“Um, not meanin’ to call you out or anything,” Bronson’s shapely companion began, “but you’ve already taken a couple stabs at doing just that with nothing much to come of it.”
Bronson didn’t respond, only looked away with an enraged expression of a man well on his way to misplacing half his dignity.
“I know the saga well,” purred Beatrice. “The full-frontal assault using hired mercenaries was a decent plan on paper. Even ole’ Seth Bates was implorin’ you to go in for sloppy seconds after it didn’t pan out, using our own personnel and equipment, a plan you very wisely rebuffed.” She scooted forward and leaned over Doug’s desk, providing him a view above and beyond her neckline. “Instead, you chose to learn from failure; something I’m sure wasn’t easy for you to pull off. You adapted, modified your strategy, and moved forward with this Solve for X hobbyhorse of yours.” She pointed to a worn leather folder that had been collecting dust on his desk. “You did so like you were followin’ your destiny…kind of like the way you and I met.”
Bronson shoved the computer mouse away. “I know all that. And I don’t regret anything, particularly the latter portion.”
“Nor I,” Beatrice moaned, “not one paltry inklin’. Being candid though, I know you had grand expectations for your pet project. I shared them. It had a modest start and just sort of fizzled out. The rate of success has been unexceptional.”
Bronson let loose with an elongated sigh. “I’m…so informed. Results have been disappointing. Though, despite my hobbyhorse’s lack of success, I recall the op falling under new ownership not long after launch.”
Beatrice deadpanned, flaring her nostrils.
“You…wish that to change?” Doug queried. “Mrs. Deputy Director?”
“No, I do not. Nor do I need reminding of who runs what around here.”
“Fair enough,” Doug said, doing his best to evaluate her. “Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m sensing that you do, in fact, wish to change something.”
Beatrice sent a nod and went about rearranging the pile of photos. “That’s correct, I do. Particularly after what happened this morning…and after discovering your…heathens have managed to acquire support.”
“Support? What are you talking about?”
“Come now, Doug. You really haven’t been paying attention, have you?” Beatrice gestured to the photos again. “See for yourself. There’s a lot more ruckus in that valley now. There’s armor down there, military-grade armor, and lots of boys toting guns around, wearing camouflage. Not exactly your stereotypical hunter bubba types, either.”
Bronson leaned forward and squinted. “How did we miss this? What do you make of them? Irregulars? Private army?”
“Could be either. But those vehicles are military—our military. I estimate three or four of those M1083 five-ton cargo trucks and a handful of Oshkosh joint light tactical vehicles. Their numbers and formations are akin to an infantry subunit.”
“Remarkable,” Bronson barked. “Who the hell’s helping them? What military detachments remain active these days?”
Beatrice shrugged. “Unknown. Anyone’s guess, really. There are a handful of bases out there, operational statuses are either undetermined or indeterminable. The plateaus of the 304 have forever been chock-full of unorganized territorial throngs, armies and the like, though there’s never been any intel to corroborate or refute. In all likelihood, it’s nothing more than a bunch of nobbled-up old hands and has-beens.”
“Veterans?”
Beatrice nodded. “All nothing more than common criminals now, swindlers of US government property. We always knew they’d never amount to much.”
“Criminals or not, they’re fortifying their positions.” Doug rubbed his forehead. “The resistance, as it were, is building, and our ineffectiveness is to blame.” He paused. “This isn’t good. And it cannot be allowed to continue.”
“No. It most certainly cannot,” Beatrice said, her tone unfeeling. “We dwarf their numbers, but it only takes a small sum of guerillas to oppose an overwhelming force, and once they’re good and dug in, they can do so damn near indefinitely. The Afghans fought off Soviet oppression for almost a decade and kept our forces in limbo for twice that, comparably to the Vietcong. The Israelis have held off the Palestinians and the entire unchristian Middle East for centuries.” She went for and lit another cigarette. “History has always been one of the best teachers. If our goal is to amputate insurgents from their home territory, it behooves us to step our approach up a notch. Or two, better yet.”
“Well, do tell. You’ve got me on the edge of my seat,” Doug muttered, sounding annoyed. “Just what did you have in mind?”
Rolling her eyes, Beatrice obtained the leather folder from atop Bronson’s desk and blew off a layer of dust before prying it open. “For the most part, I like what you’ve done here, Doug. I really do. Solve for X holds a solid lot of workable strategies, many with potential—and that’s not me whistlin’ Dixie. Every approach you’ve put together is backed by research and generally has its merits. There’s only one gigantic problem I’m able to see.”
“And that is?”
Beatrice solidified her expression. “Every tactic, front to back, incorporates far too much injudicious dillydallying.”
“Is that right?”
“Undeniably.”
“And what, pray tell, shall we undeniably do about it?” Doug mocked her. “Toss it all? Burn the goddamn thing to ashes and start over from scratch?”
“Doug, I know how precious a man’s ideas are to him,” Beatrice said, attempting to scale back the tone. “That’s why I’m not proposing we chuck it. I’m not even suggesting a rewrite. I just think your hobbyhorse deserves some reevaluation followed by a full-on redeployment.” She relaxed and sent an expectant glance. “Have you ever read The Art of War?”
Doug Bronson shook his head and looked away.
“It wasn’t exactly curriculum or required reading, but any field operative worth his or her salt lived by it. Its passages are practically de rigueur, if you’ll pardon the phrase. A veritable Bible for anyone longing to outshine the rudimentary and run of the mill.”
Doug pursed his lips. “This is starting to
