Survivors - A Novel of the Coming Collapse Page 2

  The conversation left Andy feeling uneasy about his plans for leaving active duty. Strapping on his MOLLE vest to leave his desk at the battalion headquarters, Andy turned to Echanis to say, “Well, when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. I’m going to stop by my CHU and grab a duffel bag and then I’m off to the Haji-mart.”

  It was 90 degrees but felt even hotter, since Andy was wearing IBA and had the weight of an M4 carbine slung across his back, a PRC-148 radio, and numerous MOLLE magazine pouches. The only concession to being in a relatively safe area was that he was wearing a boonie hat instead of a MICH helmet.

  As Captain Laine walked past the guards manning the HESCO barriers at the FOB’s main gate, he read the signs on the Haji market windows just across the road. They proclaimed: “Very Best PriceS,” “DVD,” and “Custtom TailoreR.” As he walked in the door, the smell of the market hit Andy like a hammer. It was an odd mix of Turkish tobacco smoke, incense, kerosene, sweat, and overcooked lamb. It certainly didn’t smell like the exchange store back at the FOB. Aside from the hint of JP8 jet fuel, which was a presence everywhere in the FOB, the exchange smelled just like any retail store in America: hardly any smell at all—almost antiseptic. In contrast, Ali’s store reeked. An aging Italian-made air conditioner was roaring above the door but not keeping up. It was perhaps 10 degrees cooler inside than outside.

  Nabil Jassim Ali gave his usual “Salaam, salaam, Mr. Colonel” greeting. The portly and balding Pashtuni flashed his yellowed, crooked teeth. He called all the American soldiers “Colonel,” even the privates. It still made Andy laugh every time he heard it.

  Eyeing the empty duffel bag slung over Laine’s shoulder, Ali chortled. “Perhaps you are wanting to buy plentiful numbers of thingings, Mr. Colonel?” Laine nodded. Ali waved him in and added, “The store I am closing in a few minutes, but for you, Colonel, I am willing to be late.”

  “You always have the best deals, Mr. Ali,” Andy said with a smile.

  “Do you have afghanis? The American dollar not so good, today. It is slipping off another five percent.”

  “Down five percent in one week?” Andy asked.

  “In one day, Colonel,” Ali replied seriously. “Soon, I think, I take no more American money.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I have plenty of afghanis.” His front pocket indeed bulged with a huge wad of cash: a mix of afghanis, dollars, and a few euros. In the bottom of his pocket he also felt the weight of eighteen American Eagle one-ounce silver coins in plastic sleeves.

  Ali’s store had the usual “Haji-mart” merchandise. There were cigarettes, pirated CDs and DVDs, imitation designer sunglasses, magazines (mostly in Arabic), cheap Chinese knives and ersatz Leatherman tools, candy, sunflower seeds, sodas and sports drinks, jerky, chewing gum, and assorted trinkets.

  There were three young Stryker troops already in the store when Captain Laine arrived. When he passed them in the dimly lit narrow aisles, they each acknowledged him with a hushed “High speed, sir!” That was the newly arrived battalion’s unofficial motto. But Andy was accustomed to hearing it at a much higher volume inside the FOB.

  Laine sorted through packets of jerky, settling mostly on the teriyaki flavor, piling up a large stack in the crook of his left arm. The three enlisted soldiers completed their purchases, buying the usual Fobbit food: energy bars, packets of salty chips, and Coca-Colas that came in cans with both English and Arabic markings.

  After the three soldiers left the store, Laine stacked the packets of jerky on the counter. Then he walked back to the shelf to get a second armload. This, too, he stacked on the counter. Ali smiled. “Perhaps you are wanting to buy all of my jer-kee?” he asked. Laine chuckled, and replied, “Well, not all of it; just most of it.”

  Next he went to stock up on batteries. He ignored the Egyptian bargain brand—of dubious quality—and selected a dozen four-packs of Energizer AA batteries, being careful to pick the ones with the latest expiration dates. While Laine was sorting battery packages, Ali locked the front door and turned the “OPEN” sign around.

  Laine stacked the batteries in a couple of piles next to the jerky on the counter, then his gaze shifted to Ali’s permanent smile. After a pause, Laine asked, “I’ve heard that you sell some other, ah, unusual merchandise that you keep in back.” He pointed to the doorway to the back room, which among other things served as a kitchen and bedroom.

