Black Swan: Conspiracy for US Great Depression
“We gotta sit tight right here.” Craigen’s switched off the sat phone and returned it to his pocket. “These people are counting on us. We’re the only relief agency operating in this whole area.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, Rattle!” Thibido whooped, “We can’t just leave these people.”
“What did the Chief say?” Kedzierski looked expectantly at Craigen. "Has Kyiv really fallen?"
“Yeah, it’s true.” Craigen squeezed his massive hands into fists until his knuckles cracked. “Russian troops have entered the city. Except for a few small pockets of resistance, it’s basically over.”
Bolanger stepped forward. “What about Taiwan? Are they being invaded too?”
“It’s probably too early to tell about that, Dee.” Craigen rubbed the back of his head; it was something he often did when thinking through complex problems. “The Chief is getting reports of some missiles strikes on Taiwan air defense system. What I don’t get is how machine gun guy knew about that. We’ve got access to the same news networks that he does. Have you seen anything online about it?”
Bolanger shook her head.
“Maybe them Transnistrian guards are getting their intel straight from the Ruskies?” Thibido offered. “They’re basically just a bunch of Ruskies themselves.”
“I wish you wouldn’t use that word, Scooter.” Bolanger crossed her arms. “It’s offensive.”
“To who?” Thibido shot back. “The thugs who’re bombing women and kids while they’re trying to evacuate? I don’t care if I offend them all day long!”
“There’s no call for that, Scooter.” Kedzierski stepped forward, physically invading the space between Bolanger and Thibido to prevent the argument from escalating. “Just because the Transnistrian guards know something about the Chinese invading Taiwan doesn’t mean there’s some sinister conspiracy between them.”
Craigen could feel his pulse quickening and let loose a tremendous sigh to cool the heat flushing his face. “Listen to me for a minute, everyone. All we know for sure is that Kyiv has fallen. Yes, the Chinese have started shooting missiles into Taiwan, and yes, they're dumping the Treasury Bills, but that doesn’t mean World War III has started. We’ve got a job to do here, and we just need to stay focused on that.”
She might just be my best friend in the world. Craigen thought as he watched Kedzierski hug one of the refugee mothers. The woman was weeping and imploring Kedzierski with some request for her child. I should tell her that sometime.
There was a crowd of refugees queuing up on the path, waiting patiently for a meager serving of the limited food supply. There were no trucks left to evacuate them, and for the most part they seemed resigned to wait until the next convoy came back with tents and relief supplies. Still, it was jarring to look into the eyes of the vulnerable people who were relying on the PIRA team to rescue them. He knew that every member of the choir took the responsibility very personally.
“Drive around. Drive around!” Kedzierski called as a group of about eight military trucks pulled up.
Thibido noticed them too, and sidled over to where Craigen stood. "Looks like we might be havin' some trouble, Rattle." He lifted his chin in the direction of Kedzierski, pointing without drawing obvious attention. "Our old friend's back."
Machine gun guy. Craigen recognized the Transnistrian officer he’d dealt with previously. “This guy speaks English, but go and get the translator anyway Scooter. If you can find him. I’ll go deal with this dude.”
As he approached, Craigen observed the Transnistrian soldiers climb out of their vehicles, guns waiving indiscriminately along the line of refugees. Loud voices became shouts of outrage as soldiers grabbed at the refugees in line, struggling to seize some of the few precious items they’d managed to carry into Moldova. Craigen had to fight the urge to run and smash into the idiotic soldiers. He forced himself to keep his pace steady, took several deep breaths, and pasted on his best artificial smile. It took a conscious effort to unclench his curled fists and open his palms, face out, to show he was no threat.
Kedzierski showed no such self-restraint. She'd become indignant, and Craigen could see the outrage bursting forth from every feature of her tiny frame as she pushed her way through the crowd to confront machine gun guy. Her finger was stretched out accusingly, and her voice raised to a screech.
“Don’t, Curly, don’t…” Craigen whispered a silent prayer. “Just back off.” He picked up his own pace and began rushing forward.
One of the younger soldiers pointed an AK-47 at her menacingly. But Kedzierski didn't care about the message he was sending. She had business to attend to with the senior officer, and some fool with a gun wasn't going to get in her way. She brushed aside the barrel of the rifle and pushed forward.
“Curly, no!” Craigen shouted. But it was too late.
