Xenophobia Page 2

  One of the other soldiers joked with him, saying, “You would, you sadistic bastard."

  “Finally, a chance for a little action. I’m in,” Bosco cried.

  "Humping through two hundred miles of jungle. Sounds idyllic," Smithy added.

  It was only on hearing Smithy’s voice that Bower realized Smithy was a woman. At first glance, Bower had assumed Smithy was simply a shorter, less muscular male soldier, but now she looked closer there was no doubt about Smithy’s gender. Strands of blonde hair protruded from beneath her helmet, while her baggy camouflage shirt barely obscured her breasts. Her hands were petite. Bower could not imagine violence being unleashed by such slender hands. Without make-up, Smithy’s face looked like that of a clean-shaven teen, but her thin lips spoke with a distinctly feminine pitch.

  "It's a walk in the park,” Smithy continued. “An overgrown, bug-infested, leech-filled park. I love it."

  “Hell, yes,” said Elvis, giving Smithy a high-five.

  With his sideburns and diamond-rimmed sunglasses, Elvis looked out of place in army fatigues, and that was clearly the image he wanted to portray. Bower had no idea whether his southern accent was genuine or put on for show, but he sounded like The King. The Rangers all sported buzz-cuts, all except Elvis who had a mop of hair sitting over his short-back-and-sides. How he got away with that must have been quite a story, thought Bower, but he looked and sounded like his namesake, Elvis Presley, right down to his cheesy grin and his beautiful white teeth. Elvis looked completely out of place in Africa. He should have been on a movie set.

  “I’m asking for two fire teams, eight men,” Jameson said.

  Although all the hands went up, there were some that shot up like a pheasant being flushed by a golden retriever. Jameson called out those soldiers by name. Bower realized precisely why Jameson wanted these particular men with him, but why Smithy? Jameson had selected her among others, like Elvis and Bosco. Something within Bower objected to putting a woman in harm’s way. It was irrational, of course, and deep down Bower understood that, as putting anyone in danger of losing their life was morally dubious at best, but Elvis and Bosco seemed more robust, better suited to the risks. Smithy, though, grinned, and Bower could see she relished the opportunity.

  Smithy slapped Elvis on the arm, saying, “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Big Guy.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The rest of the team was dismissed and grudgingly piled into the Osprey.

  Jameson explained his decision to the loadmaster as Bosco scavenged a radio and extra munitions from the soldiers on the Osprey. Elvis and Smithy joked around with the other troops loading into the helicopter.

  “It’s your funeral, buddy,” the loadmaster said to Jameson. He walked off and raised the tailgate.

  Smithy jogged away from the Osprey, grinning like a little girl on Christmas Day as she rested a machine gun over her shoulder, the proud spoils of banter with several of the soldiers on board the aircraft. Elvis joked around with her, carrying two ammunition cans for the gun.

  “Goddamn,” he cried. “It’s Combat Barbie, complete with a lightweight plastic SAW.”

  Smithy cocked her head to one side, exaggerating her movements as she twisted from her hips, looking very much like a living, plastic doll. She posed for the remaining soldiers and waved with her hand, saying, “Look what’s new from MATTEL.”

  The remaining soldiers laughed and whistled. Smithy hammed up her act with a fake smile as she said, “Ken. I want a divorce. Now, where did I leave my handbag?”

  Bosco was grinning too. He had conned someone out of a civilian-band radio. He held it up as though it were a trophy and the soldiers cheered.

  As the turboprops on the Osprey wound up to speed, a hail of fine stones again kicked out across the grassy plain. The remaining soldiers along with the two doctors moved back, catching the death-defying sight of the clumsy Osprey banking above the trees before the craft turned and flew over the village and out across the lake toward Tanzania.

  As silence fell, Bower felt a tinge of regret. Even with Jameson standing beside her in his seemingly invincible US Army uniform, Bower felt abandoned. And yet she knew she’d have felt unbearable guilt if she’d boarded that flight. Watching the Osprey disappear into the distance, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a mistake, one she wouldn’t be able to take back, one that could cost them their lives.