  “Sir, I have none alcohol. It is forbidden.”

  “No, no. That is not what I meant. I’ve heard that you have some more expensive merchandise, like watches, some good optics, and guns.”

  Ali’s smile got bigger than usual and he nodded. “One moment, Mr. Colonel,” he said, then disappeared into the back room.

  Ali returned lugging a large suitcase, and Laine knew that he’d struck pay dirt. This was where the rumor mill at the FOB said the shopkeeper reputedly kept “the good stuff.”

  Ali gently slid the heavy suitcase onto the store counter, unfastened the latches, and spun it around. He opened it to display a large assortment of new and used wristwatches, digital cameras, film cameras, binoculars, assorted boxes of ammunition, and a few pistol holsters.

  Laine and Ali spent the next five minutes haggling over the price of a pair of rubber-armored Nikon 7x30 compact binoculars. They finally settled on a figure that seemed high to Andy, but he assented, realizing the prices would surely be double that in less than a month, perhaps in just a few days.

  Laine paid for the jerky, batteries, and binoculars, nearly depleting his wad of afghanis. Eyeing the boxes of ammo, he said: “I see you have some nine-millimeter ammunition here. Do you have any pistols in that caliber?”

  Ali frowned. “Yes, Colonel, I do, but you are cannot be afford them. Prices are—what is it they say—‘escalating.’ For a pistol, a good one, we are conversing of $5,000, American.”

  “What if I paid you in silver, uhh, lujain coins? Lujain?”

  “Ahhh! Lujain! This works for me. In Kabul, silver closed today at eighty-three American dollars for one ounce. In London it was eighty-one dollars.” Andy nodded. The man certainly knew his markets.

  Mr. Ali turned and again walked to the back room. Laine heard the sounds of boxes being shifted and restacked. Soon the store owner returned with another suitcase that looked even older than the first. He put it on the counter, flipped the latches, and swung it open. Captain Laine let out a slight gasp when he saw the contents. The suitcase was crammed full of pistols, revolvers, holsters, and magazines.

  Andy sorted through the guns. He saw older Afghan Army–issue Tokarevs, a few ancient revolvers that looked either Belgian or German, and a couple of Egyptian Helwan pistols. One revolver immediately seemed suspect. It was a Pakistani copy of a Webley .38 revolver. Looking closely at the gun, he saw that it was peppered with fake proof mark stampings and was erroneously stamped “WELBEY.” That made Andy laugh.

  Seeing Andy’s expression, the storekeeper noted: “The guns from Peshawar, they are not so good.”

  Andy replied, “Now, that’s an understatement!” He didn’t trust their metallurgy and mechanical tolerances any more than he did their spelling.

  Putting the revolver down, Andy noticed that there were several plastic Glock Model 19 magazines but no Glock pistols.

  “Do you have any Glocks?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Colonel, but none of those I have. Those guns of Glock sell very quick, when I am getting one.”

  Then Andy spotted a pistol in a well-made holster that looked different from the others. Withdrawing it from the holster, Andy was pleased to see a SIG P228 9mm pistol in nearly new condition. It looked just like the U.S. Army–issue P228s that the CID agents carried, except that it wasn’t stamped “U.S. PROPERTY.”

  “This is my most nice of my pistols. You are liking it?”

  The moment that he saw the SIG, Andy knew that he was
going to buy it. The moment felt portentous somehow. He nodded and said, “Yes, I do like it.” He knew that it was against regulations to bring any weapon home from the OEF theater of operations.

  Andy rummaged through the suitcase and found six spare SIG P226 series magazines, including two thirteen-rounders, three fifteen-rounders, and just one scarce magazine of twenty-round capacity. He took a few minutes to closely inspect both the gun and the magazines. The pistol had no rust pitting and just a bit of finish wear at the muzzle. Locking back the slide, he examined the bore, holding a slip of paper behind the barrel to act as a reflector. Cupping his hand over the rear sight and holding the back end of the pistol nearly to his face, he could see the faint glow of tritium dots. He muttered to himself, “Eleven-point-two-year half-life.” The magazines were genuine SIG Sauer made—with the distinctive zigzag seam on the back—and they, too, looked nearly new.

