Occupied

By Hugh Carter Vinson and Robert E. Farnell

United Nation troops occupy the United States to put a stop to ethnic cleansing. Could this really happen here?

ISBN 1-59431-288-5 Legal Thriller / Fiction / Mystery

Cover Art/Maggie Dix

Also available in RTF and HTML formats.



Chapter 1

Gunter Falston lit another Camel. He stroked his military styled crew cut and took a long drag on his cigarette. Shreds of tobacco stuck to his lower lip. They disappeared with a forceful exhale of second hand smoke. A cloud of gray haze hovered between him and the two men seated across the booth. On the far side of the tavern's dimly lighted interior, tear jerking lyrics of a country staple decrying the pain of love lost pumped out of the juke box.

At the bar, blue-collar types dressed in denim or khaki occupied the dozen wooden stools. Oysters on the half shell, served raw and chilled, were doctored with squeezed lemon juice and ketchup fortified with horseradish. Conversations at the bar were muted, punctuated by the sucking sounds of succulent bivalves-being devoured.

The Pride of the Chesapeake, packed in iced down bushel baskets, transported in refrigerated trucks were shipped in daily within hours of retrieval by leather faced watermen who scrapped the tasty mollusks off the bay bottom with long shafted scissor-like tongs.

The odor of noontime's luncheon special of hamburger steak and fries lingered, leaving a greasy telltale reminder in the clothing of patrons.

Rosalie Allan, an overweight barmaid, attired in a western shirt and designer jeans, both a size too small, served patrons seated at the circular tables that dotted the major portion of the tavern's customer area. Her out-of-the-bottle blond hair was pulled back tightly into a red ribboned ponytail. Dark roots at the hairline divulged her secret.

Matt 'Bull' Morgan, the tavern's sole proprietor and chief cook and bottle washer, stood behind the counter. He dried glasses that had been dipped in a series of small stainless sinks behind the bar worn smooth by countless pairs of elbows, sliding beer mugs; and luncheon platters served to loyal regulars. Matt wore his 'uniform' white shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, and spotted with gravy. The belt of his faded jeans angled beneath an ample paunch. Tattoos, acquired during his tour of duty in the Navy, were faintly visible through the thatch of black hair that covered his arms. Conversely, his head had no such cover. Although clean-shaven, Matt's heavy beard shadowed his rounded jowls. His body build and gruff nature gave rise to his unofficial moniker, therefore the tavern's name, Bull's Roadhouse.

The bar's decor was frozen in time, circa 1970. Paled color portraits of President Richard Nixon and his first vice-president graced the wall above the rectangular bar mirror that reflected shelved fifths precisely arranged, the label of each facing forward like silent soldiers standing at attention. Patriotic bunting was draped above the framed pictures. A tattered Viet Cong banner, black and white photos, edges curled, of war buddies, and a mummified ear suspended on a cowhide thong were a few of the Vietnam War mementos decorating the mirror. On the facing wall above the entrance, a Civil War print supposedly representing Generals Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson's last meeting separated two Confederate flags. The heads of flooring nails, polished by the buffing of three decades foot traffic, shown like tiny fish eyes staring up from the oiled wooden floor. Flattened cigarette butts, refugees that had escaped last night's hurried sweeping, hugged the baseboard molding.

Falston raised his right hand and beckoned. The barmaid responded to the cue. Another round of longnecks was ordered. With the arrival of reinforcements, the empties were collected. Beside Falston's beer lay a copy of the African American Gazette folded so as to highlight the front-page photo of a bespeckled black man haranguing a mob of fist-raised demonstrators.

Newton Garnett, the shorter and stouter of Gunter Falston's henchmen, plowed a furrow through his beer's damp label with a grit-encrusted thumbnail. Newt's jaundiced complexion resembled close-up photographs of the lunar surface. A drooping handlebar mustache obscured his lips and remained motionless except when he ate. His brown hair, cut closer than Falston's, showed signs of receding. His Army surplus fatigues appeared to have been borrowed from a larger man. The trouser legs were stuffed into laced up combat boots. "Newt, why the hell didn't you wear civvies?" Falston flicked ashes on the floor. "The way you're dressed, makes you stick out like a turd in a punch bowl."