  Elvis put on his finest Mississippi accent, waving at the troop carrier as he called out, “Y’all come back now, ya hear.”

  That brought a smile to her face.

  Jameson, though, wasted no time.

  “Bosco, get on the net and see if you can figure out what the hell’s got everyone so spooked.

  “Elvis, take Mathers, Jones and Smithy and go get those trucks from Mzimba. Borrow, beg, steal. Do whatever it takes, but make sure there’s plenty of diesel.

  “Chalmers, Davidson and Phelps, recon the area and start thinking about approaches, defensive positions, fields of fire.”

  The soldiers dispersed as Jameson escorted Bower and Kowalski to the makeshift hospital, a series of three tents on the edge of the village with its grass-topped mud huts and low stone walls. He spoke as they walked, briefing the doctors in a formal tone.

  “The rebels on the tableland are going to see our troops pulling out. The fox is going to assume the hen house is open. I doubt they’ll waste any time. If we can, I’d like to move out before nightfall.”

  “We’ll get everyone ready,” Bower replied, brushing the dust out of her hair. “Mitch, if you work with the nurses, I’ll pack up the medicine and burn our records.”

  Less than an hour later, while Jameson was helping to fold up cots and Bower was packing vials of malaria vaccine, Bosco came running in with the civilian radio. “You’ve got to hear this. There's some serious shit going down.”

  Bower stared at him, surprised at his profanity, not that she was a prude, but that he'd so quickly normalized her as being one of the band.

  The radio signal was weak, with static breaking up the words. Bosco turned up the volume as Jameson leaned on a box and Bower sat on the edge of a rickety desk.

  “...impeachment proceedings have begun in earnest within the House of Representatives.”

  A British reporter with a petite voice spoke over the top of a heated exchange between several distinctly American voices. Bower recognized the southern accent of the US President.

  “You have no right to sit here in judgment of my decisions. I do not recognize the legitimacy of these proceedings and will continue to press the Supreme Court to reinstate me as Commander-in-Chief of the United States of America.”

  “Response from Senator Johansen,” the reporter said rapidly, trying to interject a sense of identity for the listeners while trying not to talk over the swell of anger and emotion growing within the argument.

  “Article Four of the Outer Space Treaty, a binding international agreement that has been in effect for over fifty years, outlaws the militarization of space and the deployment of nuclear weapons beyond Earth.”

  The senator slowed down his speech, deliberately emphasizing his point as he spoke.

  “Mr President, your lawless, reckless arrogance has plunged the United States into the abyss... never before... condemnation... Russia, China and...”

  The signal was breaking up, cutting into static as Bower strained to pick out fragments of each sentence. The President replied.

  “... will not be lectured ... Easy to sit there and criticize me without the weight of responsibility on your shoulders ... we have squandered our only opportunity to gain a strategic advantage in the event of hostilities ... there will be war, mark my words. History has shown time and again that war is the inevitable consequence of a clash of cultures ...”

  Reception on the radio continued to fade.

  “What the fuck?” Jameson cried as it became clear they’d lost the signal.

  “Oh, it gets better,” Bosco added. “You
think that’s fucked up, wait until you hear the rest of the story.”

  He was fiddling with the radio, changing the station.

  Another British voice broke through the static, which surprised Bower, as she assumed Bosco would have been hunting for local radio stations, or for something out of South Africa. She wasn’t sure, but both channels seemed to be BBC World Service broadcasts. Again, the reporter’s accent lent an air of authenticity to the commentary, one Bower found convincing.

  “The revelation of a secret government project concealing the existence ...”

  Static tore the sentence in two. Bower strained to hear what was being said.

  “... has shaken not only the US but the world. For seven months, the President and his cabinet presided over what can only be described as a conspiracy of silence.

  “Rumors of intimidation, career assassination, physical assault, incarceration on false charges and even murder threaten to topple the presidency.

