Marseille, European Federation – December 2035

  Christopher (not his real name) waits for me at the renowned La Caravelle restaurant in the port district. A New Jersey native, he speaks fluent English, Italian, French, and Serbian—thanks to his wife. He stayed in Europe after the war, deciding to make a life for himself here. Judging by his suit and watch, it looks like he’s done well.

  When asked about his work, he simply says, “Imports and exports.” He doesn't elaborate, preferring to keep the details of his profession vague. But when it comes to war stories, he's more than willing to talk.

  "Eh, sure, I got into trouble here and there. But compared to those war profiteers who got strung up and torn apart after the war? Gettin’ chewed out by my company commander was nothin’. Hell, you seen that American the Chinese executed last month? What the hell was that WASP thinkin’? Like he could grease a few generals, flip a dime into a dollar, and just walk away clean? C’mon.

  Who cares if I sold a few packs of smokes to some poor FNGs freezin’ their asses off in some Dutch or German shithole? Ain’t exactly the crime of the century."

  "Listen, anything that wasn’t bolted down was gettin’ looted. Millions of troops out there, and they really thought they could stop ‘em from smokin’, sniffin’ a little powder, or swipin’ some swag civilians left behind? Please.

  My own company commander had a damn PS5 in his truck. Don’t ask me how the hell he rigged it up, but the guy actually thought he could play Madden without internet. That’s when I had to hook him up with a Starlink—just so he could get his game on in the evenings. That got me a lot of mileage with that guy believe me! Won me allot of favours!"

  "What was your job in the military?" I ask.

  "Supply driver," he says. "We’d roll out in those big convoys, hauling cargo from Antwerp or Brest all the way to the front. Logistics won us both world wars before this one, and it sure as hell helped us win this one too—always remember that!"

  "Logistics?"

  He squints at me. "Yeah, logistix. What the hell do you think I’m sayin’?" he chuckles, flashing a grin.

  "Anyway, met a few guys in the back lines, had my own contacts up front. Spent my first six months as a grunt—mounted infantry, hoppin’ on and off Bradleys—till I got rotated out because of heart problems. At first, it was just a carton here and there. Then my idiot best friend runs his mouth to his platoon, next thing I know, everyone wants smokes. So one day, I’m drivin’ with a quarter of my HEMTT packed with boxes of Lucky Strikes."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Where’d you get all those?" I ask.

  "Ah, see, we were waitin’ on our next shipment in Brest. I step outta the port, take a walk through what looked like the worst neighborhood you ever seen. Spot this little liquor store—French call ‘em PMU’s. I walk in, lock eyes with the fat guy behind the counter, and just ask him straight-up where I can get my hands on some cigarettes. Half an hour later, I’m halfway across town in some shady-ass warehouse, surrounded by some real dodgy-lookin’ Turks. But hey, they hooked me up."

  He grins. "Let me tell ya, it felt like the first time I was fightin’ the crabs. Good thing I grew up in Jersey—had to play it cool or I’d have walked outta there without my pants."

  "Next day, we’re rollin’ outta the port with my unit, and—wouldn’t ya know it?—my truck runs into some ‘unforeseen mechanical issues.’ By the time I radio it in and the maintenance guys show up? Those Turks had already gone to work, fillin’ the deep end of my truck with about ten grand worth of smokes."

  "I took a gamble with them, and they took a gamble with me. Not gonna give you too many details—pretty sure there’s some kinda statute of limitations on this—but let’s just say, they were willing to trust me with a big haul, thinkin’ I’d be a solid contact for long-term business. Can’t believe how stupid we both were. But hey, it worked out. Made a goddamn killing with those Turks."

  "Weren’t you scared of gettin’ caught?" I ask.

  He snorts. *"By who? My superiors? Please. Those guys were even more crooked than I was. American MPs? They were tricky, but for some reason, they mostly stuck to the ports. The ones actually patrolling the front lines and supply routes? Locals. And those Belgians and French? Hand ‘em a few cartons, and they were happy—long as you weren’t movin’ weapons or deserters, they’d look the other way just like everybody else.

  I mean, what’d they expect? You can’t draft every swingin’ dick out there and tell ‘em they ain’t allowed to smoke. At least back in World War II and Vietnam, they had cigarettes in the rations—one pack a day, if I remember right. But nah, thanks to Al Gore and his health nut brigade, suddenly the army’s gotta be all body-conscious.

  Never mind the fact that guys were freezin’ to death, gettin’ hammered day in and day out by the crabs, bombed by their own side—and they still expected ‘em to shave and stay smoke-free?

  "How did you organize all of it?" I ask.

  "At first, it was just me and my truck. But after a while I managed to convince five other guys to do help out with their trucks. We'd deliver straight to the company quartermasters. They'd buy in bulk and sell to their own troops. All cash. Army started asking questions when soldiers started asking to be payed in cash. Because that’s the thing about the army no one talks about. Forget the poverty draft, forget the VA. It eats at your soul. Half the guys in charge? They were either good-idea fairies makin' rules just to make rules, or straight-up sociopaths who got off on control. Some real Lord of the Flies shit. I don’t regret servin’, that war was one of the few legit ones, but just ‘cause you’re playin’ a home game doesn’t mean the guys on your team ain’t assholes."

  He pauses for a moment, shaking his head with a bitter laugh.

  "The folks who think cigarette smuggling was the worst of it? I’d love to see their reactions to the moving whorehouses, or the weapons meant for the front that ended up in the hands of organized crime. Hell, I’ll throw in the senators pimping their wives out just so their sons could get on a Coast Guard cutter and patrol the coast of Rhode Island. People love pointin' fingers at the little guy, the easy problems. Like me, or the corner drug dealers, or the junkies. But they don't have the stomach to see how the sausage is made."