Machine gun guy coolly drew an automatic pistol from its holster and shot Kedzierski point-blank in the forehead.
“Curly!” Craigen's body was shocked into action, and he began to barrel forward like a battering ram trying to reach Kedzierski as her body fell, crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap in the muddy path.
One hapless soldier made a futile attempt to block Craigen's path. Without slowing his stride, he crouched low, caught the soldier in a football tackle, and then raised him up off the ground, tossing him like a rag doll over the truck's hood to where machine gun guy stood. And then he charged in.
Flesh struck flesh with savage impact. Bodies fell to the ground in a tumble. Craigen rolled first to his feet and leapt across the form of machine gun guy as he struggled to regain his footing. He grabbed at the man’s clothing with his left hand as he tried to open a clear target for his massive right fist so he could rain blow after blow around his opponent’s head and shoulders.
Machine gun guy was writhing desperately to avoid the crushing strikes, but it was only a matter of time before Craigen’s brute strength and ferocity would overcome the smaller man.
Craigen’s world reeled. Too late, he realized he’d been struck in the head from behind. Rifle butt? He thought dazedly, trying to clear his vision.
He wheeled unsteadily, barely dodging the next swing of the soldier who’d maneuvered up behind him. The soldier stumbled forward, off-balanced by the missed swing, and Craigen counterattacked, grabbing the man’s throat with both hands.
Then Craigen’s legs gave out from under him like they’d been cut away. He kept his death grip on the soldier’s throat and they both fell to the ground. Craigen tried to wrench the man’s head from his body with his bare hands, but the effort sent a searing bolt of pain through his abdomen. Instinctively, he grabbed for his stomach while the soldier thrashed his way to freedom.
Craigen pulled his hands back. They were red and slick. He gazed uncomprehendingly. He looked up and saw machine gun guy kneeling in the mud with a smoking pistol leveled at him, and he understood. I’ve been shot? I didn’t even hear it…
Craigen remembered regaining consciousness several times during the night. Each time, the screams coming from the nearby tent drove him forward. He pulled his way through the mud, dragging his legs uselessly behind him and ignoring the electric lances of pain that shot through his body for as long as he could bear it. It was Bolanger, he knew. She was screaming, crying, and begging for mercy. He knew she would find no mercy, just as surely as he knew what was happening to her. He grabbed another fistful of road and dragged his body forward again and again until the blackness overtook him.
Something was urging Craigen back to consciousness. It was irritating, and he raised an arm to swat it away. The movement caused him severe pain that brought the world into view. It was machine gun guy, standing over him in the muddy street, kicking at him curiously with the toe of his boot.
“Are you still alive?” he asked, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “You want smoke?” He bent over to offer Craigen his pack. "Oh, that's right, you don't smoke. It's pity."
“What…” Craigen murmured, tasting blood in his mouth. “What did you do to Dee?”
“Who? Oh, the pretty one.” Machine gun guy grinned and blew out a long stream of smoke. “I should think that would be obvious, my friend.”
“Where is she?” Craigen croaked.
“When we were finished with her, we threw her on the pile with the rest of the trash.” There was no sign of mercy in the cold, reptilian eyes of the Transnistrian officer.
It seemed to Craigen that he was being slowly crushed by the weight of gravity into a ghastly oblivion of despair. It was a sensation of inescapable hopelessness. “Why?” It was all he could manage to ask.
Machine gun guy took another long pull of the cigarette, considering the question. Finally he replied, “That’s what I asked you the last time we met. Do you remember?”
Craigen didn’t have the strength to argue, or even to answer. He just looked up at machine gun guy, his body growing slowly colder.
“What did you think you were doing here?” He kicked at Craigen again. It wasn't a vicious kick intended to do damage. It was more like the kick one gives to a disobedient dog. It was intended as a sign of utter disrespect. “You're the big American hero, no? You come here with your handouts and give to us like we are beggars. Everyone in the world hates this.” He knelt down and blew a stream of smoke into Craigen’s face. “Everyone in the world hates you.”
The smoke caused Craigen to cough, which triggered more pain that caused him to cough even more. He writhed in agony. After a while, the spasms passed, leaving Craigen panting and gasping for breath.
Machine gun guy only cocked his head to the side, watching Craigen suffer with a morbid curiosity. “I shot a boar in Russia who died like this. My bullet lodged in the spine. My friend, I think you have dragged yourself farther than that boar did. Very impressive. But your time has come to an end, and America's time has come to an end too. At last, this world will be rid of your arrogant, perverted society and all of your obscenity and filth.”