  “The evidence is damning, with grainy video footage of President Addison and his security detail in a midnight meeting with David Alexander Wilson, ex-CIA chief of station for the United Kingdom and alleged ringmaster of the project.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jameson said. “What the hell is all this about?”

  “Wait for it,” Bosco replied, his words terse and abrupt. He clearly didn't want to talk over the broadcast.

  “NASA officials vetoed the launch of the Orion spacecraft two weeks ago, with NASA administrative director Philip Monroe citing technical concerns over the rocket booster, but insiders leaked telemetry readouts from the rocket, revealing a system purring like a Ferrari in pole position.

  “With the arrest of Wilson in Texas two days ago for the murder of NASA director Philip Monroe, the house of cards surrounding the President finally came tumbling down. FBI surveillance linked Wilson with the President as well as with Monroe, exposing the conspiracy.

  “Yesterday, the veil of secrecy was lifted when Congress formally impeached the President as an accessory to murder, with a secondary charge for the unlawful deployment of nuclear weapons in space.

  “Ostensibly, the Orion was scheduled to explore Cruithne, an asteroid that’s erroneously referred to as Earth’s second moon. In reality, the Orion was tasked to intercept the alien spacecraft before it reached Earth’s orbit.

  “NASA director Monroe had objected to the inclusion of a 15 megaton Plutonium warhead onboard the Orion and had threatened to go public with the revelation when he was murdered by Wilson.”

  Under his breath, Jameson uttered one word. “Fuck.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Bower added.

  “Details are still emerging, but it seems the crew of the Orion were not aware of their deadly payload. President Addison has admitted to his involvement in authorizing the placement of the nuclear device on the Orion as a contingency in the event of hostilities, saying it was not an overtly hostile act in itself, but Congress disagrees.

  “Given the severity of the accusations and the weight of evidence against the President, the Congress has issued a Memorandum of Understanding to the White House, informing the President that Congress will honor the impeachment process and conduct proceedings in an orderly and timely manner, but will not tolerate any abuse of executive power during this time. The language is verbose, but the meaning is clear. The Office of the President still stands, but the President himself is powerless. Essentially, Congress is outwardly offering the President the courtesy of due process, but in practice the White House has been shutdown. Congress may have exceeded its mandate, but that will be for the Supreme Court to decide.

  “With the President effectively under house-arrest, the executive branch of government has been paralyzed, awaiting the outcome of impeachment proceedings. Congress contends the President exceeded his executive authority by placing a nuclear weapon on a civilian spacecraft. The Special Legal Council, established by the Senate, further contends that such an act is tantamount to a declaration of war against an unknown alien race.

  “Condemnation from around the world has been swift, with the British government saying such an act threatens the very existence of life on Earth. While French ambassador ...”

  Static broke the broadcast. Words faded in and out, fragments of sentences came through, barely enough to grasp their fleeting meaning.

  “Beijing has lodged a formal complaint ... following UN Security Council resolution 2992 intended to limit interaction with the alien spacecraft until such ... President is defiant, insisting his actions were in the national ... unilateral action vetoed by Congress ... ultimate decision may rest with the nine members of the Supreme Court, five of whom are Republican appointments ...”

  Bosco slapped the side of the radio, shaking it in an irrational effort to improve the reception.

  “As protests within the US mount, Congress has authorized the withdrawal of American forces from hotspots around the globe, bolstering its forces in country ... National Guard ... mobilized in support of police ... Russia has withdrawn ... Pakistan ...”

  The sound was fading.

  Bosco turned up the radio volume but that made the static worse. Slowly, the broadcast signal faded to a hiss.

  Chapter 02: Nightfall

  Elizabeth Bower was doing all she could to maintain the stoic, stiff upper-lip for which the British were renown, but the radio broadcast had shaken her. It wasn't so much what was said as what wasn't. There were so many questions, so few answers. The frustration of being isolated from the civilized world weighed on her mind. She wondered about her parents and her sister, wondering how much more they knew. Somehow, there was solace in knowing. It was irrational, really, she thought, and yet confidence had always come from knowledge. Even a condemned man could be at peace if he knew the schedule by which he'd be executed. Not knowing was torture.

