Wolf Slayer

Mathieu ‘Matt’ Adams took the last seat in the very cramped waiting area of the Veterans Affairs Centre in El Paso, Texas. There were already eleven other honourably-discharged US Army veterans tightly jammed together in the tiny room.

The room was decrepit, and badly in need of a thorough cleaning, and a new paint job. It also smelled heavily of body odor. Flies were buzzing around everywhere, and there was a creaky, wobbly and obviously very old fan spinning overhead. The fan was feebly circulating the very warm air in the room. Like everywhere else in Texas, an air conditioner was a long-forgotten luxury of the past.

It was Monday, August 9, 2483, and the peak of the especially hot and dry season. It was also early morning. Matt cringed to think what the VA Centre would be like later in the day.

These days, the winters in El Paso were not much better than the summers. But then again, west Texas had always been desert-like.

For many years now, people living in the rest of the United States had thought of winter as the cool and stormy season. And summers were viewed as the hot and thunder-stormy season. And all storms were now very violent, and usually damaging events.

Things were tough everywhere in the US, and the rundown, malodorous condition of the El Paso VA Centre was not unusual.

Like the other veterans in the waiting room, Matt was proudly wearing his last dress uniform, even though it made the intensifying heat even more oppressive. Matt’s uniform, however, was by far the one that attracted the most interest.

No one said anything to Matt, of course. The military tradition was to casually observe, and then demonstrate proper respect by showing complete disinterest.

But the outrageous display of medals precisely arrayed on Matt’s massive chest was way beyond the conceivable.

Matt had a jagged, inflamed-looking scar on his forehead, and he wore an eyepatch over his left eye socket. The VA doctors were going to try to fit a fully-functional artificial eye in that socket, but they said some more restorative surgery would be needed first. Matt’s next scheduled preparatory surgery had just been pushed out again by another year.

The United States was essentially bankrupt, and the miniscule VA budget had just been trimmed yet again.

Like most veterans, Matt had been struggling to find work. There had been a fully-fledged worldwide economic depression for over three decades now. But the VA had just sent him an impressive-looking letter that asked him to book a time in the El Paso VA Centre for a ‘special job interview’. Matt had jumped at the opportunity.

Surprisingly, Matt did not have to wait long to hear his name called. No one said anything as he made his way to the reception desk, but he could tell the other veterans were really pissed that he seemed to have jumped the queue somehow.

The receptionist was young and pretty, and surprisingly cheerful. She smiled at Matt, and with a Hispanic accent, she said pleasantly, “Please follow me, Mister Staff Sergeant Adams. Colonel Boudreaux, he is ready for you now.”

The receptionist led Matt to the open door of Colonel Boudreaux’s rear-section, poorly-lit and dusty office. Then she left him on his own. Matt knocked on the door frame, took one pace inside the room and came to full attention. He waited almost a full minute for the colonel to finish reading something on his cluttered desk. When the colonel finally looked up, Matt saluted him, and held the salute. The colonel grunted, rose from his seat and quickly snapped off a smart salute of his own. Then the colonel said gruffly, “At ease, retired Staff Sergeant, and take a seat.”

Colonel Boudreaux sat down again, and started reading something else on his massive, cluttered desk. Matt figured the colonel must also be a retired veteran, in his late sixties probably. His working uniform showed he had mostly been with US Army artillery units, and had seen some sort of action in the Eurasian theatre. He was a stocky, rather short man, with thick, wavy grey hair, black-rimmed glasses and a tanned, wrinkly but handsome face.

After another couple of minutes, Colonel Boudreaux sighed, crumpled up the single-sheet document he had been reading, and then threw the wadded-up ball at a large overflowing trash can that was placed against the wall on Matt’s left.

Colonel Boudreaux stared at Matt’s face for a long moment. Then he growled hoarsely, “Let’s see, I have your service record here, Staff Sergeant, somewhere in this heap of bureaucratic nonsense. Oh yes, here it is.

“Staff Sergeant Mathieu Adams, honourably discharged on the third of March in the year 2483. That was about six months’ ago.

“Mathieu is French, isn’t it? Are you Louisiana Cajun, like me?”

“My mother was Quebecois-Cree Metis,” Matt replied proudly. “Louisiana Cajuns were once Acadians, French-speaking people kicked out of Nova Scotia by the British well before Canada became a country. So, I suppose we may have some common roots, sir.”

“I know my damn history too, Staff Sergeant,” Colonel Boudreaux snapped off in reply.