  Setting the holstered pistol and the four magazines next to his previous purchases, he said, “This will do.”

  “I will sell you this ZIG with just of only one magazine for thirty ounces of silver, and one ounce more for each magazine more.”

  Laine shook his head and answered: “No, no, no. That is too much. My offer is eight ounces, and I want you to include these magazines.”

  “This is an insult to my family. Shall my children starve and beg in the street? I am not a fool. But for you, as good and honorable officer, I will make a price of twenty ounces, with those extra magazines including.”

  “No, make it twelve.”

  Ali shook his head. “Eighteen ounces.”

  Andy countered, “Nope. Fifteen.”

  “Sixteen,” Ali snapped back.

  Andy replied firmly, “Done!” They shook hands. Andy counted out sixteen of the American eagles, all still packaged in two-coin “flip” plastic sleeves. Ali took the time to scrutinize the pairs of coins closely, removing several of them from their sleeves. He looked satisfied.

  “You are needing of amma-unitions?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve got plenty. Nine-mil is standard for the Army.”

  Andy spent a few more minutes rummaging through the suitcases, selecting a pair of magazine pouches that had obviously been made for different double-column pistol magazines but fit the standard SIG magazines—a tight fit, but they would do. Each pouch held a pair of magazines. The two pouches cost $220 in the increasingly worthless greenbacks.

  Starting with the holstered pistol at the bottom, Andy filled the duffel bag with his purchases and again shook hands with Ali.

  It was nearing sunset, and the temperature outside was down to 80 degrees. Ali unbarred the door, and they exchanged “Salaamu alaikum” (Go in peace) good-byes. Andy wondered how peaceful things would be in the near future. “Not very,” he muttered to himself, as he shouldered the duffel bag.

  2

  Stocking Up

  “What people did not realize was that war had started. By 1 p.m., a few minutes after Molotov’s speech, queues, especially in the food stores, began to grow. The women shoppers in the gastronoms or grocery stores started to buy indiscriminately—canned goods (which Russians do not like very much), butter, sugar, lard, flour, groats, sausage, matches, salt. In twenty years of Soviet power Leningraders had learned by bitter experience what to expect in time of crisis. They rushed to the stores to buy what they could. They gave preference to foods which would keep. But they were not particular. One shopper bought five kilos of caviar, another ten.

  “At the savings banks the people clutched worn and greasy passbooks in their hands. They were drawing out every ruble that stood to their accounts. Many headed straight for the commission shops. There they turned over fat packets of paper money for diamond rings, gold watches, emerald earrings, oriental rugs, brass samovars.

  “The crowds outside the savings banks quickly became disorderly. No one wanted to wait. They demanded their money seichas immediately. Police detachments appeared. By 3 p.m. the banks had closed, having exhausted their supply of currency. They did not reopen again until Tuesday (Monday was their closed day). When they opened again, the government had imposed a limit on withdrawals of two hundred rubles per person per month.”

  —Harrison E. Salisbury, The 900 Days: The Siege of Leningrad (1969)

  Farmington, New Mexico

  October, the First Year

  At that same time that Andy Laine was at the Haji-mart in Afghanistan, his brother Lars was 11,500 miles away, rolling a cart into a Sam’s Club store in Farmington, New Mexico. It was 6:52 a.m. in New Mexico and 5:22 p.m. in Zabul province, Afghanistan. Both men had the same thing on their minds: stocking up, in quantity and immediately. The Laine brothers shared a sense of urgency, realizing that there would likely be very few opportunities to stock up on things before mass currency inflation destroyed the value of their savings. The news outlets made it clear that things were falling apart quickly—very quickly.

  The Sam’s Club store in Farmington, New Mexico, was about to open for the day. There was a large crowd of perhaps a hundred anxious shoppers, many waiting with their membership cards in hand, standing behind oversize shopping carts and flat cargo carts. Lars Laine eyed his wife, Lisbeth, who was seated on their cart, next to their six-year-old daughter Grace. Beth was thirty-four, with curly brown hair and hazel eyes. She was slightly overweight and had struggled all through their marriage to maintain her figure. As Grace was doodling in her coloring book, Beth was adding items to an already long shopping list. She stood up, leaned close to Lars, and spoke directly at the hearing aid in his good ear, “We’d better hit the canned-food section first, hon,” she suggested. He nodded and answered, “Roger that.” Beth smiled, gave him a peck on the cheek, and again sat on the cart to wait.

