Chapter XIV. - "One If By Land, Two If By Sea"

Dispatch: this knave’s tongue begins to double.
Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants!
King Henry VI. – Act II, Scene 3

Julia hadn’t been home for over three years, since before 10/22 in fact, and she was astounded at how complicated the journey was these days. Massive airport security boarding the plane at LAX was something she was used to, but having to go through the same extensive screening when she got off the plane in Portland was a new one on her. This included X-rays, metal detectors, and full searches of her checked luggage and her laptop, her carry-on bag and briefcase as well by sullen maroon-jacketed Sky Marshalls, most of whom seemed to be Asian or Mexican, and all of whom carried holstered Glocks on their hip.

It took her almost two hours from the time she stepped off the plane until she finally got into the main arrival lounge, and even then there were differences. The terminal was a lot more quiet than she remembered other airports ever being, and she quickly spotted the probable cause. In almost every corner, and strolling up and down the causeway, were pairs of blue-black uniformed men and a few women in heavy body armor, with helmets and dark visors, carrying M-16s with infrared sights. On their backs in bright gold letters were the letters FATPO, Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization. Julia noticed that people were trying to avoid the government gun thugs as much as possible without seeming to do so; they seemed to have a habit of stopping people in the terminal for no reason, barking orders and glowering and demanding documents. The Iron Heel had arrived in the Northwest.

Then Julia spotted a slim middle-aged man in a blue blazer and white trousers who was holding up a cardboard sign that with the word Lear on it in magic marker. She walked up to him, pulling her travel suitcase behind her on its casters. “Hello, I’m Julia Lear,” she said to the man.

“Wally Post,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Mr. Blaustein said you would meet me, but why?” asked Julia.

“I have a little company here called Oregon Security Associates,” explained Post. “I used to be a P.I., but since The Trouble started we specialize in tourism and business travel. We make sure people who need to visit our fair City of Roses and certain of our scenic rural areas for any legitimate reason can come in, get their business done, and get out without incident. You might say I’m your trusty native guide. I’ll get you through the jungle safely and keep you away from the lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

“Uh, being a native of this particular jungle myself, I don’t think I need a guide,” said Julia with a laugh.

“Blaustein says you haven’t been up here since things started going boom in the night,” Post told her. “The jungle is a lot more dangerous now, mem-sahib.” He glanced behind her. “Case in point....”

Julia felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she turned to find a huge black man in FATPO body armor behind her. His partner, a smaller Mexican, was standing several paces away with the muzzle of his M-16 pointed right at Julia’s midriff. “Who you be, woman, and whut de fuck you doin’ comin’ into my town?” demanded the black belligerently. Before the stunned Julia could reply, Post deftly slid a small card out of his shirt pocket and extended it to the FATPO.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said suavely. “I’m Wally Post from O.S.A. This lady is from Paradigm Studios in Hollywood, and I am escorting her to make sure she is safe from the insurgents. As you can see, I have a courtesy card from your commanding officer, Colonel Aceveda. His cell number is on the back.”

The huge negro glanced at the card, but was evidently familiar with the system in place, and he handed it back. “You wan’ be safe fum dese racist muthafukkas, you ought be hanging wid de ‘Po while you in town,” he said to Julia with a leering grin.

“Actually, she’s here gathering background for a movie Paradigm is considering, all about you FATPO heroes and your gallant battle against hate and terrorism,” said Post smoothly.

“Yeah?” spoke up the Mexican. “You gonna need some of us ‘Po Boys for actors in your movie, essay?”

“The more authentic the better,” agreed Julia.

“Dass cool. I like to be a movie star, essay. I’m Private Ramirez, Tiburcio Ramirez, but my homeys in de ‘Po call me Cangrande. Dass Big Dog in Spanish. You need some technical advice or something, you look me up, hokay, mami?”

“I'll remember,” promised Julia.

The black man’s radio crackled, something unintelligible came out, he grunted to the Mexican and they moved away down the terminal causeway. Julia stared after them and swallowed.“A lot of them are former gang-bangers from L. A., New York, Chicago, Miami, places like that,” explained Post conversationally.

“How bad could that have gotten?” asked Julia nervously.

Post smiled. “Here in public, in the daylight? Probably not too bad, if you had sense enough to keep your cool and keep it light and bantering. Out there at night, on some street corner or on some darkened rural highway with no one around but you and them? Bad. Very bad.”

“What was that card in your pocket, and how did you get it?” asked Julia.

“The Portland commander of the FATPO is one Colonel Reynaldo Aceveda, a Colombian. I’m told he used to work for the CIA down there. He clearly thinks he’s back in Medillín, and for all practical purposes I guess he is. The Fatties are his own private army, they’re legally immunized by Congress and by a Presidential Executive Order against prosecution for anything they care to do to anyone. In the few short weeks he’s been here, Aceveda’s already making money hand over fist with a dozen scams, mostly involving protection from his armored goons. That card has his private cell number written on the back in green, which means I’ve paid him for a certain level of protection and co-operation. That’s the middle level card, one cut above black ink. I won’t tell you how much I paid, because you wouldn’t believe me. If I can get you in and out in one piece and you can get done whatever it is he wants you to do, Mr. Blaustein has promised me a bonus big enough to buy a red card off Aceveda, one with his number written in red ink. That’s the one you really want.”