Matt reacted by simply saying, “Sorry, sir.”

Matt’s tone of voice and body language did not betray his anger stemming from the rebuke. He had many encounters over his very active military career with officers who figured enlisted soldiers were all idiotic poor people who could never get into a proper high school, let alone a good university. Matt was saddened by the thought that Boudreaux might fit the stereotype of an elitist, probably racist officer. They were common in the Army now, with the rise of American fascism.

“And you should completely forget about Canada, Staff Sergeant. It was absorbed by the US over a century ago. You are an American citizen, now and forever, and a civilian again. At least as an American citizen veteran you will now be allowed to vote, unlike the ‘great unwashed’ out there.”

Colonel Boudreaux chuckled at his own crude joke, and went back to studying the piece of paper he was still holding in his right hand. Then he said, “Born and raised in Baie-Comeau, Quebec, wherever the hell that is. You told the Army you have English, Irish, French and indigenous heritage. Well, none of us could pick our parents, but your genes don’t look too bad. Age thirty-four. That’s still quite young, Staff Sergeant. But I suppose you’re really lucky to be alive at all.

“Fourteen years with the 75th Ranger Airborne Light Infantry Division. Central America Service Medal. A sniper for almost three years. Sharpshooter with the MK49 semi-automatic rifle, and the M209 extreme long-range, fifty-calibre, bolt-action rifle.

“How many men did you kill as a sniper, Staff Sergeant?”

Matt was shocked by the question. He was not proud of that part of his military record. But after hesitating for only a few seconds, Matt replied, “Two hundred and four, sir. All enemy soldiers and officers.”

“Then, you were right up there with the World War Two Russian commie, Vasily Zaitsev. See, I really do know my history, Adams. But I for one won’t denigrate your accomplishments. You should be a famous guy. But the press never talked about you, for some reason. I guess we should have done better in the war for them, or something like that.

“Medals for Good Conduct, Meritorious Service, Purple Heart, twice, no three times. Also Bronze Star, Soldier’s Medal, Legion of Merit, Silver Star, Distinguished Service Cross and the holiest-of-holies, the Medal of Honor. You were a regular Audie Murphy hero, Staff Sergeant, only you are obviously not the old-fashioned Hollywood type. Not any more, anyway, with that eye missing and that ugly scar on your forehead.”

Matt wondered why Colonel Boudreaux was being so crude and disrespectful. In a flash he concluded the colonel was probably jealous, and a bit of a bully. Matt figured the colonel’s military career must have been a whole lot less exciting than his own had been.

Colonel Boudreaux used his right index finger to trace down to the very bottom of the piece of paper he was still holding on to, and then he growled, “Finished your career as First Sergeant, First Ranger Battalion. Seriously injured by the improvised explosive device that killed your commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Herbert Barrymore. That earned you your third Purple Heart, and an honourable discharge.

“And now you are struggling to live on a puny veteran’s disability pension. And you are probably actively looking for work, and not doing very well at that. Millions of lesser and greater people than you are struggling the same way, of course.

“Your situation is not your fault in any way, and I’ll admit, it’s a tough break.

“So, would you like a job, retired Staff Sergeant, perhaps doing something that would really help out your country, too?”

“Yes, Colonel Boudreaux,” replied Matt immediately. “What have you got in mind for me, sir?”

Colonel Boudreaux abruptly stood up, spun around on his right heel and marched over to the grimy, half-open window behind his desk. The screen in the lower part of the window was rusty and full of holes. While staring out of the filthy glass part of the window, Boudreaux said quietly, “Close the door behind you, Staff Sergeant.”

Matt jumped up to obey the command, then he stood at ease in front of the closed door. Colonel Boudreaux turned around, and then stood at ease with his back to the window. Then he said sternly, “What you hear now inside this room, Staff Sergeant, must always be treated as top secret, no matter what you decide to do next.

“Army Intelligence thinks there may be some kind of trouble brewing in Akron, Ohio, of all places. We know there have been a few clandestine meetings by a group that calls itself the ‘Workers Social Club’, or something like that. All of their communication is by word of mouth, so we don’t know much about them.

“There is only one political party allowed in the United States, and that is the Veterans Party. When you vote now in the federal election, for the first time in your life, you will only be voting for congressmen and senators. They pick the president and vice-president of course, by some means or another.