Arnold Breeze, the trio's third member muffled his laughter with a napkin. He and Falston looked enough alike to be brothers; military hair style, ruddy complexion, similar height and body build. Breeze, five years younger, had no facial scars. He had served as a demolition expert under Falston during the Tet offensive in January of '68. Caught in the open near the US Embassy, Falston had suffered facial wounds due to an incoming mortar that exploded on the sidewalk sending shrapnel and concrete chunks flying in all directions. "I'm committed to the cause, man," Newt retorted defensively.

"Commitment's admirable. Stupidity's inexcusable," Falston lectured. "No need drawing undue attention to ourselves."

"Yeah, Newt, you want these rednecks to tell the Man you were in here?" Arnold needled the Vietnam vet wannabe. "You're supposed to be in the construction business, remember?' "They'll think I'm going hunting," Newt shot back.

"For what?" Arnold asked. He winked at Falston.

"I dunno. Whatever's in season." Newt twisted the tips of his mustache, as he always did in stressful situations.

"You two knock it off," Falston warned, his voice low yet forceful. "We've got serious work ahead. We need to be focused. No horseplay. No foolishness. And no fatigues unless I give the order. Got that Newt? No need alerting the Feds to our whereabouts. The mountains of Maryland's Mumford County provide a perfect natural hideout."

"Yes sir, Colonel." Newt eyed the clientele for nosy patrons. Observing none, he probed Falston for timetable info. "When're we gonna do it? When?"

"Bide your time. Every successful military operation requires careful planning. When we're ready, we'll strike. Until I give the word, chill out."

All current drink and food orders served, Rosalie took her break. She leaned against the chest freezer that filled the space beneath the liquor display nearest the kitchen entrance. Ten years on the job had provided her with a mental directory of names she matched with the appropriate faces. The three men in the second booth weren't in her repository of data.

Bull lumbered toward her rest area. He motioned for her to move aside. "I gotta have four frosty mugs. Hoist your butt off the freezer."

"Sure, Bull." Rosalie turned about and opened the unit for her boss. "Say, Bull. You know the guys over there? The second booth." Rosalie nodded.

"Not really. They been coming in here for a couple weeks. The one with the messed up face said they're building a vacation cabin up on Devil Mountain, two miles south of the Pennsylvania line, for next year's hunting season."

"You believe 'em?" Rosalie took a long pull on her Winston filter tip. She directed a plume of exhaled smoke above Bull's head.

"Why the hell not? What difference does it make?" Bull selected the required number of frozen mugs, which he promptly filled with golden draft beer.

"I dunno. Can’t put my finger on it, but those dudes give me the creeps. The eyes, Bull. They're cold."

Bull's belly shook with laughter. "Honey, you been watching too many late night horror movies."

"Go ahead, Bull. Laugh your ass off, but I'm telling you, those guys are up to no good. Mark my words."

Bull again laughed off Rosalie’s character assessment. He served the drafts and took four orders for Bull's Lucifer Wings, chicken wings dipped in a special secret batter fortified with cayenne pepper and an assortment of spices guaranteed to ignite the palate.

Arnold and Newt, huddled in the rear of a utility van, spent the better part of three weeks staking out the Baltimore offices of the African American Gazette, more particularly the parking habits and routine of the newspaper's chief editor, Reginald Thompson.

Thompson was the most prominent figure in the black community's nationwide assault on hate groups. Of late, he had gained a national audience by increased subscriptions to his paper coupled with on-camera appearances with national African-American leaders from business, academia, and politics.

Both the Democrats and Republicans seemed to figuratively dance lightly

on egg shells when publicly discussing each other’s program for inclusion of black voters one year and a half hence in the upcoming presidential election.

Day after day, Arnold and Newt fought boredom while they chronicled Thompson's comings and goings. Some days Thompson used the parking garage when his arrival was early enough to beat the morning rush hour. Other days, upon late arrival, he parked on the street. Today was such a day. Nestled snugly against the curb, Thompson's polished Mercedes sedan occupied the last available street side parking space.

Mid-afternoon the car behind his departed. Newt left the warmth of the van and returned minutes later driving a beat up junker with stolen tags, which he parked bumper to bumper behind the target vehicle. Thompson would have no choice other than to drive forward over the pothole directly in front of his car's left wheel.

Arnold followed Newt. The former drove an appropriated Department of Public Works pickup. A cold tar patch covered the pound of C-4 plastic explosive and pressure detonator.

Upon completion of the cosmetic roadwork, Arnold and Newt abandoned the stolen truck and strolled back to their van. They took a leisurely drive west out of the city and toward the mountains of western Maryland and the hopeful anonymity among the patrons of Bull's Roadhouse, or to the contrary, the establishment of an alibi should one become necessary.

