SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Outside, we got back in the sedan and Everett gave us a tour of The Grove. As we passed an immense forty-foot tall statue vaguely resembling an owl he said, “This is where the Cremation of Care Ceremony is going to take place tomorrow night. Once everyone gets settled into their own camps, they’ll gather here for a welcome dinner and then the ceremony.”

“What sort of camps do they have?” Gomer Pyle asked. “I was sort of expecting a hotel.”

Everett shook his head. “I get the feeling that these folks spend enough nights in hotels. They have more than forty different camps situated around The Grove. Turn here and I’ll show you.”

We stopped several times on our circuit of The Grove as Everett inspected new deliveries and briefly spoke to new hires, during when he was able to show us several of the camps.

The Abby was nothing more than a place with pitched tents and a fire pit, but according to Enrique’s records, ‘unspeakable acts’ were frequently performed there.

The Derelicts Camp was a simple long house where members who wanted to keep a low profile stayed.

Hideaway, Highlanders, and Hill Billies were three large camps where politicians, presidents, and the rich CEOs of corporations stayed.

The Land of Happiness was a camp exclusively for lawyers.

The Isle of Aves was a collection of cottages where members of the Justice and Defense Departments stayed along with a select group of defense contractors.

We didn’t actually see Camp Mandalay, but we did note the cable car that granted access to it. Only the very privileged were allowed to stay and attend functions at Mandalay. Neither Enrique nor his predecessor had ever been inside that camp. Everett held out little hope that his tenure at The Grove would be any different.

All this in a gorgeous landscape of rolling, tree-covered hills dotted with glens. On the surface it seemed more like a park than anything else. I reminded myself that everything wasn’t as it seemed. I was especially interested in the mock child sacrifice.

Back at Everett’s Spartan, one-room office in the welcome center, we drank coffee while he searched his files. He pulled out a stack of folders and brought them to me.

There were eleven caterers in all. Four were local businesses and the other seven came out of San Francisco and Santa Rosa. Of these remaining seven, there was nothing that stood out. We spent a good two hours examining every file, but all we had in front of us were forms with names of personnel and their background checks. Everything seemed to be legitimate.

I tossed the folders in a pile. “These aren’t doing us much good, I’m afraid. We’re going to need to see the caterers.”

“They’re already setting things up for tomorrow night. Between now and then you’ll see them all if you have the patience.”

I glanced at Gomer and Burgess. “I might not have the patience, but these two do.”

Burgess looked at Gomer as if to say, We do?

Gomer solemnly shook his head but wouldn’t meet my gaze.

Suddenly the door pushed open.

We all turned to see Major Skip Harold, aka Pretty Boy Floyd, standing there with fury in his eyes. Behind him were two Air Force MPs in white combat helmets, fatigues, and pistols at their sides.

“Major Harold, we didn’t expect to see you here.” I nodded toward the coffee pot. “Come on in and have a cup.”

He glanced at the coffee pot, then back to me. He’d clearly thought his entrance would be a little more dramatic.

“Major Harold?” I asked.

“Colonel Madsen, I thought I told you not to come here.”

I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

Gomer did a double take.

“Major Harold.” I stood slowly. “I wasn’t aware that an O-6 had to obey an O-4.”

“When it comes to the security of this compound it does, as you were informed, sir, when we discussed your previous intentions to come to The Grove.”

I glanced at the MPs behind him. They’d probably been told I was some high and mighty army colonel with a too-high opinion of myself. I might not do anything to dissuade that notion, but I was going to make myself clear.

“Then you need to put yourself on report.”

Now it was his turn to do a double take. “What are you talking about?”

“United States Code Title 10,892.” I glanced at one of the MPs — a young black kid who looked like he’d been an all-American linebacker. “Know what that is, kid?”

“Dereliction of Duty, sir,” he said, snapping out the answer.

Pretty Boy Floyd sputtered, “Dereliction—”

“Of Duty, punished under Article 92 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You’ve stated that you are in charge of security, yet not one but two Cerberus agents assigned to your compound were attacked and possessed by bone demons.”

He shook his head. “What?” He tried to say something else, but all he could manage was “What?” again.

“You heard me.” To the MPs I said, “Are you prepared to take Major Harold into custody?”

They glanced at each other. This had definitely not been in the game plan.

Pretty Boy Floyd was completely confused.