  Lars glanced around, sizing up the crowd. The middle-aged woman standing next to him was staring at his left hand. Lars hated that. It was hurtful to him that people stared so much at the flesh-colored rubber prosthetic. They always seemed transfixed, as if the hand were some alien creature that had just landed on Earth. They stared at his left hand, or at the left side of his face, or alternated between them, staring at both, and it made him feel like a circus freak.

  The reconstructive surgery on his left cheekbone—which had used a piece of one of his ribs—was less than perfect. Sometimes people he hadn’t met before or who hadn’t seen him in many years would approach him from the right side, smiling, and then he’d turn his head toward them and they’d suddenly look repulsed. “The Quasimodo effect” is what Lars called it.

  One month earlier, on a street corner in Durango, Colorado—the nearest city with large department stores where Lars was shopping for a new refrigerator—a man who appeared to be in his seventies walked up to Lars, and asked simply, “Iraq?”

  Lars answered, “Yes, sir.”

  “I was in that little Dominican thing, and then I did a tour in Vietnam. I came back without a scratch.” The old man looked Lars in the eye and said firmly, “Thanks for your service, and for what it cost you. Welcome home.” He shook his hand and strode away. Laine’s eyes welled up a bit, but he didn’t cry. That one encounter made up for a whole lot of previous Quasimodo moments.

  Finally, the roll-up door opened, and the crowd rushed in. Lars and Beth headed for the canned-food section and started stacking full cases on the cart. That was just the first cartload. They stacked the cart high on three successive trips into the store that morning.

  The television news anchors had recently started calling the intensifying economic crisis “the Crunch.” The term soon stuck with the general public, becoming part of the general lexicon. Government spending was out of control. The credit market was in continuous turmoil. Meanwhile, bank runs and huge federal bailouts had become commonplace.

  The debt and budget deficit had spiraled to stratospheric numbers. A Congressional Budget Office report stated that to pay just
the interest on the national debt for the year, it would take 100 percent of the year’s individual income tax revenue, 100 percent of corporate and excise taxes, and 41 percent of Social Security payroll taxes. As the Crunch began, interest on the national debt was consuming 96 percent of government revenue.

  The official national debt was over $6 trillion. The unofficial debt—which included “out-year” unfunded obligations such as entitlements, long-term bonds, and military pensions—topped $53 trillion. The debt accumulated at the rate of $9 billion a day, or $15,000 per second. The official national debt had ballooned to 120 percent of the gross domestic product and was compounding at the rate of 18 percent per year. The federal government was borrowing 193 percent of revenue for the year.

  The president was nearing the end of his term in office. The stagnant economy, rising interest rates, and creeping inflation troubled him. Publicly, he beamed about having “beat the deficit.” Privately, he admitted that the low deficit figures came from moving increasingly large portions of federal funding “off budget.” Behind the accounting smoke and mirrors game, the real deficit was growing. Government spending at all levels equated to 45 percent of the gross domestic product.

  In July, the recently appointed chairman of the Federal Reserve Board had a private meeting with the president. The chairman pointed out the fact that even if Congress could balance the budget, the national debt would still grow inexorably due to compounding interest.

  In Europe, international bankers began to vocally express their doubts that the U.S. government could continue to make its interest payments on the burgeoning debt. In mid-August, the chairman of the Deutsche Bundesbank made some off-the-record comments to a reporter from the Economist magazine. Within hours, his words flashed around the world via the Internet: “A full-scale default on U.S. Treasuries appears imminent.” His choice of the word “imminent” in the same sentence with the word “default” caused the value of the dollar to plummet on the international currency exchanges the next day. T-bill sales crashed simultaneously. Starting with the Japanese, foreign central banks and international monetary authorities began to dump their trillions of dollars in U.S. Treasuries. None of them wanted the now-risky T-bills or U.S. bonds. Within days, long-term U.S. Treasury paper was selling at twenty cents on the dollar.