The White Company

By G. Gregory Wright

In 2090, U.S. Detective Mette McGrey travels to Antarctica, one of the fastest-growing nations in the world, to investigate violent attacks on civilians by American militiamen.

After a mixed-race woman won the 2090 presidential election, and the current president denounced the result, riots broke out in major cities of the young country. Hundreds of armed white nationalists from the United States and Europe arrive in Antarctica to join the local uprising.

But presidential pardons in Antarctica stall the detective's investigation. McGrey must follow the soldiers back to the United States. Will she ever find justice for the victims?

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. Gregory Wright
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393519911

G. Gregory Wright

G. Gregory Wright is the author of "The White Company."

Book preview

Chapter 1

Friday, December 29, 2090

WE CAN DO THIS LATER if you wish.

Detective Mette McGrey spoke softly. She looked directly at the pale, young teenager at the end of the hotel conference table. A bodyguard stood behind the teen. He was the only other person in the room.

Why do I have to talk to an American? The 14-year-old girl spoke English with the slightest French accent. She stared at her folded hands, then glanced at McGrey. It was an American who raped me....

The girl shook her head as her voice cracked. The bodyguard, a big man in a dark suit, stepped closer to the table. He stopped when the girl lifted her hand. 

Detective McGrey brushed back her short blonde hair and followed the girl’s gaze toward a wall of thick glass windows. An unsettling orangish-yellow glow filled the late-night sky. It was nearly midnight.

They were on the second floor of the Radisson Blu Hotel in New Marseille, Federation of Antarctica. A faint smell of cinnamon permeated the cold, well-lighted space.

I want to thank you for seeing me at this late hour, McGrey said. We don’t have a lot of time. I have some photographs of members of the American militia captured earlier this evening. If you could identify.... McGrey stood, and the girl immediately lifted her hand, palm facing outward. The bodyguard walked around the table to fetch the photos.

McGrey remained standing.

Lawrence is my bodyguard during concert tours, but while this craziness is going on, the girl waved her hand in the air, he’ll be with me 24/7. I don’t feel safe anywhere in New Marseille. Anywhere in Antarctica. That’s why I’m staying here for now. I have the entire third floor. The soldiers took my ID with my home address. My house is gated, but still, they know where I live. She sighed and slowly shook her head. I never gave much thought to the riots, since they were only attacking certain neighborhoods. I would watch the news and think it was terrible. But it didn’t touch me. The girl paused. Until it did.

McGrey handed the bodyguard the stack of photos. He was several inches taller than her five foot nine.

McGrey turned back toward the girl. Her name was Zurie Chase, and she was a famous singer in Antarctica. McGrey had never heard of Zurie, or her hit song Ice Secrets, which made pop charts worldwide. A quick internet search before the meeting had told McGrey that Zurie, who would turn fifteen next month, had more than a dozen hit songs and won several music awards.

Despite the civil unrest in New Marseille and other cities across Antarctica, Zurie and her team were trying to finish the recording of a new album on the day after Christmas when American militiamen entered the studio. They were soldiers of the White Company. Earlier, more than 50 members of the militia had ransacked businesses owned by non-whites in a nearby neighborhood in New Marseilles.

The Uprising in Antarctica, as news reports called it, had started the end of October when the current Antarctic president, who was white, lost the election to a mixed-race woman. President Richard Dobbs refused to accept the result, calling the vote a sham. Thousands of white residents across Antarctica’s major cities rioted in the streets, overwhelming police forces. The military, under the command of the president, remained at Fort Paradise. Within weeks, hundreds of armed white nationalists from the United States and Europe arrived in Antarctica’s remote Norwegian Territory and spread out across the country, joining the local mobs.

You seem too young to be a real detective. Are you some kind of intern? Zurie asked.

I’m a real detective, McGrey said with a half-smile.

The bodyguard handed the photos to Zurie.

I’ve already looked through dozens of photographs.

These are new.

The bodyguard leaned close to Zurie. He spoke to her for several minutes.

Zurie nodded.

Lawrence just told me that you are one of the cops who busted the sex-trafficking ring during the World Cup. You’re famous, I guess.

McGrey gave a slight nod.

Lawrence also told me that you are wearing expensive body armor. Are we in danger here?

No, this is what I always wear.

Can I feel it?

McGrey hesitated, then walked to the end of the table. She wore a gray blouse and black slacks. A hip-length black blazer covered the Glock and holster on her waist. It also concealed a long thin black case cuffed on her left arm. The case held a small personal drone. Around McGrey’s neck hung her lanyard and United States District Eight Extreme Crimes badge with Interpol ID.

The bodyguard stepped to the side as McGrey approached. Zurie’s red hair had streaks of purple. She smelled of musk with a faint trace of something else. Raspberry.

It feels like regular clothing, Zurie said. Just the blazer?

No, it’s all armor.

Even the blouse?

McGrey nodded.

You have a gun. Antarctic police allowed that?

Yes.

Zurie leaned back in her chair and looked up at McGrey.

Lawrence also said that an attack drone wounded you very badly a few years ago.

Zurie spoke so softly that McGrey could hardly hear her.

Would this body-armor protect you?

Not from that attack.

Zurie wrapped her fingers around McGrey’s left hand. McGrey noticed that Zurie’s painted fingernails were alternating colors of red and purple. 

Was it your left arm? This hand looks and feels real.

It’s real to me, McGrey pulled her hand away.

I’m sorry. Zurie sighed. She closed her eyes for several seconds, then opened them and stared at McGrey. My worst day ever was in that recording studio when the soldiers attacked. Was that the worst day you ever had? When you lost your arm in the drone attack?

McGrey said shortly, No.

