The Enemy Within

The group sitting near him changed as men drifted in and out, and he took advantage of that to occasionally throw out a biting reference to the problems caused by blacks in America, comparing them to similar situations in Europe. He also complained about the interracial marriages and about black people’s “low intelligence and tendency toward crime.”

Most ignored his remarks, or changed the subject, or simply left quickly. A few argued the points with him, or even agreed to some extent. Despite that, none of them reacted in the way that he had hoped.

By ten o’clock Halovic was beginning to feel the effects of the beer he’d been drinking, even at his limited rate. His eyes smarted from the tobacco smoke and the stuffy air, so he made his excuses, paid his bill, and left.

The walk back through town to his dingy motel room helped ease some of his frustration but not all of it. Although he had known that this part of General Taleh’s master plan would take time and some risk to implement, he was all too aware of the days slipping past.

AUGUST 19

(D MINUS 118)

Halovic rose early the next morning. He exercised in his room, showered, and changed into jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. It was just after dawn when he stepped out into the muggy air.

Already aware of the sweat beginning to soak the back of his shirt, he crossed the highway and walked back to the diner he’d spotted the night before. There were three waitresses working that morning, one of whom was black. He was careful not to sit at one of her tables and he took pains to make his disdain for her known.

After a light breakfast he returned to his room, grabbed the Remington.30–06 rifle Yassine had procured for him earlier at a northern Virginia gun shop, and pocketed a large handful of cartridges. Before heading to his car, he also loaded a small 9mm pistol and tucked it away into a holster concealed in the small of his back. In Halovic’s experience, it never hurt to have a hidden edge.

The Walker’s Landing Rod and Gun Club lay right next to the James River, three miles west of town and down a winding country lane. A faded sign by the side of the road directed him to the clubhouse, an old concrete-block building topped by a rusting aluminum roof. Several other vehicles were already parked out front, and he could hear the steady pop-pop-pop of small-arms fire from off behind a row of trees.

With his rifle tucked under his arm, Halovic walked into the clubhouse to pay the five-dollar fee it would take to make him a member for the day. He paused just beyond the door to let his eyes adjust to the interior light.

Display cases containing rifles, pistols, shotguns, fishing rods, and other sports gear filled half the tiny shop. The rest seemed full of a hodgepodge of U.S. Army surplus clothing and military collectibles: World War II Wehrmacht helmets, fur-lined Soviet tanker’s hats, knives, bayonets, and boxes full of decorations, service ribbons, and unit patches from a dozen different countries.

How ridiculous, Halovic thought icily, these Americans play so hard at being warriors. And yet, how little they understand about real war.

He stepped up to the counter with his five dollars already out and ready.

The proprietor, a large, bearded fellow wearing a white T-shirt with a fish on the front, took his money with a smile and passed him a photocopied sheet. “Those are our range safety instructions,” he explained. “They’re pretty basic. No booze, no automatic weapons, and no explosive targets are allowed here at the club.

“Now, when somebody yells ‘clear,’ it means they want to retrieve their targets. When you hear that, you immediately cease fire and put your weapon down. And then you yell ‘clear’ back so they know you heard ‘em. Once everybody’s stopped shooting, you’re free to go out and check your own targets. Okay?”

Halovic nodded his understanding.

The other man eyed his rifle appreciatively. “That’s a nice piece. Brand-new?”

“It is.” Halovic patted the stock fondly. “I bought it just last week. A real beauty, eh?”

“Uh-huh. You need any ammo today? I’ve got a good special running on boxes of.30–06.”

Halovic nodded again. He didn’t really need more ammunition, but it made little sense to risk antagonising this man. “One box, please. And a map of the area, if you have such a thing.”

While the big, bearded man rang up his purchases, he used the opportunity to study his surroundings a little more closely. The owner and most of his customers were white, but one black couple was also there, perusing the racks of handguns and hunting rifles. Halovic took pains to shoot several hard looks at them, some of which, he noted, were spotted by others in the shop.

With the racial views of Karl Gruning once more made plain, the Bosnian cradled his rifle and headed outside toward the sound of gunfire.

By four o’clock Halovic was back in the Bon Air Bar, this time perched well away from the television set.