Reginald Thompson, married and the father of three, was a Harvard law graduate who had passed up offers generated by several LA and New York law firms in order to pursue a career in journalism. Ten years of journeyman efforts as a crime and court reporter for east coast metropolitan newspapers had led to an assistant editor's position at the Baltimore based African American Gazette. Four years toil had been rewarded. He had been offered and readily accepted the top spot.

From the outset, Thompson took a hardnosed approach regarding racism in the US, butchering sacred cows with his pointed editorials. He pulled no punches. His articles leveled blistering broadsides at hate groups, white supremacists and paramilitary organizations. Thompson singled out one such cadre of racists, 'Whites Are Right Now' led by Gunter Falston for vehement verbal assaults. He labeled Falston '...a purveyor of racial hatred, a pariah, a bigot's bigot who peddles poisoned rhetoric to the masses.' Thompson chided the Federal Government for its lackluster and less than competent prosecution of such groups.

Thompson closed the office at 5:30 pm. As was his habit, he was the last to leave having sent assistants and secretarial staff on their way an hour earlier. He rode the elevator seven floors down to the ground level. Thompson walked through the lobby. He exchanged pleasantries with the night watchman. Outside he buttoned up his Black cashmere overcoat against the January chill. He switched his briefcase to his left hand and searched his pants pocket for his car keys with the other. Thompson stood patiently on the sidewalk as the endless caravan of rush hour traffic snaked by him. Suburbanites temporally fled the urban concrete canyons for the sameness of planned commuter

developments that circled the city. Headlights of one vehicle all but touched the taillights of the car in front. Down the block the light turned red. Thompson waited

for traffic to halt. Safely across the street, he unlocked his car and slid onto the leather seat. He flopped his briefcase down on the passenger side. Thompson turned the ignition key. The engine purred to life. He moved the automatic shifter to drive. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the old car behind him. The thought skimmed the surface of consciousness, 'I haven't seen that car before.' In a flash his mind raced toward visions of family. The flow of Friday afternoon traffic had resumed. A gap between vehicles permitted him to pull out.

Two uniformed traffic officers seated in their black and white parked at a downtown fast-food restaurant six blocks away sipped coffee and munched doughnuts.

"What the hell was that?" the driver asked his partner.

"Damn if I know. Sounded like a sonic boom."

Immediately the radio crackled. Sent by the dispatcher, the officers found what resembled a war zone. Three cars were damaged. One was totally destroyed having been hurled upside down onto the sidewalk. Curls of twisted metal littered the pavement. Shards of glass sparkled on the street like frost glistening in the sunlight on a winter morning. Near the curb where the target vehicle had been parked, jagged edges formed the perimeter of a crater in the shape of a wok, two feet deep at the center flaring upward to the rim six feet in diameter.

Black smoke boiled upward and disappeared into the night sky. Car horns blared. Sirens wailed. Dazed drivers and passengers staggered like zombies among the throng of pedestrians and curious onlookers crowding the area. The blazing wreckage produced a putrid odor accompanied by the sizzle that sounded like frying bacon.

Several marked units arrived. The sergeant exited his cruiser. He stepped close to the inferno. Intense heat singed his eyebrows and reddened his face and forced him back. Instinctively, he scanned the area for possible evidence. Something caught his eye. He walked over for closer examination. Strobing cruiser bar lights highlighted a pair of bifocals and patches of cashmere material.

The corporal joined him. "I called for an ambulance. Fire trucks are enroute," the corporal advised. His face wrinkled in involuntary response to the foul odor. "What's that awful smell?" the corporal asked with a nasal twang. He covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief.

"Some poor bastard just got roasted," the sergeant replied breathing through his mouth.

Arnold, Newt, and Falston huddled around the table closest to the tavern's TV. The lead story on the 11:00 pm news featured a file photograph of Reginald Thompson. The years 1948-1996 captioned the photo. "Man, I sure as hell would've liked to have seen the expression on that dude's face the second after his front wheel triggered.... " Falston's tourniquet-like grip on Newt's forearm interrupted his commentary. "Put a cork in it, Newt."

Falston gradually relaxed his fingers. The militia leader imagined laser stares focused on the back of his neck. He turned his head in time to lock glances momentarily with Bull. He broke eye contact with the proprietor and refocused his attention on Newt.

"Sorry," The pain revisited Newt's arm.

"Shut up," Falston hissed through clinched teeth.