“What does a red card get you?” asked Julia. “Or do I really want to know?”

Post gave her a chilly smile. “Among other things, I can kill people. How were you planning on getting down to Astoria, ma’am?”

“Uh, renting a car, like I usually do?” said Julia, bemused.

“Not recommended,” said Post, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter if you take Highway 30 or Highway 26, you’re going to run into at least a couple of FATPO checkpoints, and once you get past those, usually between Rainier and Clatskanie, you may run into a few NVA checkpoints as well. Cap Hatfield likes to keep up with who’s coming in and out of his manor. The goots know the local people and don’t bother them, but I’m not sure if you’re still considered local or not. And I really, really would not recommend a single white woman trying to get through a Fattie roadblock after dark. These guys aren’t regular police or even regular military, they’re a brute squad sent in here by Hillary Clinton to stomp on anybody with a white skin who looks at them wrong. You need me, Ms. Lear. Really, you do. Blaustein hired me to get you there and back. Please let me do what I’ve been hired to do.”

“Okay,” said Julia, shaking her head in wonderment. “Let’s go.”

She followed Post out of the terminal and into the short-term parking tiers, and he loaded her baggage into a new Jeep Cherokee. As they were pulling out of the airport and onto feeder road heading to Interstate 5, Julia said carefully, “You mentioned a guy called Cap Hatfield. I thought his name was Zack?”

“It is,” said Post. “He’s an NVA captain, so the locals call him Captain Zack or Cap, and the media seem to have picked up on it. Real cowboy, packs a Winchester and uses it too. Hatfield killed some hotshot U. S. Marshall last year who challenged him to a duel or something. Faced him down in the street in Clatskanie with that rifle and knocked him ass over head before the fed could get his Glock clear of the holster. The local cops seem to have decided to just stay the hell out of his way, and after that they damned sure did. The First Portland Brigade of the NVA has three battalions. Hatfield is commander of the Third Battalion. Call themselves the Wild Bunch. Nobody knows how big the first two are, but the Third Battalion seems to be pretty big and it covers a really huge area, pretty much from roughly Rainier on down to Astoria and as far south as Cannon Beach or so. His guys have pretty much taken over down where you’re going.

"From there on down to Newport it’s the Second Oregon Coastal Brigade, commanded by some Swede who calls himself Ragnar Redbeard. His real name is Dan something. Guy’s a real head case. He’s got a boat he set up like a Viking long ship with shields on the side and a dragonhead prow. Back when there were still Mexicans along that stretch of 101, he used to chop them up and go fishing using the bits and pieces as bait. No more Mexicans around, though. Once it all started up after 10/22 they got the message real fast. You won’t hear any Spanish outside Portland now.”

“Well, that will be a change from L. A.,” said Julia.

“I imagine so,” agreed Post. He took an exit and started heading down toward the river.

“You know this Hatfield personally?” asked Julia casually.

“Why?” inquired Post.

“Because he’s the man I’m going to Astoria to see,” said Julia. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this or not, but the fact is that once I get to Astoria I haven’t got a clue how to get hold of him. I do have some contacts in local law enforcement, so to speak, but…well, I’m not sure they’ll discuss things with me. I don’t even know how to go about asking,” she concluded, shaking her head.

“Mmmm…I wouldn’t be broadcasting that about,” said Post carefully. “You’re lucky. I’m something of an ethical mercenary, and when I’m paid I stay bought. But there are those who would shop you to the Fatties in a heartbeat if they found out something like that about you. There is a lot of reward money on the hoof moving around the Northwest these days, ma’am. Every mother’s son and daughter of the NVA has a basic $50,000 DT on his or her head, that’s domestic terrorist bounty, and from there it goes up. I think Hatfield’s up to over half a million now. In addition to all the other gun-toting loons we have up here now, we got bounty hunters and free-lance snitches under every rock.”

“These people have women members?” asked Julia in surprise. “Wait, what am I talking about? That’s a stupid thing for me to say. I knew one of them myself. Erica Collingwood.”

“Yeah, they got women, some of ‘em real hotties, no offense,” chuckled Post. “Erica, and Melanie Young with the Olympic Flying Column, and that tattooed biker chick who shot up Flanders Street and killed the police chief along with Cat-Eyes Lockhart and those other gnarly dudes. Anyway, to answer your question, I wouldn’t be much of a native guide if I didn’t know all the tribes and customs along the way. I’ll make some calls, very carefully of course, and I’ll see what I can do to speed things along and find Cap for you.”

He pulled the Jeep into a small boat dock by the river.“Where are we going?” asked Julia in surprise.

“Astoria, the same way Lewis and Clark got there,” said Post. He pulled up to a slip containing a motorboat about twenty-five feet in length named the Nemo. “What can I say? Movies are everywhere, and my kids love that one. We’ll be heading down along the river. Lucky for you it’s June and the sun doesn’t set until almost ten, so it should be still light when we pull into the Astoria dock.”

[From The Brigade, by H. A. Covington]