  Bower had thought she was ready for anything. Ever since she was a child she brimmed with confidence, but now uncertainty clouded her thinking. Having spent a couple of years in Malawi, she thought she’d seen the worst the civil war could produce. She'd never been on the front line, but she'd treated those who had been. She liked to think nothing could shake her, and yet now her world seemed to tilt sideways, like the deck of the Titanic slowly slipping beneath the waves.

  Bower busied herself by organizing patients, assessing who could flee with the villagers and those that needed specialized care. She moved between them, talking with the remaining few patients as they lay on mats stretched out on the grass, waiting for the evacuation to begin. Most of those that were able had hobbled off with the rest of the tribe along with several she'd expected to stay. One man with tuberculosis shouldn't have been going anywhere, but he felt he was better off with his family.

  The village chief said he expected the rebels to torch the huts and was going to take his people into the bush.

  Physically, nothing had changed since this morning, and yet nothing seemed the same. Bower’s hopes of packing up the hospital and relocating seemed futile. The UN would not be back, not any time soon. Jameson said they should leave the hospital tents standing and give the rebels something to burn, something to focus their frustrations on. Ultimately, he expected the rebels to be lazy. If they had easy targets they’d attack, but if they had to work for their prey they’d soon tire. With the villagers going bush for up to a week, he figured the tribe could avoid hostilities and then get on with rebuilding their homes.

  The village was almost empty.

  Outside the hospital there were three nurses, an orderly and a dozen patients waiting for the trucks. One of the patients had a broken leg, several were recovering from malaria, while another was recovering from a severe bout of dysentery and had lost a lot of strength. She was improving though, and once she regained her muscle-mass she'd be fine.

  Bower's eleven AIDS cases, all with advanced symptoms, had left with their families. They said, if they were to die, they wanted to die where they were born, not hundreds of miles away.
One of her patients was a sixteen year old girl with a premature baby born at roughly thirty weeks.

  The baby was doing well but should have been in an intensive care unit. His breathing was shallow. His tiny hands moved in spasms rather than in a coordinated motion, and Bower feared there had been some brain damage from oxygen starvation during the protracted delivery, but such an accurate diagnosis was beyond the reach of her equipment. Quietly, she hoped he’d show signs of normalizing as he grew in size. For now, it was a case of waiting, keeping him on a drip feed and keeping his environment sterile. His young mother, still very much a child herself, rarely left his side.

  Bower buried herself in the concerns of her patients and not in her own worries, even though her nurses were quite capable of caring for the handful of patients by themselves. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was trying to distract herself from the implications of being abandoned as the world turned its focus out into space.

  Bower sat down with Alile, watching as Kowalski finished packing medical supplies.

  “The nurses are talking,” Alile said. “They say there’s a spaceship from another world.”

  “Apparently there is,” Bower replied with a smile. “It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

  Alile nodded, asking, “Do you think they’ll be friendly?”

  “I hope so, but I really don’t know. We’re in uncharted territory.”

  “In Africa, we have a saying,” Alile said. “To get lost is to learn the way.”

  “Well,” Bower replied. “I like that. When it comes to dealing with creatures from another planet, we are most certainly lost, so I guess you’re right: we’ll learn along the way.”

  Bower turned to Alile. As they were so physically similar she saw a lot of herself in the young lady, a desire for knowledge, a desire to help others, a desire to change the world, even if it was only one person at a time.

  “The funny thing is,” Bower continued. “I’ve been in Africa for five years, mostly in Kenya, but in the almost two years I’ve been in Malawi I’ve barely thought about home. Not the place, not the people, not even my family. Oh, sure, I get letters from them and the odd present comes through the mail, but all of a sudden some spaceship arrives from another planet and I can’t stop thinking about home. How strange is that?”