Despite his suffering, Craigen could not conceive of any reason that such malice would be directed towards his team and his country. The question must have revealed itself in his expression, because machine gun guy seemed to understand his confusion.
“Did you really think this war was about Russia taking a few kilometers of territory away from the Ukrainians?” Machine gun guy stood up, “You still don't understand? My friend, the plan all along has been to hurt America where it is weakest. By working together, the Russians and Chinese will take away all your money! After all, that's all Americans are. You're just rich. Nothing more. Take that away, and you take away everything.”
Craigen coughed again, tasting the blood in his mouth.
“The trap is sprung, my friend,” machine gun chuckled malevolently. “We will take away all your money. We have orchestrated a glorious Great Depression for America, and no one will ever have to pretend to respect your decadent culture again.”
Darkness was beginning to creep in around the edges of Craigen’s vision. He was thinking about the Chinese dumping US Treasury Bonds… they had war-gamed that possibility… something about losing the reserve currency status… he was getting so cold… The last thing he remembered seeing was machine gun guy crush out the butt of his cigarette.
Craigen was disoriented. He seemed to be looking down at himself. Get up, he thought. A bolt of panic shot through him. Get up. Get up! But the form beneath him did not stir. He felt an overwhelming sense of terror, as if a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions was imminent, and that he might be able to stop it if he could only get this thing in front of him to move. Get up!
“Rattle?”
It was Kedzierski’s voice. Craigen spun around in a crouch, arms flared to each side, ready to grapple any opponent unlucky enough to come within his reach. He looked. Shook his head, and looked again. “Curly?” he asked, bewildered. “But I thought…”
“It's OK, Rattle. Everything's OK now. You don't need to fight.” Her voice was soothing, relaxed, and even happy in a sad sort of way.
“Curly, what happened to you?”
“I’m OK, Rattle. You don’t have to worry anymore.”
“You’re so young...” The woman standing in front of Craigen was clearly Raquel Kedzierski, but it was her as a twenty-something young woman, not his decades-long friend.
Kedzierski smiled, "This is the real me. The person I've always been." She came closer and took his hand in hers. "C'mon, Rattle. One more mission. It's time to go."
Craigen instinctively pulled away. He turned to look in the direction machine gun guy had walked. "They need me!" he blurted. "If any of the choir is left, I've got to help them…"
“We’re all here, Rattle.”
Craigen turned again at the sound of the familiar voice. “Scooter?”
“Me too.”
“Dee!” Craigen rushed forward and scooped Bolanger up in his arms protectively. “They were hurting you, but I couldn’t…” He wept at the warmth of her embrace. It was a miraculous sensation; she was very much alive and in good health.
“Stop it, Rattle,” she said gently, pulling away and wiping his eyes. “No more tears. Not here. Not ever again. It’s time to go.”
“But…” Craigen turned back one final time, his warrior’s heart seeking victory even now over the foe that had defeated him so utterly. "You were right. It's a conspiracy, and they're all in on it. This is bigger than anyone knows. I've got to stop it!"
“C’mon, Rattle.” The younger version of Thibido pulled his shoulder, turning him again, “You fought the good fight, but it’s over. Ain’t no use in that now. That ‘ole boy will get what’s comin’ fer him sure enough. Ain’t your fight no more. Let it go.”
Kedzierski took his other arm, "There's something waiting for you now that's far bigger than any of them will ever know."
By now, more of Craigen's friends and family had joined him. Everyone seemed so happy, so at peace. Craigen wondered why he still felt so much fear. But he knew these people, and he trusted them, so he let them lead the way.
You are the Chief PIRA Operations Officer, you make the call:
Choose Option 1: Your entire Response Team has been brutally murdered. You have failed in your humanitarian relief mission and discovered (too late) that the secret purpose of the Ukraine War was to bring about America’s economic downfall. Choose this option if you wish to return to the start point and retrace your steps to determine where you went wrong.
Choose Options 2: Your entire Response Team has been brutally murdered. You have failed in your humanitarian relief mission and discovered (too late) that the secret purpose of the Ukraine War was to bring about America’s economic downfall. Choose this option if you wish to quit this exercise in Directed Fiction and continue to the solutions page to learn more about how these scenarios were developed.