“So, when the Army, as an integral part of the government, thinks a revolutionary movement might be starting up, we immediately investigate, discreetly, and then we stamp it out, completely and ruthlessly. That’s just the way of it.

“If you love your country, and your fellow veterans, you can help us out by looking into this suspected bunch of pinko, long-haired rebels in Akron. You will file informal, hand-written reports by regular mail to, ah, Mister Cranston P. Snord, your assigned pseudonym for Army Intelligence. They’ll know a letter is from you just by that name written on the envelope, and your handwriting.

“They don’t want you to date your letters for some reason. The postmark will provide that to them I guess, as well as the point of origin.

“You know, the more I think about it, the envelopes probably will get stapled to the back of your letters for filing purposes. That part is all a bit bureaucratic, and probably nonsensical. But we’re not to question those things.

“Keep your letters brief, and write them like you’re updating a friend. And provide information indirectly, you know, by alluding to things, and skirting around the edges. Mail doesn’t work very well these days. Letters could be intercepted, and we have to be careful. Still, it’s safer than making a cell phone call. The mailing address you will use will be somewhere pretty close to Akron. You’ll get that later, before you leave today.

“If you want to proceed, also before you leave today, I’ll get you to write out a copy of your military record so Army Intelligence can have an example of your handwriting on file.

“Your disability pension payments will be suspended until you re-register after this assignment. Your pay will be room and board, and you can also work as a road repair labourer and flagman for a patriotic government contractor, at minimum wage of course. All you’ll mostly have to do is turn a ‘stop-and-go’ sign around to control traffic, which isn’t very heavy these days, anywhere. So, no big deal really.

“Your flat won’t be very nice, but that’s part of your cover story. You’re supposed to be just another starving, oppressed worker. Use your cover alias to get invited to a Social Club meeting. Work your way up the organization ladder to get access to more information, you know, the good stuff. Then tell us what they’re up to, that’s all. We’ll handle the rest. And when the Military Police or the FBI make their move, well, they’ll know who you are, and they’ll let you go.

“I can’t promise you anything more than that. If you do a good job, and don’t get found out and killed by these traitorous bastards, maybe there’ll be some other job you can do for your country. But who can know for sure? We live in uncertain times in a very harsh world.

“So, do you want this job or not, retired Staff Sergeant Adams?”

“Yes, Colonel Boudreaux, I’ll take the job!” Matt barked immediately. “And thank you, sir!”

“Okay, great,” Colonel Boudreaux said with just a hint of a smile. “So, you’ll need a new identity. Hmmm, let’s see. Your new name will be, ah, ah… Audie Zaitsev! Yes, that’s good! You were injured as a flagman when a hit-and-run truck driver knocked you into a ditch in Cleveland, Ohio. And you are a native Buckeye, born and raised in Cleveland. You have a fairly nondescript accent, so that will work okay.

“We’ll fill in more of your new life history before you leave today. You will memorize that history perfectly, and an intelligence officer will grill you hard to make sure you don’t mess it up. Sign all of your letters to Army Intelligence, or rather Mister Cranston P. Snord, as Audie Zaitsev.

“You’ve now got one week to get ready. We won’t pay for storage, so you might want to sell everything you own except for your favourite civilian clothes. You can put that dress uniform complete with your many medals in a secure locker in this VA Centre. It’ll be okay there until you come back to claim it, if you ever do.

“You’ll be travelling by train in lower class, so it will be a long, rough and dangerous journey. But you’re a tough guy, and you’ll figure out how to survive it.

“We’ll give you a two month rail pass. That should be more than enough to get you there all right. The best route to take will be El Paso, San Antonio, Dallas, St. Louis, Chicago then Cleveland. All trains are milk runs now, and they break down a lot. And lots of people make a living selling food and drink to travellers when trains stop. So you probably won’t starve or die of thirst. We’ll also give you a bit of travel money, but if you get robbed, well, you’ll be completely on your own.

“You’ll have to take a bus to get to Akron from Cleveland. Bus service is even less reliable than train service, so the more I think about it, you might have to improvise a bit to complete your journey. But you’ll figure something out, I’m sure.

“Now, go sit in the next room, the empty one. Look out the window, or something. An intelligence guy will visit you in an hour or so to take this induction process the rest of the way. He’ll be dressed like a civilian. Don’t ask him for his name. He won’t tell you anyway. And when he’s done with you, forget what his face looks like, for your own good.

“Okay, that’s it, Audie. Don’t bother saluting before you leave. Get into your new identity, starting right now!”