military base. It slowed as it turned past a cement guardhouse and was waved ahead by the soldier on duty. Carson read “Camp Shelton” on a sign by the open gate. The fence around the perimeter of the base was chain link, topped by multiple strands of razor wire.
Camp Shelton covered a vast expanse, miles and miles of forests and ranges and training areas. The truck drove past barracks, offices, housing areas, warehouses and motor pool lots full of military trucks and humvees. Most of them appeared to be out of commission, rusting and cannibalized for parts.
Beyond a series of unmowed sports fields they came to another fenced enclosure, more chain link and razor wire, and another vehicle gate. A waiting soldier opened the gate at the approach of the orange pickup truck. A painted plywood sign attached to the gate read “QVC 5.” The truck passed a row of general-purpose tents, old olive drab canvas relics, which stirred long-dormant memories of Vietnam in Phil Carson’s mind. They finally stopped by a U-shaped cement structure that resembled an open-air handball court. The driver and passenger stepped from the truck, dropped the tailgate and opened the cage. The black soldier carried a green medical bag on his side. Both men now wore filter masks over their noses and mouths.
“See the baskets?” the medic asked. “Strip down to your skin and put everything in there.” A stack of white plastic
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