The Man From the North

APRIL 3RD, 2009
ARIZONA
3:00 PM

Oblivious to the news of war with Russia, a passenger train scuttled through the Arizona countryside. The train had only about six passengers, an elderly couple sleeping, a nervous, shifty-looking businessman, an crotchety old man bitching about his lumbago, a handsome teenaged boy jamming to his i-Pod, and a stranger dressed in a dark trenchcoat.

He was a quiet man, none too imposing, his Arab heritage evident in his skin and face. He wore a brown hat low over his face as he read the day's newspaper, words of bravado and saber-rattling by American and Russian leaders, with the hapless President and the impotent UN caught in the middle trying to avoid catastrophe. It didn't concern him a great deal, although a war between two countries neighboring his ought to. He had a mission to complete.

He was Sergeant Adam Adnan of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Special Investigations Branch. He'd spent the last ten years as an undercover detective, investigating and busting some of Canada's toughest criminals. He was a loose cannon cop at times, engaging in violent and reckless behavior - he was one of the few Canadian detectives who insisted on carrying a firearm at all - but was nonetheless one of the most successful on the force. He was always getting special jobs, tracking some bastard for horse rustling, arms trafficking, or occasionally a murderer, across national boundaries if necessary.

Now he was on the trail of the sole survivor of a gang of thugs that had held up Pierre's Palace in Montreal. He remembered the bloodbath all too well, having been there investigating a forgery case. He was on the roulette floor when the shooting started, and exchanged gunfire with the criminals as they tried to escape. He had watched helplessly as his partner, Tim Watson, fell riddled with machine gun bullets, but managed to clip one of the robbers in the leg in retaliation.

He only knew the man's name, Beck, and a general description. And he'd received word that he was in Arizona or thereabouts. And there being a war on now, Adnan had a decent idea of what his query might be up to...

APRIL 3RD, 2009
PRESCOTT, ARIZONA
5:15 PM

Beck sweated profusely as he walked towards the train station. It was an incredibly hot day - almost 100 degrees, maybe more than that - and a long one.

"Come on, John," shouted one of his companions, Ulysess H. Bunsher. "Train's leavin'."

Beck had agreed to volunteer with his newfound companions. They were alright, although not exactly the most intelligent or hygenic or photogenic or sane bunch of individuals. Bunsher and Aclea and Mike and Steve and Sy were their names. They'd all wanted to join the elite 1st Volunteer Infantry, being formed by Colonel Dundee - not just a National Guard unit. "I wanna see actual action," Bunsher had said, thinking the Guard units would just be used for garrison duty and such - or perhaps even rotated to Iraq. And with a Russian war on the horizon, that was the last place any of them wanted to be.

Now they stood on a train platform in Prescott, Arizona, waiting to load onto a military train with about a hundred other would-be recruits. There were a dozen uniformed National Guardsmen standing at attention on the platform, and others were helping load the train with supplies and baggage. Their destination was Camp Milius, in San Antonio, Texas, where the regiment's polyglot recruits would consolidate, train, and hopefully congeal into a single unit.

"Watch your head!" a corporal barked, and Beck ducked a crate of ammunition was carried past him by two brawny soldiers. He marvelled at the scene of chaos around him. He had known wars and conflict and fighting, but he had never seen a circus anything like this before. People excited for war, volunteer armies mobilizing, being shipped by trains - it was something out of another century. Volunteer armies didn't exist anymore, merely professional and conscript ones. This was something else entirely.

He had read the same papers, seen the same news stories as everyone. The Russian Pacific Squadron had been trounced by Admiral Undershaft and his American ships. Now there was indignation and anger and backtracking and sabre-rattling and hem-hawing, but it was clear that war was no long avoidable. Beck was unphased by all this, any vestiges of patriotism having drained out of his veins ages ago, but he was curious - curious why and all of his colleagues were still alive, why the war had not turned into a nuclear shooting match. Guess the Russians - and the President - weren't as insane as everyone had thought.

God bless President Obama, Beck thought as he stepped on the train. He landed heavily on his injured leg, and winced. He scooted into a pew next to Bunsher, who let off one of his legendary farts. The rest of his companions cackled, but Beck just grimaced, staring out the window as the train slowly pulled out of the station.

Well, one problem solved, Beck thought, sighing and looking out the window. He'd escaped Canada, escaped the law. And now he just had to fight - something he'd done more than just about any human being since Atilla and Tamurlane. And as cramped as that cabin was, as smelly as Bunsher's ass gas may have been, he had cheated death, evaded capture, yet again. He closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep. It was a long ride to San Antonio, but at that moment, Beck couldn't have cared less.

* * *

6:00 PM

The second train rolled in Prescott station shortly thereafter. Now the station was mostly abandoned, except for a few bystanders and two National Guardsmen standing at attention on the platform.

Adnan exited from the train, trenchcoat flapping in the slight breeze, his brown eyes scouring the station. He coughed as he inhaled the first hint of dry desert dust, and turned to one of the soldiers.

"Corporal," he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, flavored with Canadian accent, "When did the last train leave here?"

"About forty minutes ago, sir," came the reply.

"Who was it? National Guard troops?"

"No, sir. Recruits for the 1st Volunteer Infantry Regiment."

"1st Volunteer Infantry?" Adnan was surprised; he didn't know what the hell that was.
He thought for a moment; this threw a spanner in the works, temporarily put him off his game. But he quickly regrouped; he'd remembered hearing something this regiment, about the crazy Major who'd invaded Mexico and was now urging war with Russia.

"Where are they headed?" he asked the Corporal.

"I believe it was San Antonio, sir," the soldier replied.

San Antonio. Well, it was hours more of train riding and tracking, something he wasn't really in the mood for after the last few days. But it's a start. Beck isn't THAT smart, if he's joining the most famous new regiment in the United States Army. It won't be long now, he thought with a grin.

As Adnan pondered this, he saw a formation of F-16's screech overhead, leaving a trail of smoke behind them. And then an Apache gunship ominously flew overhead, its deadly arsenal just visible in the late-afternoon sky.

No, it won't be long at all.