Zurie studied McGrey for several seconds, then turned to the photos. McGrey took a step back from the table. She had interviewed hundreds of rape victims as a detective in Extreme Crimes. But she could only clearly remember a couple dozen; the rest blurred together, which gave McGrey an uncomfortable feeling of guilt as if she not only was forgetting them but in some way betraying them.

The room was quiet for several minutes.

This one, Zurie said.

She held up a photograph towards McGrey.

He was one of the men with the soldier who raped me. They broke into the studio. The wavering voice vanished. Zurie was angry. She sat up straight in her chair and continued to look at photos, occasionally glancing at McGrey.

And this one.

Zurie hesitated.

This one took Sunlen .... her voice faltered as she held up the photograph. And her baby.

McGrey leaned in and looked at the photo.

Have they found Sunlen?

Not yet, McGrey said. These men surrendered at a bank six blocks from your recording studio. There were no civilians with them.

Why would they take Sunlen? We heard rumors that soldiers sterilized non-white women. Is that why they took her?

I don’t know.

McGrey glanced at her comm. She unfolded the five-by-seven-inch device and read her notes on the prisoner in the photograph. The man Zurie identified was Lou Carlsson. Are you sure he’s the one who left the studio with Sunlen and her child?

I’m certain, Zurie said. The others called him the Doctor.

McGrey was silent as she typed into her comm. She motioned toward the pile of photographs. Only those two?

Zurie nodded.

He has to know where Sunlen is. Zurie shook the photograph. It’s been three days ....

McGrey’s comm vibrated.

I just received more photos.

McGrey placed her comm on the table in front of Zurie.

Zurie scrolled through the pictures. Her finger suddenly stopped, hovering above the comm.

"It’s him," Zurie said. She jabbed her finger at the photo on the screen. Tears glistened in her eyes.

That’s the bastard who raped me. 

Chapter 2

Saturday, December 30, 2090

ALTHOUGH IT WAS BRIGHTLY-lit, McGrey found the corridor in Adelie Prison gloomy. Pale gray walls surrounded the drab green floor tiles. It was just after one o’clock in the morning.

McGrey walked quickly. Two men hurried alongside her. Interpol officer Daniel VonAllmen, whom McGrey knew from the World Cup investigation, was in his fifties, medium height, and thin. The other, Special Agent Paul Decoursey of the Antarctic Federal Police in New Marseille, was a barrel-shaped man in his forties. Decoursey was slightly shorter than McGrey, so her head lowered as he spoke to her. VonAllmen had caught McGrey’s eye and raised his eyebrows, as if to say, Careful now, you know how he feels about this.

Agent Decoursey stomped alongside McGrey. After they were out of earshot of the guards, he shouted in perfect English, You had no right to interview a crime victim from this country without an Antarctic officer present! McGrey slowed her pace and turned to Decoursey to speak, but VonAllmen interrupted her.

I gave her the go-ahead, VonAllmen said. Militia detainees from the United States could start going home any day.

You think I care about when prisoners return to the United States? Oh, wait! They are not prisoners, but detainees! Decoursey enunciated each word slowly. And who is paying my country fifty million dollars to send them back to the U.S.? American billionaires! It is nauseating!

McGrey glanced at VonAllmen. She started to speak when Decoursey continued his rant.

The militiamen received blanket pardons. And what do we have to show for the casualties? The rapes? The looting? Nothing! At least the madness will stop when the new president takes office!

Decoursey glared at VonAllmen and then at McGrey.

McGrey stopped walking. That forced Decoursey to stop. She had dealt with angry men like him before.

Please. McGrey sympathized with Decoursey, but couldn’t hide her irritation.

You know that I need to interrogate the militiamen.

Decoursey took a step back and looked McGrey up and down.

Who do you think you are? The United States sends some, what’s the word, punk cop to my country. You interview a crime victim without a police officer from Antarctica in the room ....

McGrey leaned forward and interrupted.

The men in this prison are awaiting transfer to the custody of U.N. troops, McGrey said. They might help us locate other members of the militia. They may have information on the missing woman, the singer’s manager, and the manager’s child. And as you know, I need to face-document them. I asked your government for the photos of militiamen, but they refused. If it weren’t for a hacker who posted the images to the Interpol website, I wouldn’t have anything.

Decoursey stood a moment quietly. He took a deep breath. His anger faded; he looked away from McGrey, focusing on some point down the corridor.

It was not a hacker. It was one of my men. I told him to share the photos. I thought it would make a difference. Now, I don’t know. Have you seen the civilian casualty list from the war zone? This manager and her child may not even be alive.

McGrey started walking again.

Decoursey sighed.

I’ll accompany you to the interviews. The one called the Doctor is in minimum security.

What about the other?

Decoursey shrugged his shoulder.

He is still in holding. Waiting to be processed.

DECOURSEY TALKED TO the guard outside the minimum-security cellblock entrance. The guard responded loudly in French.

Decoursey stepped back and turned to McGrey. The crowding is unmanageable. One-hundred and fifty militiamen are in a room designed for thirty-five. He told me to find the detainee myself.

McGrey followed Decoursey to the entrance of the cellblock. Stacked tables and chairs lined the far wall. Detainees were asleep on the floor or crouching against walls in the cramped room. Decoursey and McGrey waited outside the guard station. A middle-aged guard unlocked the cellblock door and stepped into the day room ahead of the two visitors. A crouching skinhead detainee suddenly jumped up, grabbed the guard, and punched him in the face.

Decoursey stepped forward. Two other detainees grabbed him. Several militiamen stood or crawled to get out of the way. McGrey pushed a detainee aside and grabbed one of the men who held Decoursey. She jerked his arm and dislocated his shoulder. He fell to the floor and yelled curses at McGrey. She saw the guard from the station fall near the doorway, where the skinhead continued to